When Two Wheelies Hang-Out

A couple years ago,my then-boyfriend and I were scooting around Loblaws on a vicious mission to be successful, full-grown, healthy-eating twenty-somethings. In the thin mac-and-cheese aisle, a woman in her early 50s did a double-take of our side-by-side wheelchairs, caught my eye with her staring and said, “Oh, how cute!”
I’m ridiculously used to this infantile, ignorant reaction when people

see two people in wheelchairs in close proximity. I’ve had best friends in wheelchairs since my second year in university, and I’ve since graduated, so I've pretty much heard it all. Other versions of this awkward proclamation include:

“Awe, isn’t that nice” Is what nice? You think it’s nice that both of us have trouble reaching the top-of-the shelf 2% milk?
And,
“No racing, you two.” Fuck. How did he know my plan? Now I have to leave the pads I was gonna shoplift while racing out of here. Talk about buzzkill.
And of course, my personal, though much over-used favorite:
“Woah, it’s a party in here.” Party? Where? Oh right. Wherever there’s two people in wheelchairs it’s a party. Because we’re that cool, obviously.

Some people in wheelchairs let these uncomfortable reactions rain on their wheelie parade. And they’ve got damn good reason.But me, if I didn’t laugh at it, I’d bawl my eyes out. In the middle of the store. Fall out of my chair into the fetal position. The whole nine-yards.
So I laugh, and say something equally ridiculous like, “I know I’m cute, thank-you” with a big, cheesy smile. It’s the closest I come to “fuck-you.”
Because really, it is intensely patronizing and non-sensical. If you’re lacking perspective on this, just picture a person approaching a bi-racial couple and saying “Don’t you go making too many beautiful mixed-raced babies, you two.” They’d get punched in the face. Or purse-slapped, maybe spit on. Or all three.
Maybe next time I’m out with my friend, and a spectacularly ignorant comment comes my way, I’ll smile my cheesiest and back into them. Yes?

Hysterectomy Hysteria in India: The Booming Scam

For those of you who don’t know, there’s this awful new batch of doctors in India who are scamming women. Their method? Taking their uterus out unnecessarily.
Yes, you heard right. These “doctors” run private practices within low-income Indian communities, and sustain a high customer base because of the collapse of the Indian health care system. Many times a day, a woman with especially harsh menstrual cramps or a treatable bladder infection visit these doctors because the public hospital is not an option, only to be told they need to have an emergency hysterectomy.

As for these fraudulent health care professionals, they make about $200 per unneeded surgery. And when they’re in a hurry because they’ve got other falsely toxic baby making organs to remove, they simply cut along the Sharpie line and then close up, uterus still in place.

Evil at its Finest
BBC recently interviewed one of the many women sucked into this money-making plot, stating that the woman was “rushed to surgery” without even a chance to discuss the matter with her husband or get a second opinion. The article glazes over the fact that the women wasn’t sure of her own age. If you ask me, this is a trademark of a very vulnerable population, without access to public record or other concrete information. BBC claims the woman guestimates her age to be 25.
Which leads me to another disgusting point: majority of the women submitted to have the sham operation are under 40. Last I knew, most hysterectomies, (excluding situations where cancer and terminal illnesses are actually had) were performed upwards of 45. You know, when they are actually required. BBC points this out, noting that many of the hysterectomies done in these private clinics are not always needed.
I wonder if personal financial gain is the only motive, or whether it is, perhaps, also a method of population control. The women that have the operation are often on India’s version of social assistance, recieving roughly $550 per month. With the public hospitals not being able to meet their needs, maybe someone Up Top is hoping these women won’t reproduce and continue to harvest a poorer population.

Something About a Black Kettle
When Jill McGivering, BBC Reporter, asked one doctor about the surgeries and accusations that these women were being rushed into unnecessary operations, he looked up and said, “Oh, those women aren’t telling the truth. Unlike other clinics in the area, mine is ethical.”
This doctor is clearly ethical. Everyone knows that when a group of women have come forward to claim they have all been part of your scam, the right thing to do is just call them all liars. The Ethics Board would totally agree. No need to check in with the women,or to gather proof or anything. Just go back to work. You have a scam surgery to do at 3:00 and you have to be focused to make a fake incision.

