Love Your Neighbour Through Allyship

The other week, when I took my young sons to a children’s festival at a local church, it was joyous mayhem of the best kind. 

Throngs of youngsters jumped up and slid down the most enormous bouncy slide I’ve ever seen; bopped to a band playing at full volume in the sanctuary; ate a million sugar cookies; and raced between fun activity stations.

When my sons announced they wanted balloon animals, I sighed in relief at the chance for a breather. Steering them to the back of a wonderfully long line, I began to chat with a family friend nearby. My husband and I had adopted one son just eight days before and the other five months prior, and like any new mama, I was excited to tell her all about my kids.

“Is she my wheelchair?” he asked my friend,

Suddenly, a man entered the church, his uniform identifying him as a driver for the city’s door-to-door accessible mini busses for adults with disabilities. Spotting me using a wheelchair, he made the valid-but-wrong assumption that I was the client he’d been hired to pick up. Beelining for us, he made eye contact with my friend, directing his words to her alone with nary a glance at me. With both of them at standing height, their conversation occurred a couple of feet above my head.

“Is she my wheelchair?” he asked my friend, speaking to her about me. Apparently, my wheelchair meant I lacked the capacity to answer for myself. 

My friend—who is well-versed in ableism, allyship, and advocacy as a mother of two adult daughters with disabilities—was astounded by the dehumanization of his words. Knowing I had driven my kids and self to the festival in my wheelchair-adapted van, she frostily told him no, I was not his client. It was clear from her tone she was not impressed.

It’s painful when automatic negative assumptions about capacity are made

As a person with a disability, my advice is to always assume competence. Direct your conversation to the person you have a question for, not to someone beside them. To do otherwise is rude.

While some people with disabilities do not have the ability to answer for themselves, it conveys dignity to first address that person about something related to them, even if a caregiver ultimately answers or assists in answering.

It’s painful when automatic negative assumptions about capacity are made in ways never made about people without disabilities. 

Further, always refer to the person by their name, not by their disability or related equipment. In calling me a wheelchair, the driver dehumanized me into an inanimate object; I may as well have been an inanimate suitcase or even a piece of trash he’d been hired to come pick up. 

My friend’s allyship in this experience of ableism meant much. Often it is the little things in life—the friends or strangers who stand beside you—that are most meaningful in the face of racism, ableism, ageism, homophobia, or another form of discrimination.

It’s stressful to have strangers approach in the elevator/on the street/practically anywhere and question, “what’s wrong with you?” 

Ableism is the discrimination, stigmatization, reduced equity, or non-inclusion of people with disabilities. It can be big or small. 

Meanwhile, to be an ally (allyship) is when a person from a non-marginalized group stands in solidarity and support with those in an often marginalized or vulnerable group.

While I don’t see myself as vulnerable, I know that in the eyes of many, due to my disability, I am vulnerable and marginalized. The first (and sometimes only) thing people notice when they meet me is that I use mobility equipment and an AAC communication device.

It’s demoralizing and tiring facing ableism on an ongoing basis. It’s frustrating encountering buildings that only have stairs (or one step at the front door). It’s infuriating to be stared at. It’s stressful to have strangers approach in the elevator/on the street/practically anywhere and question, “what’s wrong with you?” 

What I need is an ally who stands beside me in small allyship, like my friend at the festival.

It’s embarrassing to order a burger in a restaurant only to have the waitress ask my husband (or even my child) if I want fries too. It’s tough to swallow that I have to work incredibly hard to be seen on an even playing field as other women my age. This is why small allyship is critical. I don’t really need you to do something big like organize a rally for the inclusion of people with disabilities (although all power to you if you do). What I need is an ally who stands beside me in small allyship, like my friend at the festival.

This might include noticing when your workplace or church is non-accessible—and advocating for this to change. It means listening to and following the lead of people with disabilities and being willing to serve beneath them at times. It means having a mind and heart oriented to equity and justice. 

To be an ally is to see, include, stand by, listen, love, befriend, respect, value, learn from, and treat people on the same equitable footing as you treat others. In short, to be an ally is one way to live out our Christian calling in Mark 12:31 to love our neighbours.

Photo by Skylar Zilka on Unsplash