Grumpy Human, Do Not Touch

You know when you’re minding your own business, waiting for the elevator in the subway station, when a total stranger appears out of nowhere, crouches down, and, without saying a word, starts yanking on your footwear, your pants, and the blanket covering your legs in an apparent attempt to arrange them in a way that makes more sense to said stranger?

Chances are that you don’t. I certainly didn’t before becoming a wheelchair user.

Every few days, give or take, I have an interaction with someone on the sidewalk or in a shop or restaurant that leaves me feeling icky. These encounters are undoubtedly well intentioned but are nonetheless misguided and, more often than not, unwelcome. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t want to discourage anyone’s natural instinct or inclination to help, to do good in the world. At the same time, I know all too well, now, that the actions spurred by this drive to improve the day of a person perceived to be in a vulnerable position—someone perceived to be in need of assistance or encouragement by virtue of their living with a visible disability—frequently comes at the expense of the recipient of the gesture.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been told while crossing the street that if I were only to convert to a belief system not my own, I’d be able to get up and walk. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been given a smile that’s unmistakably akin to the kind most often reserved for a small child or a cute dog. I’ve lost count of the number of times someone’s attempt to help has in actuality created a hassle, practical or psychological, for me and/or my husband.

And yet I was still taken aback by the events of last Sunday.

It happened in a split second. One moment I was minding my own business; the next, a woman I’d never met was pulling at me. Adjusting me. I was caught off guard, but more than that, I was scared. And so I reacted quickly and reflexively.

“Don’t touch me!”

The words escaped my mouth more sharply than I’d have liked. She looked startled and a bit wounded.

As soon as I’d gathered my thoughts, I regretted not having been more polite and, as I’m wont to do, apologized. Profusely. To the person who’d just decided that I needed her to fix what wasn’t broken.

She smiled, obviously relieved to have her conscience cleared and satisfied that the blame was mine, not hers. She pointed at the lanyard around her neck.

“I work at the hospital,” she said, “so I’m used to helping patients without thinking about it.”

Huh? It’s OK, then, to touch patients without their consent? And did my being in a wheelchair make me one of her patients?

Of course, I didn’t externalize those inside gripes. Instead, I kept saying what I assumed were the right things.

On our way from the subway station to where I was meeting a friend, I processed with my husband what’d just transpired. I felt guilty for having hurt that woman’s feelings; at the same time, I was angry.

My husband told me that my response had been justified. We talked it through. He was also shaken.

I don’t want to spend time or energy further delving into this. I do, however, want to take this opportunity to provide a gentle reminder/PSA.

Before “helping” someone who lives with a visible disability, ask yourself if you’d do the same for someone without one and if you’d want the same done to/for you. If the answer to both is “yes,” take a second to ask if your assistance is wanted and needed before launching into it.

And for goodness’ sake, always err on the side of “don’t touch strangers.” I’d hope that’d be common sense. Apparently it isn’t.