The terminal is filled with the blur of voices, gate announcements, and the steady rhythm of footsteps. The scent of coffee blends with the salty aroma of pretzels from the nearby kiosk. An hour before my flight, I sit in an airport-issued wheelchair, my bag at my side and walking poles resting between my knees. The noise around me fades, but the unspoken question lingers in the air—always the same, always waiting for someone to ask.
Across from me, a woman in a pale blue cardigan looks up briefly from her phone. Our eyes meet for just a moment before she returns her gaze to the screen. She had seen me earlier at security, when a female officer was patting down my arms and waist with deliberate, precise movements. Because I rely on my walking poles to move, I cannot raise and lock my hands behind my head to pass through the scanner like everyone else. This manual screening is the only way I’m allowed to proceed.
Our eyes meet again, and this time she offers a polite, yet cautious smile—one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. On the second glance, she tilts her head slightly, studying me as though searching for an unspoken question she has not yet found the courage to voice.
“What happened to you?” she asks.
I’ve heard that question often enough to know where it’s headed. Some days, I explain that I have Spastic Cerebral Palsy, the type called Spastic Diplegia. My legs are always tight, especially in the calves and hamstrings. The walking poles help me move and maintain balance.
When children ask why I use the poles, I explain that they help me walk. They resemble hiking sticks, light enough to lift, yet strong enough to support my weight. I am usually happy to answer questions from both children and adults because I believe that sharing information can help turn the unfamiliar into something understood.
Yet in this moment I wonder: should it always fall to people with disabilities to respond? Sometimes the question feels less like genuine inquiry and more like passing curiosity.
The experience can be exhausting, especially after the manual pat-down—an essential procedure that, despite its routine, never fails to stir a wave of anxiety in me. That unease wears at my patience, and by the time the inevitable question comes, I’m already tired of offering the same explanation. Most days, I still manage to say the words, even when the answer feels caught, dry and heavy, in the back of my throat — it is mine to give, and I give it to inform. Today, however, I let the question linger, a headline without its story.
The woman in the pale blue cardigan tries again. “I have a cousin like you.”
“Oh, do you?” I reply. She doesn’t look away this time, her gaze lingering as she waits for my response. After a beat, she adds, “I feel sorry for you.”
Her words fall between us, quiet and heavy, settling in the space. Nearby, a child tugs at their mother’s sleeve until she bends to listen. A suitcase lands with a hollow thud, but it all fades beneath the pull of her pity. I shift my weight, angling for a clearer view of her. The glow from her phone pools over her fingers.
I could explain that I am not broken, only different, that this is simply how my body moves. The words gather on my tongue, poised to close the gap. In my mind, I already see her nodding politely, her expression untouched by what I say, and the urge to explain drains away. The silence between us feels easier, though laced with a quiet tension. Her pity, well-meaning though it may be, lingers, pulling at me.
An announcement crackles over the loudspeaker, summoning passengers who need extra time. A staff member waves me forward. The line stalls when an agent stops someone. I glance back: the woman in the blue cardigan lingers in the aisle, shifting her weight as if debating whether to move. She doesn’t realize these minutes are intentional, deliberate accommodations so travelers with disabilities or health conditions can move without being rushed.
In that pause, I remember my first solo flight, waiting at the gate in a standard airport wheelchair. When my turn came, an attendant stepped behind me, and the chair rolled forward under their steady push. We moved through the crowd, past the scanner, into the narrow Jetway. The wheels clicked over the ridged metal, carrying me faster than I expected, their assistance sparing me a harder walk.
As I settle into my seat, my mind lingers on the woman in the blue cardigan. To her, I am only the traveler in row nine. She doesn’t see the teacher, writer, and speaker who stands before a hundred strangers, talking about disability and its many intersections. She hasn’t watched me at a podium, speaking to a room that leans in, simply listening. She doesn’t know that when this plane touches down, friends will meet me at the gate—not because I rely on assistance, but because we’ll enjoy an evening together, walking along the waterfront, as friends do.
Pity comes quickly, but it leaves slowly.
I first encountered pity as a child, standing on the playground holding both of my metal walking devices. A boy from another class asked if I had broken my legs. I told him I had Spastic Cerebral Palsy. I said it means my legs are tight, and the walking devices helped me stand and move.
He frowned and apologized, but I told him there was nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t yet realize that people often confuse difference with loss, although I already knew it was better to tell the truth about my disability than let someone hold on to the wrong story.
As a child, I couldn’t yet distinguish between difference and loss. When the boy asked if I had broken my legs, the weight of his pity settled in my chest. Now I understand that pity doesn’t equal understanding—more often, it reveals the lack of it. He hadn’t meant to offend or cause harm, but that kind of pity is something I’ve learned to challenge, sometimes with words, sometimes with silence.
Challenging pity silently means not reacting, but instead showing through presence that sympathy is not needed or wanted. By remaining calm, confident, and unbothered, a message is sent: there is more to me, or a person, than others’ assumptions. There is no need to explain or accept pity—simply being true to oneself can shift that perspective.
In the end, the time at Gate C17 is not defined by a single question or the silence that followed it, but by the rhythm of these everyday moments. Curiosity and pity can often arrive together, each leaving its trace. The woman in the pale blue cardigan will likely forget our exchange before the plane touches down, but I will not.
Between her questions and my silence, the pause stretched, carrying the weight of all the explanations I had given before. I could have filled it—smoothed it over with well-worn words. Instead, I left it untouched, letting the quiet speak for itself. Not every gap demands a bridge; some are meant to remind us that understanding cannot be rushed, nor coaxed.
Silence, like speech, can be deliberate. It can hold its own kind of truth, a reminder that understanding is not owed, only offered. Some spaces are not meant to be bridged in the moment; they are meant to remain, asking those who notice them to slow down, to look closer, to see beyond what they think they know.
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