New York City, I Love You, But I Have a Disability

I want to be able to claim I believe that New York City is the best city in the world. I can recall the beautiful moments in the city where everything and everyone was so full of possibility; it’s unsurprising that the famous Frank Sinatra song still strikes an emotional chord. I’ve forged friendships through New York City, been up late at night in New York City, and found myself in love with New York City.

I’m not stating this because I was born in Los Angeles. And I’ve been there. It is like when strangers– cough, New Yorkers cough — visit my hometown, enjoy the pleasure of a decent taco and freeway experience, and feel like they can now express their opinion. I am determined to feel loved by this place because of the many ways it’s attempted to be a loving place for me. But being a woman who has cerebral palsy in New York City is incompatible with my disability.

In the past, on a day that was my own in Manhattan, I spent the day with the Met, and later, I decided to walk towards the Plaza. Before leaving, I had an internal pro-and-con debate while glancing at my phone for directions. I could ramble on my own for around 30 minutes before I needed to stop and rest, which is about the entire time this hike takes, and I decided that I would be able to relax when I arrived at the hotel. It was straight across Fifth Avenue, and since my rideshare and taxi cost grew fast, I decided to walk.

I didn’t consider that it was a balmy 18° outside. My sluggish California muscles became like a pizza slice, and every strenuous step I made jolted my body into pain. There was no bench to sit on or ledges to rest my body against. I thought about the outcome if I sat at the side of an unfinished building for a few seconds.

Then I heard the high-pitched sound of the voice of an individual a few paces away. “Blue coat! Blue coat!” he said with his hands resting on his lips and his voice booming down the street.

“Yes?” I answered.

“What are you doing? Enter here!” He was the doorman at a tall rise resembling the wedding cake and an elegant marble lobby that could be the Plaza. “Let me bring you a cup of tea. Relax,” he said about a leather seat I settled into. The woman beside me had fur and carried one of her dogs on her lap. She seemed a bit worried. “He told me he saw you from afar. Why didn’t he just call an cab?”

I could’ve gotten a cab. The doorman finally insisted I use a taxi; I’ve realized I’ll always take taxis. I’m used to bursts of resting and walking, after which I walk and then relax. I’ve walked up and down the steps of the subway dozens of times. I’m always thankful when I’m given a seat as we speed along the tracks. I’ve had numerous discussions between my body and myself, adjusting my limits and recollecting injuries that I sustained from pushing myself to the limit. Sometimes, strangers will graciously offer assistance. This is what makes my days in the city seem like split-screen. In one way, I strive to enjoy the moment and soak up the lush autumn landscape in Park Slope, summer ice creams in the West Village, and winter skating rinks located at Rockefeller Center. However, on the other hand, my surroundings constantly reveal how different I am and force me to wrestle with an aspect of my daily life that requires constant creativity.

New York City was not created to make those with disabilities feel like they were part of the general population. Even in the smallest of ways, like an entry into a shop or an inaccessible subway, this city forces my body to do the defense job. “Good luck figuring out how flights of subway stairs factor into your 30-minute walking limit,” it says. “Sure, try hailing a cab without stepping into the street,” it snarks. As eager as I am to tackle these issues, it’s exhausting. The next obstacle will always be short, so I must be prepared.

Sometimes I’ve been amazed by strangers racing to catch the train departing or drag their lunches across the steps of a bodega’s entrance in a single movement. I’d love to take Bill Cunningham-like pictures of commuters wearing heels I cannot wear, dissolving in the taxis’ backs with one smooth swoop. I am amazed at the people who can move around freely and not pay attention to all the factors that could make it difficult. But I won’t gaze down at my body while doing it and imagine that it might become something that it’s never.

It’s a lot easier to get around in cars within Los Angeles, and it was nice to know that London generally had elevators and escalators that connected to the tube during my time there. It wasn’t surprising that Japan’s famously fast trains performed up to expectations on a short layover which made me want to return. However, I did weep while traveling in Vienna’s public transportation system, where every subway stop is wheelchair-friendly, as is almost every bus or streetcar. It meant anyone could walk from one subway platform to another without any gap and ride a wide elevator up the street without the mental math or physical strain of a different route. What if the MTA could make a similar effort.?It hasn’t met all the standards under the Americans With Disabilities Act for over 30 years, even though it’s trying and has recently appointed a person to supervise the process. If this law is adhered to, this law can be beneficial to everyone, for example, if you’ve got grocery shopping, a stroller, or a leg that’s broken. Sometimes, the reason might not be required. Perhaps you didn’t feel like climbing stairs the day before.