After my near-fatal crash in 2008, I was told that I would make a “full recovery”. What they didn’t realize at the time was that somewhere amongst the mess of initial damage, surgery, and recovery, I sustained significant nerve damage to my femoral and saphenous nerves on my right leg.
Once we realized that this damage to my nerves was around for the long haul, and that it was being made worse by walking more than a couple of blocks or standing for more than 5 minutes, a chair was prescribed. At first, it was a manual chair. It quickly became clear that I couldn’t maneuver a manual chair on my own due to the severe carpal tunnel syndrome I also sustained during my crash and/or surgical aftermath.
Unfortunately, finding wheelchair-accessible housing is damn near impossible, so it was several more years before I found housing that allowed me to get a power chair so I could get around independently. What a life changer it’s been!
So, with all that preamble out of the way, here are some lessons that my power chair has taught me.
Lesson 1: Autonomy has weight and texture.
My chair became my freedom, not my restriction. I’ve learned to take joy in my soft, leather seat. I revel in the soft whir of my motor as I speed along an empty sidewalk or park path. I find pleasure and excitement in the careful movement of my joystick (aka lovesick), as it moves sharply at the slightest touch. It has an edge of danger with its weight and speed. It embodies pleasure and fear.
Lesson 2: I deserve to move at my own pace.
I’ve learned to slow down without apology and speed up when I choose. I embrace crip time in all its contradictions and mind-warping possibilities. I’m empowered to ignore the world’s urgency and position my pace as a boundary against the enforced efficiency of a capitalistic society.
Lesson 3: The world reveals itself through inaccessibility.
My chair pulls back the curtain, revealing the true inaccessibility of the world around me. There are barriers hidden in plain sight and architectural violence. At the same time, I become acutely aware of those spaces that make an effort to welcome me and my chair. This access intimacy is invaluable.
Lesson 4: Taking up space is a skill, not a sin.
My chair is big. It takes up a lot of room, physically and psychologically. People notice when I’m around. It’s helped me to learn how to take up space without apology. I allow myself to occupy my full dimensions.
Lesson 5: People’s reactions are about them, not me.
My chair is a magical social mirror. I notice when people step aside to make room for me, who panics, who pretends not to see me, and who recognizes me with warmth and understanding. I’m simply existing. It’s others who have to figure out how to be in community with me.
Lesson 6: Control is its own kind of pleasure.
There is no small satisfaction in expertly maneuvering around tight corners and speeding through smooth curves. Between quick accelerations and sudden stops, there is joy and sensuality of maneuvering at will through space and time.
Lesson 7: Rest is part of motion.
Conversely, the freedom of my chair has taught me the value of rest outside of it. There are times when I choose to walk with my cane instead, usually in spaces where my chair isn’t welcome. I’ve learned how to pace myself, pause, and redistribute my energy. My chair allows me to rest by choice rather than collapse.
Lesson 8: Technology can be an integral part of my crip aesthetic.
I don’t have to settle for a plain black power chair. I can cover it in rhinestones and spikes. There are LED lights that can make my undercarriage glow. I get to choose the colors and textures of this extension of my body.
My power chair continues to teach me. It is my companion and shapes who I am. It helps me live more gracefully with my impairments, even as it exposes the barriers placed in their path. I am not “wheelchair-bound”, I am freedom embodied on wheels.
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