PERSONAL ESSAY: A Silent Minority

by Kate Hooks

“The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) is a federal civil rights law that prohibits discrimination against people with disabilities in everyday activities, such as buying an item at the store, going to the movies, enjoying a meal at a local restaurant, exercising at the health club, or having the car serviced at a local garage.”

I read these words and wonder why, if the ADA has been effective since 1992, things are still so inaccessible? I’ve had multiple sclerosis (MS) now for seven years, and I still can’t figure out how to negotiate my wheelchair over steep curb cuts. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a phrase resonated: The disabled population comprises a silent minority.

Initially, I’d scoffed at the words. I’m the opposite of silent. My laugh is so piercing that entire restaurants filled with people have stopped chewing to turn and gape at me. Plus, I’m as open about my disability as possible. Short of tattooing “I have multiple sclerosis” across my forehead, I do everything I can to assure that strangers understand why I fall over in public, why I use a wheelchair to grocery shop, and why I need someone else’s barstool in a bar.

Clearly, I have no problem discussing my disability with anyone who asks (or happens to be in the way). But when it comes to advocacy the phrase is correct: “I am silent.” Not only am I silent, I’m apologetic. I’m riddled with guilt whenever someone stands in the rain for an extra few minutes to open a door for me, or when someone in the grocery store gets an item off the top shelf for me. I genuinely don’t want to ask for someone’s seat in a bar, and I feel horrible asking friends to take me to the bathroom in restaurants. At this moment, I’m the only 26year-old I know who genuinely needs assistance getting from point A to point B. I often get stuck between doors in my wheelchair, or drop things that I balance precariously on my lap while shopping. Invariably, whenever I request help or run into someone, the request or collision is always followed by: “I’m so sorry.” Then I smile as sweetly as possible, internally reminding myself that I didn’t choose to knock the guy’s toupee off, and continue on my way.

One of my teacher friends refuses to let his students use the phrase “I’m sorry.” He says there are enough “sorry” people in the world and if you’re truly contrite it is better expressed through the phrase “I apologize.” When he told me this I laughed, but I didn’t necessarily agree. It made me increasingly aware of how often I use the phrase “I’m sorry.”

Sorry, according to Roget’s Thesaurus, connotes both regret and remorse. It’s also synonymous with sadness. In all cases, the word fits my circumstance: I truly am sorry that my friends have to help me get to the bathroom; I regret my efforts to get through heavy doors with my wheelchair; I’m remorseful that I’m not able-bodied; and when I want to purchase a gift at an inaccessible store, my frustration yields a certain level of sadness. Having MS makes me mourn things I never used to appreciate—even cleaning the toilet without fatigue. I watch my roommates take the garbage out and get ready to go out on Saturday nights without the constant concern about whether they’ll be able to stand later that evening. They’re able to clean the house, work out, shower, and help me with inane household tasks—all without collapsing from fatigue. This, to me, after a mere seven years with a disability, is remarkable. At the same time, though, I clearly remember my disdain for such tasks. No one enjoys cleaning the toilet, disabled or not, which is why I feel so sorry—partially for myself (because the only thing worse than cleaning a toilet is wishing you could) but mainly for the friends and family members whom I constantly impose upon.

I thought about these things a lot: whether I do, in fact, represent part of a “silent minority,” why I feel so guilty, and why even my friends claim that I “apologize too much.” After thinking about it, talking about it, and even praying about it, I decided that my definition of the word “silent” was limited. I view the word as exclusively synonymous with the word “quiet” (which I’m not). But silent also means “unvoiced” and “unspoken,” which, when it comes to things I need, is true. I am far more likely to apologetically ask for help, than I am to demand that a restaurant, store, gas station, or bar accommodate my needs. My roommate summed it up concisely when she suggested, “You make up a population of silent people because you already feel too guilty about asking for help with your own lives.”

I wonder though, if the ADA’s objective were achieved (after all, it was passed almost 15 years ago), would I need to constantly apologize? If I were able to achieve my own menial objectives without assistance, I could save my overuse of the word “sorry” for my roommates, continue to mourn my usefulness in the kitchen, and help myself in public. I am part of a silent minority right now—I am particular about the battles I choose. I wonder, though, when and if this will change; when will the ADA offer more than lip service and provide an entire population of people with disabilities the chance to stop feeling guilty all the time and accomplish things on their own.

In the meantime, maybe it’s time to wean myself away from the phrase “I’m so sorry” and speak up about the things that really need to be said.

Kate Hooks is a writer and blogger from Baltimore, Maryland. This article is adapted from a piece she wrote for her blog at www.katehooks.blogspot.com.