The promise of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) is reflected in ordinary places. It can be seen in an accessible entrance, a government website that works with a screen reader, or medical equipment that allows a patient to receive a complete examination.
My feet are swollen, and my work shoes will not go on. The laces hang loose on either side. Each tongue has been pulled forward and each opening stretched as wide as possible, but more room is not the answer.
Temperatures have pushed past 100 degrees this summer. For anyone who already hates the heat, even going out for lunch can feel like a questionable idea.
On March 12, 1990, eight-year-old Jennifer Keelan-Chaffins left her wheelchair at the foot of the U. S. Capitol steps. Around her, other people with disabilities abandoned their wheelchairs and crutches and began the climb toward the Capitol.
When someone notices my walking poles, what have they learned about me, and what story have they already begun to imagine? A visible disability can draw attention before a conversation begins.
Access, participation, the Americans with Disabilities Act, and what inclusion looks like beyond entry.
A look back at routines, changes in function, and the point when an approach that once worked no longer does.
Every July, the same question returns. It has surprisingly little to do with disability itself. Instead, it centers on a single word: pride .
Several weeks ago, I underwent ulnar nerve transposition surgery after the ulnar nerve in my left arm was compressed at my elbow. To relieve the pressure and prevent further damage, the surgeon moved the nerve from behind my elbow to a new position in front of it.
The smallest changes are not always the smallest. with a simple revision. where the paperwork sleeps.
