I’m ‘Too Young to be Disabled’

But I was born like this

Disability is something our society mostly associates with the elderly. From walkers with tennis balls on the bottom to full-time attendant care, we accept that disability is a fact of life for older people.

With young people, however, we have many different expectations.

Many disabled teens and young adults, particularly those with invisible disabilities, face constant skepticism about their disability. They’re accused of faking their condition because they’re “too young to be disabled,” as if life really cares how old you are.

I’ve mostly been shielded from this kind of treatment. After all, no one really questions the girl with the full-length leg braces and the 400-pound wheelchair. There was one instance, however, where I was accused of faking my disability, and it nearly led to physical violence.

Every spring semester of my high school experience was dominated by our state’s one-act play competition. Rehearsals began as soon as the semester started in January, and in March we competed our show in zone, district, and bi-district competitions (we never made it any farther than that).

On competition days we would attend our first two classes, and then we’d load up the bus with all our costumes and props. After dropping this stuff off at the competition venue, we’d get lunch and go to Walmart to get any food props needed. Students would also stock up on snacks, as we usually didn’t return to our school until 10:00 at night.

When I was involved, these trips never went smoothly.

When you’re relying on special education buses and paraprofessionals, something’s going to go wrong.

On this particular day, we got all our stuff to the competition venue without incident. All costume racks were in the dressing room, every prop had been accounted for, and fake weapons had been checked in with the competition director. We headed back out to the buses to go to lunch when disaster struck.

The special education bus was gone.

Apparently, the bus driver was told that we wouldn’t need them again until we went back to the school that night, so they were off doing their pre-kindergarten run. We’d had issues with the buses before, but this time was different.

This time, they weren’t coming back.

I was upset, to say the least. Not only was I stressed about how I’d get lunch or the snacks I’d planned to buy at Walmart, but I couldn’t believe that this was happening again.

Once again, I was the cause of a massive inconvenience. Once again, our whole group was delayed because of me. Once again, the trip would’ve been smoother if they’d left me behind.

Our only options available were for me to stay behind and have someone bring me food, or for me to be put in one of my teachers’ cars and driven there. I’d have to leave my wheelchair behind, but I still chose to go in my teacher’s car. Competition day was supposed to be fun, and I wanted to be with my friends.

My friend Ed picked me up and put me in the passenger’s seat of my teacher’s car (having a football player in theater was very useful). When we got to the restaurant, he carried me inside and put me in a booth. Aside from a very annoyed woman who was kicked in the head by my foot, lunch went smoothly.

Walmart was a different story. I asked Ed to put me in one of those motorized shopping carts so I could get around on my own. Three of my friends and I hit up the produce and snack pack areas to get food for later.

We then headed to the linen section, as one of my friends had to put clown white in his hair for the show, and he forgot to bring a towel so he could wash it out after.

Using this electric shopping cart was aggravating. The thing moved at a snail’s pace, and my friends kept having to stop and wait for me to catch up. It also beeped really loudly whenever I backed up, inviting everyone in the vicinity to gape at the sideshow that was me trying to maneuver through the store.

In the towel section, my friends and I tried to talk our friend looking for a towel into buying this Paw Patrol branded one. We weren’t being overly loud, but we were laughing and enjoying ourselves.

Then the Walmart employee showed up.

I don’t know how long this man watched us before beginning his confrontation. It couldn’t have been long because he clearly didn’t see my friend open my drink for me. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t consider why she did that.

The employee told us that the electric shopping carts weren’t toys and were only to be used by people who needed them. I told him that I knew that, and that I was using it because I couldn’t walk.

The man scoffed, asking if I thought I was the first teen to try that one on him. My friends tried to back me up, but this guy wasn’t having it.

I was at a loss. How do I prove my disability to this Walmart employee?

My leg braces, normally the most obvious sign that I’m disabled, were covered by the thick stockings I wore for the show. Aside from my general ragdoll-ness, which could look like teenage/puberty growth spurt awkwardness at first glance, I had nothing.

What could I do? Should I find the x-rays of my back my mom posted from my surgery two years before, showing the two metal rods fused to my spine?

Should I show him my party trick where I pop my thumbs in and out of socket or pull up my shirt and show him my feeding tube?

Should I get my friend to take her backpack out from behind me so he can watch me flop over?

Should I just attempt to get out of the store as soon as possible?

Then the man grabbed my arm. I became terrified that I was about to be pulled out of the cart. On one hand, I’d be able to prove my disability. On the other hand, I’d definitely faceplant.

One of my friends tried to put himself between the employee and me. He was a big guy who could be somewhat intimidating, though the Paw Patrol towel wasn’t helping. My other friends continued arguing with the employee, trying to convince him I was really disabled. Nothing seemed to be working, though.

Just as the employee tightened his grip on my arm, my teacher came around the corner, having heard the argument from the next aisle. With absolutely no hesitation, my teacher told the man to get his hands off me using this booming, commanding voice from his military days.

I’d only heard him use this voice once before when he watched a boy grab the breast of a girl during a game in theater class, so I knew he was pissed.

The Walmart employee backtracked quickly.

I guess he didn’t feel as confident with my teacher as he had with four high school students. My teacher asked the man if we were being a nuisance to other shoppers, and when the man said no, he told him we had every right to use the cart.

The man apologized as he left, saying he thought I was too young to be disabled. We left as quickly as we could, the playful atmosphere from before completely gone.

I don’t know what made this man so confident that I was lying. Maybe he figured four teenagers looking at towels must be up to shenanigans. Maybe he thought a real disabled person would bring their own wheelchair. Maybe he really thinks there’s an age requirement for being disabled.

That incident has stuck with me for years now. I’ve always been pretty obviously disabled, and it’s scary that the one time my disability was somewhat hidden, I wasn’t believed. It’s also crazy to me that anyone would think I’m too young to be disabled because I’ve never known anything different.

I hope you enjoyed this story I wrote for The Memoirist’s contest. Check out the other amazing entries, especially How a Turtle Saved Christmas by Kristine Laco. It’s incredibly heartwarming and has such a sweet ending.

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