To point out the obvious, this a tragic, tragic situation. A systematic abuse of women who are simply seeking medical treatment and instead get looped into a con. Even more sad is to think that it is only one of many. How do we stop these people?

Leave Beyonce Alone

I’m not old enough to remember, but I can only imagine the hysteria that occurred the first time Mick Jagger gyrated in front of a group 60 years ago. Girls probably got crazy giddy, and men probably wanted to be Mick or kill Mick. His dancing, in its context, was a novelty. And 60 years later, people are still naming songs

after him.
Can the same be said for our female artists? Rihanna has Tina Turner legs and emulates some of her moves, yet the best we can do is call her slutty. Christina Aguilera has a voice that can trill longer than a fire engine, and yet people shook their heads and said it was such a “shame” that she “was selling out” when she released Dirty. We commend Chris Brown for getting Michael Jackson’s moon walk, swivel, and crotch grab down to a tee, but bow in judgmental disappointment when Beyonce shakes her hips better than--oh wait, no female from the older generation is famous for hip-shaking because we disapproved of it so much.
Point is, there is still a general attitude within society that frowns upon “scantily clad women” with “skanky moves” (*cringe*) , claiming that it takes away from their talent/image/self-worth. This is a sad mistake on society’s part. To not accept a woman fully because of her choice to show skin is to make her choice to do so less important than your method of judgment. If we were to respect a woman who had decided to dress revealingly and shake her hips, we respect her full package, skin-baring and all--the way that we receive shirtless, gyrating Adam Lavigne.
The most recent proof of this blatant disrespect is Beyonce’s halftime Superbowl performance. A couple of my Facebook contacts commented that the star was “trashy” and "slutty". One even said the only thing missing from her performance was a stripper pole, which, as if that’s not bad enough, was reinforced by many “Likes”. The fact that we, as social media users with so much freedom of speech, still resort to old standards of oppressive judgemnt saddens me. In my opinion, Beyonce bared a lot of skin- and danced her beautiful ass off. She werked it to her souls content and blew everyone’s mind with her marathon dancing. She sang like it was the last day singing was allowed in our free country, and somehow, throughout all this, she didn’t cough up any blood or faint. She was amazing. And God, I wish I could wear that get-up and look half as sexy.
In the music video for her song, “Run the World,” Beyonce and countless backup dancers are dancing in a sandbank, asserting that girls do, in fact, run the world. For the entire video, Beyonce is wearing sexy outfit after sexy outfit, and still dancing to keep the world going. It’s clear then, that to some extent, Beyonce has chosen to run the world and be damn hot all at once. So we should stop judging her so much. Because honestly, if you want her to put on more clothes and shake less because you can’t listen to what she’s singing, that’s on you, guys.

The Wheelchair Sign

I almost always feel a great relief every time a white stick-figure wheelchair person sits on the door of a public establishment. Especially when entering an average-joe restaurant or a club. It’s confirmation, it's acceptance, the anti-apartheid of the disabled. It says, with all its straight white lines and blue brushstrokes, “We not only thought about you, we accept you, we welcome your business, and for you to do your business.”

Every time I see that beloved sign, I feel not only relieved but proud. “Times of change” I think, happy that I live in the 21st century. Unfortunately, the symbol doesn’t always produce what it advertises. Take today for example:
I was at this quaint little shack of a restaurant, enjoying some Chinese food and ambient mood-lighting with a friend when nature called. I usually hate this part of the day. In my mind, I started mapping out all the near-by accessible washrooms and planning my graceful exit. As I prepared to leave with my friend, I gave the restaurant a one-over, just in case. And to my pleasant surprise, a big blue sign appeared like a trophy, just off of the kitchen. Once inside the bathroom, however, I saw that the sign wasn’t telling the full truth. In this particular instance, the restaurant, though being equipped with ample space and a horizontal metal bar, preferred to use the bathroom as a storage room. Determined not to give up on the truthiness of my favourite symbol, I squished my chair in between a shelving unit (which took up about a quarter of the room’s area), a high -chair, a big, fancy toilet paper holder which was standing on the ground right beside the toilet, and, of course, the toilet itself. Thankfully, given my level of mobility, I was still able to use the bathroom. But I am entirely mindful that many others--say those with bigger chairs or paralysis--would not be so fortunate.

