About a decade ago, while I was waiting in line at a music festival, it suddenly became very clear that I needed to use a bathroom. I had spent the morning chugging water, but I didn’t anticipate the length of the bus ride and amount of people waiting to get in. None of that mattered, anyway. I had to go. I had to go immediately.
“We have to find a bathroom,” I said to my sister. She could tell by the panic in my voice that I was serious, but she couldn’t just wave me away to find a toilet on my own. She had to push my wheelchair. “Go faster!” I yelled as she navigated wood chips, grass, and dirt. When we got to a group of attendants, and my sister squealed, “Where are the bathrooms?” to a sweaty man who couldn’t care less, he pointed to a porta-potty in the distance, just beyond the multiple rows of a roped-off queue we were required to roll through first.
To me, this is comedy gold.
Disability is rarely thought of as comedic. It’s usually depicted as depressing, which is probably why you may feel slightly uncomfortable right now. In movies, it underscores a love story of two people who must face an impending death, or a drama about a misfit who doesn’t have any friends, which naturally includes a scene about his parents encouraging him to ignore a bully (who loses in the end).
But real-life perceptions around a disabled life aren’t much better. There have been numerous occasions when a stranger asks me “what’s wrong?!” as my legs limp in her direction. She’ll apologize about my cerebral palsy once I tell her I was born with it, because what else have people been taught to say? (Frankly, I wish more people would respond with, “Way to go on the kick-ass parking spot,” but that’s just me.)
After a lifetime of observing the public’s reaction to disability, I know how common it is for people to lament what could’ve been and grimace at what is. Disabled is what people hope they’ll never become; it’s what people refuse to believe is possible. While some of these negative responses may ring true — disability can be sad and painful — this vantage point often makes it difficult to appreciate the lighter layers within all the complexity.
The truth is, having a disability can also be hilarious.
Maybe my sense of humor matches the coffee I drink in the morning. When I pour myself a dark cup and walk from my kitchen to the living room, there’s a high probability that I’ll lose my balance and spill a few swigs on the floor. If that happens, I giggle. I tend to think of my cerebral palsy as a source of physical comedy. I constantly bang into corners and slip on stairs, creating a personal soundtrack of “oh” and “ah” that sounds like the intro of a ‘90s club hit. Sure, it can be tough, but what a treat to always have fresh material.
We all spend our lives putting such seriousness around the state of our bodies. They should be this height and this size; there should be two arms and two legs, and a nose that slopes just so. A body should walk and jump and lift and twist. We hide what isn’t universally acceptable; we spend ridiculous amounts of money on “maintenance.” Of course, I’ve fantasized about “if only” — especially when I was younger, and even now, as I wait for elevators.
Nevertheless, here’s something I’ve learned after a little more than three decades spent should-ing all over myself: my body and I are in this together. As soon as I accepted my body as it is, I let go of what it isn’t. And that’s when I started to have more fun.
There’s always going to be a crack in the sidewalk that I trip over, especially when I’m trying to look hot. I’ll never be able to cross a room holding a cocktail without it splashing, especially when I’m trying to look hot. Spiral staircases seem to materialize every time I’m wearing impractical footwear, especially when I’m trying to look hot. And my crush will surely come into view as I’m struggling to carry a bag, climb up a hill, or literally do anything — while also trying to look hot. Such is the price to pay for routinely getting a kick-ass parking spot.
Perhaps being able to find humor in disability comes from knowing it so intimately. The other day, I told old friends that I prefer my neighborhood over theirs, because it’s so much harder to find parking where they live. Without missing a beat, one friend said, “Isn’t finding somewhere to park kind of easy for you?” We all laughed, and I knew they were laughing with me — never at me. Once you accept that a disabled life is still a full one, it’s much easier to be in on the joke.
Kelly Dawson is a writer, editor, and marketing consultant based in Los Angeles. She’s written for Cup of Jo on navigating encounters with disabled folks and why NYC is often inaccessible. Follow her on Instagram, if you’d like.
P.S. Becoming friends with a non-disabled person and how to navigate encounters with disability.
