Not only is July the month to celebrate America's independence with hot dogs and firecrackers—this July, in particular, happens to mark the 10th official Disability Pride Month. Although Disability Pride Month is relatively new, it was established on the 25th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), which passed in 1990.
At the time the United States was passing legislation to give and protect my rights as a person with a disability, I was just a couple of months shy of three years old. I was gaining new-found independence by taking my first delayed steps. The only thing I was concerned with was whether my little red, battery-operated Corvette had enough juice to get me to the gas station down the street so I could get my daily ice cream cone.
I hadn’t yet conceptualized what it meant to have a disability. I couldn’t comprehend the level of difficulty, the obstacles, the hardships, or the amount of willpower and effort a life like mine would require. I didn’t even know that I wasn’t born into equal opportunity. Honestly, sitting with the fact that there was little to no legislation protecting my rights at the time of my birth is quite humbling.
I don’t recall my life without the protections put in place by the ADA. I didn’t have to fight for those rights. I am privileged to be able to brush those protections into a pile of what could be called a type of nepotism. It’s easy to take for granted when you’ve never had to live without them.
This week, I had the pleasure of meeting with Whitney Mitchell of Alabama Arise. We spoke about the importance of health insurance for people like me—or more accurately, how much of a necessity it is for the quality of my life. The look on her face when she heard me say, “I am actually lucky to have a disability,” was priceless.
Having a disability isn’t for the weak, let me tell you. Though if you catch me on a good, busy day, the conscious thought train of I have a disability. I have a disability. I have a disability. isn’t running through my mind. However, on the days when my body is aching and I’m struggling to complete even basic tasks, it becomes more apparent.
Most people looking in say they admire me because they fear having my life. They can’t even imagine how I must feel.
So, why do I say I’m lucky to have a disability when I live a life that most people couldn’t even fathom?
Well, that’s simple.
I’m lucky because I’m a disabled person in the United States of America. I’m afforded the grace and opportunities to have my basic needs met. I’m given access to healthcare. I qualify for programs like SNAP, LIHEAP, and other forms of assistance that offer me peace and stability so I can live as healthily as possible.
I’m lucky that, as a disabled woman, when people complain about low-income families using government assistance, I’m not met with the same shame and stigma—because “I’m the exception,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.
I’m lucky in that I didn’t have to fight for my opportunity for fair and equal rights.
Though the current administration is undermining the very programs that help me live my life—and trying to collapse what so clearly needs expanding—I still consider myself lucky to have a disability.
My disability taught me empathy, how to push forward, how to do things my own way, how to speak louder, to do it anyway regardless of outside opinions, and to fight for the rights of all people—because someone fought for me.
Yes, July is officially Disability Pride Month. However, I am more proud of the people who are still fighting for things like healthcare, protections, and rights—because I never had to know what it felt like to live without them.