I have also encountered the strangest declarations of accessibility at bars. For any of you club-goers in wheelchairs, you might know that The Honest Lawyer’s accessible bathroom is truly bizarre. In that Ladies’ Room, there is a fourth stall at the end of three, which displays a wheelchair sign. It opens from the side and reveals itself to be impossibly narrow, despite being longer than the others. And when I say impossibly narrow, I’m not exaggerating. My manual chair--which I prefer to use in club situations, is one of the thinnest chairs available to people of my height-- doesn’t fit inside the stall, at any angle. This leaves me with two options I am all too familiar with: 1) Don’t pee--don’t you even think about breaking the seal, and 2) Thank your lucky stars that you have a friend with you whom you trust enough to see your secret triangle without dying of embarrassment. Though I am often blessed with the second option, it hardly means the stall is accessible. This specific wheelchair sign should really be modified to include an able-bodied person helping the wheelie, or just take their sign down altogether.

The second baffling claim of washroom accessibility that sticks out in my mind is in The Grand in The Market. The waiters there will kindly lead you to their accessible side entrance to get inside, and notify you of their accessible bathroom when asked. Both of these things are just dandy, as it shows that at least some employers have received the disability training that was supposed to be enforced by the Ontarians with Disabilities Act. Once pointed in the direction of the sitting stick-man though, things are not so smooth. The stall is spacious, but the toilet is placed very near to the bathroom door, leaving very limited room for a wheelchair, let alone the person inside of it. Much to my dignity’s dismay, I had to pee with the door open that day, a privilege usually only awarded to small children and pregnant women who constantly have nurses looking in on them. Roomy enough for three toilets, but not for one wheelchair in between the toilet and the door is less than accessible, and probably doesn’t meet standard accessibility regulations.
So next time you’re taking a nice little tinkle in the wheelchair stall (you know who you are), check out the logistics. Could Artie from Glee really fit his chair and himself in here?

My Session with "The Sessions"

In case you haven’t heard, Hollywood took a gigantic leap for Mankind late this past year and created a film centred around a man with a severe disability. The Sessions follows a man completely paralyzed after a bout with Polio, on his quest for sex and intimacy. If you ask me, it’s pretty awesome (albeit long overdue) that those down south finally pulled up their socks and made a movie not only focusing on a person with a disability, but also their sexual endeavor. And, to my pleasant surprise, the brief chronicle, based on Mark O’Brien’s autobiographical article On Seeing a Sex Surrogate, did not disappoint. Instead, it is a raw, witty, depiction of one man’s life, no stigmatism or stereotypes attached. Hopefully, the little blurb I have written here will at least motivate you to watch it and come up with your own thoughts.
For those of you who have boycotted movies in favour of it’s more active cousin, reading books, or just generally live under a rock, The Sessions plot is as follows:
Mark O’Brien (played by real-life, able-bodied John Hawkes), is a man paralyzed completely from the neck down from Polio, who spends majority of his life in an iron lung which helps him breath. Mark decides to consult with his priest about having sex out of wedlock. Knowing Mark on a personal level, the priest (played wonderfully by William H. Macy) decides that given Mark’s specific situation (what, with him being a virgin at 38 and all), can have a “free pass” in the bedroom. Fast forward a few weeks and Mark is in bed with his sex surrogate, (Helen Hunt) whose job is to act as a therapist in helping her clients overcome their physical and mental sexual limitations. Drama ensues, the details of which I will leave up to all those I know will run to download this movie promptly after reading this entry.
Before finding your best bootlegged copy, Google “movies on disabled people and sex”. You’’ll find The Sessions’ summary is one of the first links listed, a fair ways above the links to general sexuality info and some freaky-deaky wheelie fetish info further down. Aside from reiterating that people definitely make creepy sexual turn-ons out of anything, it can also be assumed that The Sessions is a first-of-its-kind movie within the Hollywood scope.
Part of what makes it so original is the way that it displays the most natural parts of the main character’s life, as “normal.” Shots of the Mark in his iron lung, or being bed-bathed and dressed by his attendant move naturally across the screen, with no extra-long shots or pausing for dramatic effect.This film is graciously careful to avoid any subtext of tragedy, courage, or any of those other voice-over themes feel-good movies like to inflate themselves with. There is no dramatic music when we see the man typing his article with the back of a pencil eraser controlled by his mouth. It just is. This is how Mark O’Brien did his thing, and hopefully, how he would’ve wanted to have been portrayed.
Now I can’t be sure that Mr. O'Brien would’ve approved entirely of the depiction of himself in the movie, since the poet and journalist died in 1999 from Post-Polio disease, but I have reason to believe he would not be repulsed by it. Directed and written Ben Lewin, the film takes from multiple legitimate sources to tell Mark O’Brien’s tale, something Mr. O’Brien himself would’ve likely approved of. Shots from Jessica Yu’s award-wining 1996 documentary of Mark O'Brien’s life Breathing Lessons are directly reenacted in Lewin’s film. One shot is wonderfully similar to the documentary, which includes Mark chatting with Faculty and friends post graduation ceremony, while a news reporter chatters about the courage students like mark have, and the overcoming of disability that it entails. If these shots—the real-life one of Mark mingling outside Berkley behind the reporter, and the reenacted one with John Hawkes—were juxtaposed, it would be hard to tell the difference.
Along the same lines, the only voice-over used in The Sessions is John Hawkes’, reading snippets of O’Brien’s poetry, as if to give veiwers an inside monologue and perspective that we would otherwise likely fill with the disabled dogma of courage, inspiration, and other googldygook. Instead, the narration of Mark’s poetry humanizes the movie, allowing veiwers to see O’brien’s life as it was, nothing more, and nothing less.
If you haven’t yet noticed a pattern, I really enjoyed the raw point of view that The Sessions has to offer. If exposure is the best educator, then everyone should watch this film. If for nothing else, then to educate yourselves.

