I like making new friends…
I’ve made them in the aisles of Target, at farmers’ markets, in bookstores. Sometimes it’s just a few minutes of lively small talk, and sometimes it’s Humphrey Bogart-level engagement. Whatever the degree, it’s comforting to feel seen by others.
Once, while visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art alone in New York, I said, “Hey there again!” to a woman milling about near me in the same room, and later ordered snacks at a cafe. A year or so later, on a flight from Minneapolis to Los Angeles, I hit it off with the two people sitting next to me and went out to dinner while they were visiting my hometown. And, in a gold medal of accidental friendship, I agreed to drive 20 hours round trip to a wedding of a mutual guest I barely knew. At the reception, when they asked me how long we’d known each other, I replied, “Since yesterday!” as we shared dessert.
I met my newest friend at a pottery class in Santa Barbara last fall. She made a witty remark in response to a comment the teacher made, and I stared at the cup I was actually going to use as a bowl to hold back my laughter. I looked up and saw her standing right in front of me, and I couldn’t help but ask, “Can we be friends?” She smiled, and we went out for drinks a few nights later. As I walked to the bar, I felt nervous, that well-kept tension in my stomach whenever I know I should talk. “If it comes up, stay calm. If it doesn’t, bring it up. She’s probably thinking about it. It’ll make me feel better,” I told myself.
Considering that I get stares pretty much everywhere I go, being friendly helps. I was born with cerebral palsy, a physical disability that affects my legs and causes my knees to bend inward when I walk. As I reach for a dress at Target, an apple at the farmers market, or a paperback at the bookstore, I quickly notice that non-disabled strangers are staring at the way I walk. Just before their eyes meet mine, I sense a mixture of fear, confusion, and pity. And as soon as their eyes meet mine, I smile and say hello. I don’t always choose to do this, and this situation is not the standard for meeting my friends. But when I meet their gaze with a greeting, most strangers soften and we make small talk. I no longer feel like a spectacle.
“It’s a shame you have to do that,” one of my oldest friends recently told me about the habit for what might be the thousandth time. We call it disability spokesmanship. Since we met at recess in the fourth grade, she has witnessed firsthand how differently the world treats people with disabilities. Her reassuring words are echoed decades and drinks later by my new friend in Santa Barbara.
To be disabled and to care for disabled people is to understand all the ways the world was designed for able-bodied bodies. After all, that’s why people stare. The stare is a silent reminder that the disability community has been systematically discriminated against for generations. It’s a flashpoint of othering that can lead to an upsetting escalation or a mollifying greeting. Thirty years after the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed, we are still ridiculed, coerced, and excluded from public life. This happens from childhood through adulthood, affecting our opportunities to get an education, our ability to secure housing, our chances of getting a gainful job, and our right to medical care that “does no harm.” The ADA recognizes disability in the eyes of the law, not in the eyes of society.
I speak to give my disabled friends a perspective of the world they know well. I share my most vulnerable parts—how I access public life—because I want them to trust that I will listen. I say, “When I move too much or not enough, my leg muscles hurt and get tight. I can do most of the same things as people without disabilities, but sometimes I just have to work a little harder.” I provide details and then invite them to ask questions. At this point, I reassure them that as we learn, we will say things wrong, and that will happen. There are 61 million Americans with disabilities, of all identities, and there are countless “things wrong” that explain why we have been misunderstood.
At the end of this speech, I say jokingly, “Welcome to my friendship!” Doing this all in a fun, movie-trailer-like tone helps ease the tension. I usually take a deep breath in the car on the way home, as I did in Santa Barbara.
Then I ask my friends to put their arms around me and listen to their stories, instead of focusing on the uneven sidewalks, high curbs, and endless flights of stairs along the way. As our friendships grow, they’ll share my frustrations as I search for a bench to rest on and struggle to find an elevator. I’ll notice the steps at store entrances, the inches of space between restaurant tables, and the vague unease when an outsider says, “It’s just a short walk.” Suddenly, traveling the world is measured not just in distance and time, but in energy and obstacles.
