Ableism is discrimination, prejudice, or unfair treatment toward people with disabilities, often based on the belief that non-disabled people are more capable, valuable, or “normal.” Almost everyone in our society displays some form of ableism, from those who proudly proclaim “survival of the fittest” to those who are much more empathetic and believe accessibility is essential, as long as it does not cost too much or inconvenience society too much.
What I want to discuss today, however, is the ableism that exists among people with disabilities, as well as among those who do not have a disability. I think this is something we are much less willing to talk about, perhaps because we assume that having a disability somehow makes us immune from being ableist ourselves.
Sometimes it takes a fairly simple form. A person who uses a wheelchair may insist, quite rightly, that ramps are essential and should be available everywhere, but then question why every accessible restroom should need an adult changing table or a lift when those things can be extremely expensive and only a percentage of people in wheelchairs need them. Someone else may say that they absolutely need accessible parking because they cannot walk very far, but then wonder why someone who has a full-time caregiver needs an accessible parking space when they already have someone there to help them.
In both cases, the accommodation I need seems perfectly reasonable because I understand exactly why I need it. The accommodation someone else needs can seem excessive because I have never experienced the disability that makes it necessary. Having a caregiver does not mean that a person no longer needs accessible parking. That caregiver may be transferring the person from the vehicle, unloading a wheelchair or other equipment, physically assisting the person into the building, or dealing with needs that are not obvious to the person watching from across the parking lot.
There are also much more insidious forms of ableism within the disability community. People with physical disabilities are often very vocal about the need for physical access, while sometimes being far less understanding about accommodations for people who are neurodivergent. Someone may completely understand the necessity of a wheelchair ramp while questioning why someone with autism needs sensory accommodations, or why someone with ADHD might need an accommodation at school or at work. That prevalent “I’m normal, but they aren’t” mindset seems to be deeply ingrained in us as human beings.
The same thing can happen when a person with a physical disability questions accommodations for someone with a psychiatric disability, or when someone with one type of disability questions the amount of money, care, or resources devoted to people who are so profoundly physically or cognitively disabled that they may never be able to work, live independently, or participate in many of the activities that most of us consider part of everyday life.
I think much of this comes back to the way we have been taught to measure the value of another human being. We place tremendous value on independence, productivity, employment, education, and achievement. We admire the disabled person who manages to work despite enormous obstacles, and we celebrate the person who “doesn’t let their disability stop them.” There is nothing wrong with celebrating those accomplishments, but there is something wrong when we begin to believe that the person who cannot accomplish those things is somehow less valuable or less deserving.
This is where the subject becomes uncomfortable for me personally, because the more I have thought about ableism, the more I have recognized some of it in myself. I have been physically disabled since birth, but I was raised to believe that I was not disabled and that, if I tried hard enough, I could do anything anyone else could do. For most of my childhood, I managed to live that way, although not always successfully. As I got older my disability progressed, and some things became more difficult, my philosophychanged to, “I may have to do it a different way, but I’ll get it done.” That worked for a very long time, too, until eventually there were things that I simply could not do, no matter how determined I was or how many different ways I tried to accomplish them.
I have also worked with people with intellectual disabilities, and I have always believed that they deserved the opportunity and support necessary to live the fullest lives they could and to thrive. However, when I really examine my own thinking, did I always see their contribution to society as being every bit as valuable as the contribution of a physically disabled person who could still work, earn a paycheck, raise a family, or have a successful career? I would like to automatically answer yes, but I am not sure that would be completely truthful.
Even that, however, is not the full extent of what I have begun to recognize in myself.
In my late 50s, I reached the point where I could no longer work, and I applied for and received SSDI. Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) requires a sufficient work history and the payment of Social Security taxes, and I cannot tell you how fervently I have said over the years that SSDI is not a handout, but an insurance program that I paid into throughout my working life. That statement is absolutely true, but recently I started thinking about why it has always been so important to me to say it.
Why did I feel the need to make sure people understood that I had worked for my disability benefits? Why was it important to distinguish myself from someone receiving SSI, which provides benefits to people who are aged, blind, or disabled and who have very limited income and resources? When I say, “I worked for mine,” what am I unintentionally saying about the person who receives SSI?
That person may have been born with a disability that prevented them from ever establishing a substantial work history. They may have become seriously disabled as a young adult, before they had enough time to earn the work credits necessary for SSDI. Their disability may have interfered with their education and employment from the very beginning of their adult life.
Does the fact that I was fortunate enough to be able to work for decades before becoming too disabled to continue somehow make me more deserving of help than the person who never had that opportunity?
I do not believe that it does, but I am beginning to recognize that some of the language I have used over the years suggests that, somewhere along the way, I absorbed that message too. I didn’t see it before, but now I do.
Ableism is not something that exists only in the non-disabled community, and it is not practiced only by people who are deliberately cruel or dismissive toward disabled people. Every one of us carries assumptions and prejudices that have been part of our culture for generations, including those of us who are disabled ourselves. We can be passionate advocates for the accommodations we need while still failing to understand the needs of someone whose disability looks completely different from our own.
Just as we learned these prejudices, however, we can unlearn them, and I think the starting point is simply being willing to acknowledge that we have them. We can begin paying attention when we find ourselves deciding that someone else’s accommodation is excessive, questioning whether another person’s disability is severe enough, or measuring someone’s value according to how much they can work, earn, accomplish, or contribute.
I will start by acknowledging it in myself. I have spent my entire life with a disability, I have advocated for people with disabilities, and I have genuinely believed that people with disabilities deserve the same opportunities, respect, dignity, and quality of life as everyone else. None of that means I have somehow escaped absorbing the ableism that exists throughout our culture.
What will I do with that self-knowledge? I wish I could give you a profound answer, but I can’t. I suspect that recognizing our own prejudices doesn’t make them disappear overnight. It simply gives us the opportunity to notice them, question them, and hopefully begin changing them.
Only time will tell how successful I will be, but at least now I recognize that they are there.
Living ‘On Disability’ Certainly isn’t Living the High Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life
Can I or Should I? Living With Disability, Risk, and Hard Choices – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life
The Difference Between Surviving and Living – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life