Winter for Wheelies

Being that it’s that wonderful blustery season again, I feel it appropriate to talk about all the stuff wheelies wish they could do, but can’t. Because it’s winter. And their wheelies. Here's my list. Feel free to add to it:

1. Get out the driveway.
2. Get on a bus.
3. Go to the mall. See reasons one and two
4. Go to a bar. Guess drinking alone will have to do.
5. Come back from an attempt to go outdoors without ruining the shiny nice floor and getting dirty looks from the landlord as we trek shamefully by.
6. Get out of bed. Wait, maybe this just applies to me.
7. Go anywhere without hearing the sentence, “Oh, your wheels are squeaky, eh?”
8. Not say the sentence, “That snowbank’s bigger than my body. Let’s give up.”
9. Go iceskating. Crack crack crack goes the ice.
10. Go sledding. Although most able-bodied people seem to fail at that too, with sticking their faces into snow and/or running into trees.
11. Be cool/Spontaneous. Yes, it is all winter’s fault that I’m not super fly.

There you have it. Now put on your best snow boots and ugliest snow pant suspenders, and go enjoy those oppressive snowflakes.

Remembering Those Who Matter

After today's horrific shooting in Sandy Hook Elementary School CT, people sure have a lot of boisterious opinions about the cause of such a tragedy. Finger-pointing and calls for action are rampant online, thanks to social media outlets and CNN's constant loop of horribe news mixed in with opinionated talking heads.

In spite of the crazy media circus, let's remember what happened today. I'm not talking the number of casualties or the profile of the mass murderer, I'm talking about what really happened. The fact that some little child had to look up and see a man with a mask and a rifle in her last moments. The fact that a little boy watched his best friend die, unable to help, and tugged away too soon in a scurry for safety. I'm talking about the parents whose children's Christmas presents are never to be taken out of the attic and ripped open with joy. Please, let us not use this as a soap box for our personal beliefs about what should be done about guns and policies, and stop before we analyze the whys, to remember that this tragedy is ongoing for its survivors and their loved ones.

As with many mass, seemingly random acts of violence, people are already asking about the killer. It hasn't even been 24 hours, and people want a description of the person behind the gun and possible "triggers" that lead to this shooting. Why does it matter? The man is dead. And the more time we spend digging up his past and relation to Sandy Hook, the less time we focus on supporting the victims in any way possible. Forming links as to his circumstance, mental health and relation to the school is the job of FBI agents and policemen, and shouldn't be used by the public to feed their fascination or bemusement.

So next time your brain wandering toward the shooter's motives, switch gears and think of the victims and their families. They are much more deserving of your thoughts, anyhow.