You’ve Probably Seen Me Around Campus

I am a disabled student at Smith College. This identity shapes my daily life because Smith’s campus simply was not built for disabled people.

You’ve probably seen me around campus. I walk slowly, my purple cane hitting the pavement in front of me—a dull clunk followed by a slight metallic rattle. I am weighed down by my things. A gray backpack and a purple over-the-shoulder bag contain everything I may need in a day: my laptop, my medications, packets of electrolyte powder, my trusty collapsible stool, and much more. My eyes perpetually scan the ground looking for bumps, cracks, patches of ice, puddles, and anything else that may trip me and send me crashing to the pavement.

Every morning I must think about where I need to go that day, how to get there, and how to save up enough energy to get there—with enough left to participate in class, eat three full meals, do homework, and, if possible, spend some time with friends.

I always leave for class 15 minutes before the scheduled start time. It takes me five to 10 minutes to travel between Chapin House, where I live, and Seelye Hall, where most of my classes are. Exactly how long it will take I never know. It depends on which of my joints are aching, if it’s raining or icy, or if something happens to be blocking the path. If my class is not on the first floor, I must also factor in the wait time for the elevator, which can be significant. Luckily, I have not had a class in a room without elevator access.

Once I get to class, I have to stand in the hallway until the room is free— another five to 10 minutes. Depending on where I am, there may be a bench I can sit on. This is essential because if I stand for too long, I might faint. Standing, walking, and sitting without my legs propped up can cause blood to pool in my legs, arms, and abdomen, drawing blood away from my brain, causing fatigue, brain fog, low blood pressure, palpitations, excessive sweating, and more.

THERE ARE MANY BUILDINGS ON CAMPUS THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO. Recently, I had to meet some people for an interview in Sabin-Reed Hall, a science building. Because I had never had a class in this building, I had no clue how to enter, let alone find the most accessible entrance. I walked to one door of this huge mass of brick and attempted to enter. But no, the door read “exit only.” I walked around to the side facing Neilson Library. The building read “Burton Hall.” There was nothing to indicate that Burton was connected to Sabin-Reed and that I only had to walk around a huge circular column to get where I needed to go. So, once again, I exited into the cold. I walked around to the other side of Sabin-Reed, which faces McConnell Hall—another building I wouldn’t know how to navigate— and finally found the door I was looking for. Of course, it was up a flight of steps. Luckily, steps are not a huge problem for me. I can go up and down them, but they are exhausting, so I avoid them whenever possible.

I finally got to the interview—late, of course. Being physically disabled has forced me into a reluctant acceptance that I will be chronically late. The interview concerned a participatory mapping project to track campus accessibility, a project set up by faculty in the environmental science and policy and statistical and data sciences departments. I was one of the contributors to the map, and I had been asked to provide feedback on the project and where I see a lack of accessibility on campus. When I was asked which spaces are most accessible and comfortable for me, I realized that, outside of my own room, there is not a single space on campus that accommodates me as it currently exists.

This is why I spend weekends in my house and rarely go elsewhere except to get food. Unless I am required to go to another location, I would prefer to stay where I feel most comfortable—even if that means my social life suffers.

For me, the choice on weekends and evenings is between going somewhere with friends and feeling terrible versus isolating myself in my room to take care of myself and get my homework done. This is not to say that I don’t have friends or don’t enjoy spending time with them. However, learning to be alone most of the time is easier than constantly having to explain myself to others. Putting my health last in a misguided attempt to please others means suffering for it later.

When I must explain myself to others, it’s hard not to feel like I’m a burden—something I already struggle with. But there are some people, mostly my disabled friends, who don’t need me to explain myself to them. It’s easier to spend time with them and not worry.

When I choose to venture out of my room, I feel your eyes on me like magnets. I feel you wondering—wondering why I use a cane, why I need an accessible parking space, why I walk slowly, why I sit down all the time, why I lean against the wall while waiting for the elevator, why I use a stool to prop up my feet during class, why I still wear a mask.

Without things like my cane and my collapsible stool, I wouldn’t look disabled. But I also wouldn’t be able to function on a daily basis and take a full load of classes, meaning I wouldn’t be able to exist at Smith College.

I’ve seen you looking with your curious eyes, a paranoia that may be slightly heightened by my social anxiety. I imagine your need to place me into a category, one that is simple and easy to understand.