My friends are also starting to notice strangers staring at me or talking to me as if I were a child. When they tell me they’ve learned something wrong, they look shocked and say, “I can’t believe someone would say that.” We shake our heads in unison, knowing that structural inequality is not just about stairs without ramps, but about voices with exclusionary opinions. Soon, they’re repeating my words: “If she’s doing the exact same thing as you, she’s not inspiring,” or “We all have needs. There are no ‘special needs,’” or, my personal favorite, “The preferred term is ‘disabled.’ Disabled people are literally telling you that.” In other words, my closest friends become members of the Disability Advocacy Club, a group formed out of necessity, not choice.
I’m grateful that this club exists, but I wish there were no membership fees. Too many able-bodied people don’t know the lived experience of the disability community: that we are able-bodied people living interesting lives. It’s a disservice to everyone. There can be no true inclusion without us. It would be such a relief to know that friendships with able-bodied people didn’t have to start with me as a teacher, or that I didn’t have to act as a friendly advocate when a stranger’s curiosity got the better of them. I’ll always be friendly, but perhaps there will come a time when a conversation doesn’t have to start from scratch.
Last summer, my oldest friend got married in the snow in June. As her brother and I walked down the slippery path to the wedding venue, he asked me the best question an able-bodied person has ever asked me about my disability: “How can I help you do what you’re already doing?” In one word, he acknowledged my independence and was ready to join me in the things I do best. Acknowledgement and listening are essential tools in any strong friendship and should be used when learning about any disability, physical or intellectual, visible or invisible.
In that spirit, I asked four women with disabilities—Emily Radau, Imani Barbarin, Alice Wong, and Alaina Leary—to talk about what they wish non-disabled people knew about their experiences, and how we can be better allies to the disability community at large.
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“As a wheelchair user, I’ve experienced many unnecessary awkward moments when people weren’t sure how to interact with me. A mobility device shouldn’t make someone uncomfortable — it’s simply a means to get around, not a measurement of a person’s worth or humanity. When interacting with someone who uses a mobility device, it’s important to practice the same practice you would with anyone, with or without a disability: respect.” — Emily Radau, author, disability activist, and communications consultant
“I invite non-disabled readers to look at their bookshelf or e-reader and scroll through their collection. How many books do you have by authors who are disabled, neurodiverse, deaf, or chronically ill? Readers should champion #OwnVoices authors, a term first coined by author Corrine Duyvis to refer to books with diverse characters written by authors who share their identity. For a long time, both disability fiction and non-fiction have been written by people without disabilities. Now is the time to add disability diversity to your library and send a message to the publishing industry that authentic disability representation by disabled authors is needed.” — Alice Wong, Editor of Disability Visibility: First-Person Stories from the Twenty-First Century
“The disability community is incredibly diverse, and one of the ways that shows up is in the facilities we create for ourselves. Just as our bodies are different, so are our accessibility needs. Accessibility is not a copy-and-paste effort, and most accessible spaces usually have several options for everyone to choose from. While the disability community should be included in all activities, the most important aspect of inclusion is: we need to be listened to. We are the experts on our own needs. In this sense, we often collaborate with other disabled people to find tools and services that help us navigate the world we live in. We need allies, not saviors. So, drop the idea that you’re going to just show up and know our needs. Learn from us, amplify our voices, and help others understand our needs, too.” — Imani Barbarin, writer, blogger, and communications director
“I hope that non-disabled people will prioritize accessibility all the time, not just when they think someone needs it. It’s so refreshing to see accessibility considered at any event, public or private. It’s so nice when someone says, ‘We’re having a party this weekend, and we’ve made sure it’s in a place with no stairs,’ or ‘We’d like to invite you to our wedding reception. Do you have any allergies or dietary restrictions?’ Schools, parties, pride parades, bars, parenting groups, virtual events – everything should be accessible. Being a good ally means advocating for accessibility wherever you go.” — Alaina Leary, Communications Manager at We Need Diverse Books, professor, and journalist
Like any strong friendship, it takes time to truly understand a disability. Each person with a disability has their own way of speaking, and non-disabled friends need to welcome that, support it, and grow from there. Take things slowly, with treats if necessary, but most importantly, enjoy the company of others who have the same range of experiences as you. That’s how you get involved in the disability advocacy club, which you can become a member of at any time.
Kelly Dawson is a Los Angeles-based writer, editor, and media consultant. Follow her on Instagram twitter.
PS 11 reader comments about what to do when you encounter special needs and friendship.
(Illustration by Alessandra Olanow for Cup of Jo)
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