The Disability Blues – A Cappella

We are a nation of inclusion. It hasn’t always been that way, but we evolved as a people, trying to show empathy for groups previously shown little and empowering the government to operate on their behalf and in their interest. For Americans with disabilities, whether caused by birth, accident, ill health or old age, there is a wide range of services made available and funded through tax-exempt charities or direct government action. This did not happen in a vacuum of political goodwill. There were voices, loud ones, working the corridors and making threats. That’s how things are done in the good old U.S.A.

I don’t know if there is a fixed definition for the designation ‘disabled.’ I myself am colorblind, along with another five percent of the male population afflicted with Deuteranomaly, a congenital defect in the green retinal color receptors. Experts categorize it as a minor form of color recognition deficiency that materializes for me when coordinating earth tones in low light. Surely, a small inconvenience for someone such as I who dresses because it’s expected, rather than to impress, but what about those guys who care about what they’re wearing? Does this qualify as an official disability?

Disabled parking permits are out; I already checked. You can get one if you’re completely blind, but that presumes passing the road test without killing anyone. There is a supposed cure for colorblindness, a combination of Vitamins A and B-12, specially tinted eyeglasses and recognition training, which helps about twenty-five percent of participants pass the U.S. Air Force eye test. They lost me on the goofy glasses; I won’t even see a 3-D movie if it requires looking like a Devo wannabe. Still, it’s wonderful that medical science can actually cure something for a change, rather than just create new entries in symptomatology, along with the fancy new drugs to treat them. For the record, my erection is just fine, thanks. A cure for cancer would be nice, or for the range of childhood suffering resulting from birth defects. There is nothing more troubling than a sick or damaged child. For those fortunate enough to reach adulthood … well, we’ll get to them later.

When I was in high school, I had a part-time job working for a paint retailer. Early on, I was barred from mixing custom colors by the store manager, either due to my interpretation of Apple Green as something akin to dog puke or from shear prejudice. For a person in such a position, the colorblindness was truly detrimental. That’s a disability, isn’t it? Some of you might respond, “Get a different job.” Certainly, that is a solution, of a sort. In order to overcome my deficiency, I would need to find a situation where color recognition didn’t play a major role in job execution. Under no circumstances should I expect a legislative leveling of the field, if for no other reason than that the only way to level the field would be to eradicate all color from our daily existence. It’s absurd to consider. Besides, there isn’t any organization using charitable funds to campaign on behalf of me and my color-challenged fellows in state capitals or in Washington.


Under the most recent version of the Americans with Disabilities Act, neither wrestling nor boxing rings currently require any form of wheelchair access, which denies us the spectacle of seeing muscular paraplegics inflicting further harm on one another in an officiated fight. I know that some of you out there would pay to see such a thing, but you’ll have to settle for an informal wheel-to-wheel head-butting contest on the entry ramp leading into the arena. Water slides also get a pass on wheelchair access, which doesn’t make as much sense as the boxing ring waiver, unless the same principle of creating an unseemly spectacle is at work. It prevents the rise of a new summer craze at water parks around the country: bobbing for gimps.

Other than the two examples above, there aren’t many other exceptions of note to the accessibility requirements: prison guard towers, utility hatches and the like. Every other construction, new or modified, no matter its intended purpose, must allow for wheelchair access at a total cost to the country in the tens of billions. That’s a load of cash and it translates to even more money for enforcement of the Act. Your tax dollars are hard at work ensuring that restaurants, theaters and other private businesses with public egress charge you more in order to recoup the additional costs of construction dictated by the Act. The simple question in all of this: how many and how often? Is there any reliable measure that tells us that the costs involved are providing a benefit to a sufficient number of citizens? I suggest you make it into a game and play it yourself – how many people are using the stairs as opposed to the ramp or the elevator at your local library … or the movie house … or the sushi joint on Main Street? If you’re one of the unfortunate few stuck with wheels for legs, you’re bound to say “plenty,” but you don’t get to play. Your side has already said its piece and the government heard you.

Speaking of hearing, I was down in Tampa this past August and took in a baseball game at Tropicana Field. Before the game, they brought the honor guard out onto the playing field and the National Anthem began. The scoreboard screens displayed the words to the Anthem in large, bright letters and yet, there was a portly woman standing in front of the honor guard, signing the lyrics. For those of you reading this in Braille and disbelieving your fingers, allow me to repeat: the words shone in clear view to every sighted person in the stadium, and a translator (presumably paid for her effort) stood out there and repeated it all in American Sign Language. To my knowledge, it wasn’t Hearing Impaired Night at the stadium and there didn’t appear to be the thousands of deaf people in attendance. Even if there were, the words on the scoreboard stood bold and timely and it’s not as if they can sing along … most don’t know the tune!

It appears we have become a nation of enablers. There is no human condition that we aren’t compelled to make allowances for, except, perhaps, honest appraisal. The rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness should, but don’t, have boundaries. When it comes to facilities for the disabled, we have decided that equality at any price is better than applying a measuring stick of utility for individual instances. That the facility may never be used by a disabled person is apparently beside the point. We don’t want anyone to feel left behind.

I know this diatribe won’t change anything, except maybe your opinion of the writer as a decent human being, but somebody has to say it. The disabled citizens of our country received an entitlement in exchange for relieving the guilt felt by the vast majority of our population for being born, and remaining, relatively healthy. Despite this truly ambitious sacrifice in order that all people may enjoy the full range of society’s offerings, you will not find a more sour, dyspeptic and downright ornery group of people than in the ranks of our adult disabled community. Many of them would sooner tell you to eff yourself than say “good morning.” My response has evolved over the years and currently stands as this: “Fine, you take the elevator. I’ll take the stairs.”