Managing multiple sclerosis means accepting that some days are easier than others, and then not freaking out when you have a bad one, like the one I had last week. I couldn’t pin my extra MS’yness on my usual trifecta of bad-day triggers; it wasn’t due to lack of sleep, I wasn’t fighting an infection, and I didn’t have a hangover. I couldn’t even blame the solar system because Mercury is no longer in retrograde. Whatever random MS factor that was messing with me that day meant my walking was a bit stiffer, my legs a bit weaker, my breath a bit shorter.
No biggie; I’m used to it. I knew I could manage, and was desperate for some end of summer maintenance – one last pedicure before the cold hits and I stop shaving my legs or making any effort really; I’m basically a Never-Nude come winter.
And so I put my MS’y day out of mind and Uber’d to the closest nail-bar without worrying about the fact that those huge, unnecessarily-high pedicure chairs don’t give a shit about MS’y days. I was on a mission, and as my mom always says the price of beauty is pain.
Once I got to the spa, I made my slow-walk to the back where the magic happens. I abandoned my rollator because I needed my arms to lift my legs up the step (that was deep enough to be two steps) to the pedicure chair – all while trying not to show my underwear to curious onlookers. I could feel the eyes of the women in the spa, holding their lattes and their collective breaths, watching as I shimmied, limb by limb, into my seat, wondering if I would fall, or collapse, or I don’t know, spontaneously combust?
Whenever this kind of voyeurism happens (because it happens a lot), I find myself wanting to say something cutting, something that lets everyone know I see you looking. But of course, I never do. I’m trying hard not to succumb to the stereotype of Bitter Disabled Person.
As I settled into my seat, I had an uneasy sense of what was about to happen. As if the staring wasn’t enough, I felt a full-on micro-aggression approaching. And sure enough,
each and every one of those bitches cheered.
Like I was a toddler taking her first steps, instead of a grown woman who just needed her callouses shaved and maybe a toe wax.
If you’ve only heard the term micro-aggression and are wondering what the actual fuck, here’s the deal: Micro-aggressions are the off-hand comments or actions that cut-down marginalized persons without even trying. They call attention to someone in a way that highlights what makes them different. What makes them Other.
Micro-aggressions are disses disguised as compliments.
Like how cheering for something that isn’t actually an accomplishment can make the heroine of this story (moi) feel not celebrated, but pitied; maybe even a little out of place, like I don’t belong to this latte-sipping Lululemon crowd.
I just wanna drink my PSL like every other basic bitch.
Okay, but those “bitches” were cheering for you. Obvi they didn’t wanna kick you out of their club. Can’t you just chill?
For the record, I did chill. I understand that micro-aggressions are not the same as ableism which is way worse (and a topic for another day). Those yoga moms got a pass because I KNOW they didn’t mean to offend. But, these kinds of mini-slags happen all the time. What went down at the nail-bar wasn’t the worst micro-aggression I’ve experienced, only the most recent.
Although, come to think of it, another day last week, as I was approaching the elevator, some guy in the lobby, eight feet behind me, rushed over like a wannabe super-hero to push the button.
As I was reaching for it.
(I use a rollator for balance, so I can see how he might assume my index finger might not work.) Before moving on he gave my back three pats and a sympathetic rub while I willed my head not to explode. Having done his good deed for the day, this grown-up boy-scout got to leave our encounter feeling good about himself. Meanwhile, the normally cool, confident, true heroine of this story (moi) went from minding my own business, day dreaming about sweater-dresses, to brooding about how often the outside world sees me as helpless and pitiable.
Okay, clearly you think I’m a douche who should just stay home, and avoid all interaction with strangers.
Relax. You’re being dramatic, and I know you mean well. But staying home is a terrible idea. Your home is where your wifi lives and generalizations love anonymity. Micro-aggressions are the cost of connecting with people who have lived different lives than our own. We don’t see enough real diversity in media, especially when it comes to sickness, so when we see it IRL, we draw from what we’ve learned from Forrest Gump or Frankenstein and the effed up biases we don’t even know we have.
The truth is, we’re all guilty of micro-aggressions. Most of us don’t go around trying to be dicks, but we all have some degree of implicit bias. We can’t help it. If you don’t believe me, take an online test like the one that revealed I believe dog people are better than cat people, but that cat people are still better than people who take their socks off on planes.
The best way for us to minimize our weirdness isn’t to avoid difference but to embrace it. Exposure to diversity is what normalizes it. And while I will never want to be exposed to your gross feet, I can make an effort to look past the endless pictures of your stupid cat and consider that maybe you aren’t lonely, or crazy, or a witch.
What I want all the concerned rando’s I encounter to know is that, it’s not sympathy I’m after. It’s not pats on the back or applause. If you really want to express your concern, then advocate for accessible transit, hire someone with a disability, be fucking outraged that most bars and restaurants in Toronto are still not accessible. Demand better content and more diverse stories from the culture-makers – the kinds of stories that might give us all a healthier, less stereotypical perspective on people who are different from us.
And if all that’s too much, then just be normal. We all deserve to be here.