By: Matthew Cullings, SFU Student
Tuesday night, I had the worst nightmare ever. My dream consisted of a cacophony of people screaming, “But you don’t look like you have a disability!” while posing like Queen in the “Bohemian Rhapsody” music video. Scary to the average person — but reflective of my daily life as someone with hidden disabilities.
I was unusually tired when I woke up on Wednesday morning. As I lifted from my slumber and approached the bathroom mirror . . . something peculiar had occurred. My disabilities were now a wee bit visible.
On my head was a giant tattoo consisting of an arrow pointing to a QR code with the phrase, “Scan me to learn the difference between Type I and II Diabetes.” Conjoined to my arm was a sign that read “MY MUSCLES ARE ACHING” with some descriptors about my other condition. I let out a little gasp, and then realized my perfect opportunity. Perhaps people would be accommodating when I needed an extra second because I have to give myself insulin, or understand if I tire easily. I didn’t think I had anything to lose . . .
The day started with an (attempted) sip at my local coffee shop. I walked up to the barista and ordered my usual: an iced chai with one pump of brown sugar. To my surprise, she clapped back at me. “Are you sure you need all that sugar, babes?” she asked, pointing to the tattoo on my forehead. She didn’t even bother to scan the fuckin’ thing.
Needless to say, I walked out of there without my chai. Which I just needed to take insulin for, by the way. Who is she to tell me how to manage my Diabetes?
Later in the day, at work, I needed an extra break to prevent the over-exertion of my muscles. I mean, when your job is on a construction site, you need to take all the precautions you have with my kind of muscle condition. My foreman had been reluctant to listen to me before, not understanding what my issues were and requiring a doctor’s note once every couple of months. And I thought that would all change.
“Well now it’s too obvious,” my foreman told me, rolling her eyes. “You must be faking it. And those words about your condition must be from Wikipedia. You know those ‘honk if you’re horny’ bumper stickers? It’s like one of those — not meant to be taken seriously.” Once again, I was too stunned to speak. How could she not understand? I proceeded to hand her my updated doctor’s note in defeat.
While on the bus ride home, a pregnant woman offered her priority seat at the front of the bus to me. I told her that it was OK — and that I was doing fine right now. What does she do? She yanks me by my shirt collar onto the seat while recording herself for Instagram. “See, guys? I did an act of charity today!” What. The. F —
By the end of the day, my magic bumper stickers had disappeared from all over my body. Honestly, I was kind of glad. If there was one thing I learned from that day, it was that visibility doesn’t guarantee accommodation and empowerment. Only able-bodied people, by shifting their mindsets, can do that.