When I was younger and unaware of my chronic illness, the word “disability” brought to my mind older people in declining health who become isolated and confined to nursing homes, or people who live with their parents or in a group home all their life. I imagine that I break those expectations for people, especially those who don’t know any disabled people. To them, dis/ability is binary; it either applies or does not apply to all aspects of life.

But that’s not the extent of dis/ability. The word “disabled” encompasses a huge group of people who have diverse lives and abilities not only in their limitations but also in their possibilities. Disabled activist and poet Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha’s poem “Crip Fairy Godmother” is a message to “baby crip[s]” about the power of disabled people and the disabled community. They write:
“Disability is adaptive, interconnected, tenacious, voracious, slutty, silent, raging, / life giving / We are crip Earthseed / but we are not going anywhere... / We prove them all wrong / Even death is different here / not a failure / but a glittery cosmos. / What can I do? / I can breathe sky into the spaces of my spasming spine / I can eat Fritos and watch an entire series on Netflix with no shame / I organize my whole community without ever leaving my bed... / I can see my vulnerability / not as a crime”

From your perspective, I exist between the categories of able-bodied and disabled. And it’s true that sometimes I don’t need my cane to get around; sometimes I don’t need to use the elevator instead of the stairs; sometimes I may even be able to go into town and back without using my car. But using my cane, elevators, and my car means I can do something else with the energy I have saved. The few times I have walked into town, I had to lie down and stay in bed for the rest of the day as soon as I got back. Using these tools helps me maximize my possibilities rather than constantly be hindered by my limitations.

BECAUSE THE NEEDS OF DISABLED PEOPLE ARE SO VARIED, it is hard to accommodate them all—especially without input and feedback from disabled people themselves, which often requires us to do the work of making spaces accessible ourselves or convincing others to make necessary changes. Disabled people should not be the only ones putting effort into making spaces accessible. Yet we are often the ones who do this work, either directly or indirectly.

At Smith, there is a group called Dis-Organizing—an advocacy and support group for disabled students. You may have heard of us. We began just last year and have been working to make Smith a more accessible place for disabled students in a variety of ways.

So far, we have not had a lot of success fixing the physical accessibility problems on campus. It’s a slow process, and we must move at our own pace. During the academic year, we only meet twice a week. We all have heavy class loads, extracurricular activities, personal problems, and varying energy levels. We’re also trying to work within the confines of a slow-moving and complex administrative system.

I cannot speak for my fellow Dis-Organizers, but I tire of this work easily. I regularly feel burned out and frustrated, or I get distracted by other things going on in my life. Sometimes I simply don’t have the energy to get you to care about cracks in the sidewalks, out-of-order elevators, or door buttons that don’t work. Sometimes it’s easier for me to just stay in my room and worry about problems with simple solutions.

Because, honestly, I don’t want to worry about these things. Classes, adulting, and my own well-being are the stresses that should fill my mind. It should not be occupied by the broken elevator in Comstock House, the lack of reflective tape on the campus center steps, or potentially losing the single accessible parking lot by Chapin House to a new building. And yet I do worry about all of these things and more because I know fixing even one of those problems could make a huge difference to at least one person on campus who is tired of not having their needs met, tired of fighting against a campus that isn’t accessible to them, and most of all tired of using their limited energy to fix something that few others seem to care about.

To ease some of our burden, I ask that you shift your curious eyes from me to the spaces you occupy on campus. As you move through these spaces, think about whether an accessible entrance is clearly marked, whether it is truly accessible, whether there is an elevator in the building you are in or a place to sit in a hallway outside your classroom. Check if there is a button to open the outside door or doors of your house; if so, test to see if it works. Think about the people around you and take their needs into account as well as your own. When you are leading others, ask them if they would prefer to take the elevator or the stairs even if they don’t look disabled. In crowded or small rooms, ask those around you if they would prefer you to wear a mask, especially if they are wearing a mask.

While masks, broken elevators, and lack of door buttons may seem trivial to you, they matter to disabled students like me. Barriers to accessibility limit participation in campus life, leaving disabled students isolated and constantly struggling for better access. When people who are not directly impacted by these barriers begin to notice them, it’s more likely they will be removed and rectified. This would not only benefit disabled people but everyone who visits, works, lives, and learns at Smith.

This essay won a first-place prize in the public writing category of the 2024 Amplify Competition, a program of Smith’s Wurtele Center for Leadership.