My response flipped a small switch. My colleague didn’t want to verbalize her gut reaction because it now seemed offensive. I knew I don’t look like what my colleague thought someone with a disability should look like. She didn’t have to say words like “wheelchair,” “cane,” “oxygen tank,” or “hearing aid” for me to get her point. I’ve heard that labels are for jars, not people. As someone who never adhered to fashion advice, I never could afford the labels anyway.
I wear the disability brand, and I look like me. I embrace it as an opportunity to educate.
The best way I know how to do this is by explaining my job, which is directly responsible for my immersion in disability advocacy. I work for Accessibility Partners, a business that works with client organizations and government agencies to make their technology more accessible to end-users with disabilities. When we test for accessibility, we tell our clients that there is no “typical” user, and that’s a lesson we’ve also taken to heart in our own policy. Our corporate structure is heterogeneous: a collage of people who identify as having all types of disabilities. We know that there is no “one-size-fits-all” accommodation process. Disability is our uniform at Accessibility Partners, but it fits each person uniquely.