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Note: If you have not yet read the previous episodes of this season, I encourage you to do so before reading this post! Thank you for reading.
In the summer of 2021, I was preparing for my escape to Minnesota. A pandemic-inspired gap year had delayed this moment for too long. Amongst all the sorting, packing, and procrastinating, one email stuck in my mind. It was from a staff member of Macalester’s Center for Disability Resources (formerly called Disability Services).
It read: “We received notification that you indicated during the admissions process that you have a health or other limitation that impacts you. We are reaching out to let you know that if you are a student with a disability who may need accommodations while at Macalester, below is the process of next steps.”
“I’m not disabled,” I said to myself. But doubt slowed my cursor as I went to close the email. Sure, my foot still hurt after months of physical therapy and consultation with a civilian doctor. And my migraines were nearly constant. Not to mention the mental health struggles. But I wasn’t disabled, and this was a department for disabled students.
Even as I tried to rationalize it away, my doubt stayed. My therapist reminded me of my 504 accommodations, which allowed me to survive my last two years of high school. She told me that the route to something similar in college would be to talk to this office. Even if I wasn’t disabled.
So I scheduled a Zoom intake.
The next week, I found my father in the kitchen after my appointment. He stood in the yellow light, watching a pan heat on the stove.
“I just met with someone from Mac’s Disability Services,”
I told him.
He turned to look at me, confusion twisting his normally neutral face. “Disability Services?” he asked. “Why would you need to talk to them?”
Instantly, I felt I had to reassure him. That was just the department’s name, and they handle all accommodations, like my 504. But my heart raced as my eyes searched for a spot to settle. Was I pretending? Invading a space that wasn’t mine to be in?
“Oh,” he said, neutral once again. After a long pause: “I’m glad you’re able to get that help.”
His attention went back to the stove, and mine went inward as I wandered back to my room. “I’m not disabled,” I reminded myself. “I’m just getting some extra support.”
The first thing I did when moving to Minnesota was get a PTSD diagnosis. I’d been treating the symptoms of C-PTSD for years, but I evaded suggestions of a formal diagnosis.
My reason for changing my mind? It would make it easier to obtain a medical cannabis registration, which I needed for the pain in my foot. It was slowly growing worse again, creeping its way up my calf. Minnesota’s process was much stricter than Maryland’s, so I wanted any advantage I could get.
In a new community, the taboo word was suddenly all around me. The CDR sent me regular update emails. I formed a solid relationship with one of their staff. Disabled writers, thinkers, and identities show up in my classes. I found myself in spaces for, and with, other disabled folks.
Still, I felt like a liar, waiting for the day my great secret would get out and I would be ostracized. I would be excised back to the “normal” crowd, as if I had ever belonged there.
The most revolutionary change, though, was other people treating my pain like it mattered. Migraine got in the way of class? That’s an excused absence. Too much pain to walk to the store? There’s a bus in seven minutes. When a pain spike prevented me from speaking, my friends would rely on physical contact to help ground and soothe me.
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Most of the people around me didn’t ask me to push through my pain. Nor did they think I was going to be cured. Piece by piece, my protective armor chipped away into the arms of a caring community.
“I’m not disabled,” I tried to repeat to myself in the dorm room mirror. The words only snuck out as a whisper, falling from my lips into the drain below. I wouldn’t need them anymore.
I wasn’t truly prepared for the brutality of a Minnesota winter. I wore a beanie, gloves, thick pants, and an insulated black trench coat. My feet shifted in uncomfortable, bulky snow boots. Still, I shivered under the light rail station’s heating lamp.
As I wrapped up my first semester, my blood family had come to visit. It was strange to have them meet me in my new home. This day, my mother and I were en route to a quiet spot so she could, against my intuition, use me as a sounding board for her childhood trauma.
She fidgeted with the sleeves of her coat, constantly looking at her surroundings. She wasn’t used to public transit. It felt refreshing to be the one with more knowledge, more confidence.
In my left hand, I held a new cane. This one clean with a simple handle. It could fold up and fit in my bag, leading to wonderful Mary Poppins-esque tricks. I told my mother about getting the cane from the CDR. How the harsh cold locked up my joint, so I walked with it every day now.
This time, my pain was a valid, tangible, visible thing. It contributed to my burgeoning relationship with the CDR, and a new understanding of my own identity. It was something I could claim.
“But are you?” she asked me.
“What?”
“Disabled.”
The answer rose immediately to my tongue, but I held it in, letting the absurdity of the question thicken the air between us. When it felt like her anticipation might turn to annoyance, I spoke.
“I’m in pain constantly. So yes.”
Ashton Rose 