The Height of Inaccessibility

Just to be clear: I have nothing against the wheelchair-bound. I admire anyone who can navigate the world on a set of wheels. That said, their needs and mine do sometimes get confused.

For instance, there was my freshman housing in college. Back then, you had to send in a questionnaire about your living habits and personality, which would supposedly help them choose the perfect roommate for you. I included a note on mine that mentioned that because of my vision, I had a reading device (my CCTV) that floods the room with light when you turn it on. Because of this, I asked that they make sure not to put me in a one-room double, since it would be unfair to my roommate. One-room doubles were rare, and I was perfectly happy to take the much more common two-room triple (as in, two rooms, three people). This seemed like a modest, reasonable request.

When I arrived at college, I found out that I had been assigned a single. Lots of people had requested singles, but I was not among them; I actually wanted a roommate, since I walked into college not knowing anyone. Why me? Why a single?

It took some digging, but eventually I found out that anyone who made a disability claim was automatically given a single in my dorm. Why? Because there was elevator access, and wheelchairs take up a lot of room. This meant that all of us who claimed to have disabilities, from paraplegia and MS to Stargardt's and, believe it or not, ADHD, got singles. This, despite that your average mildly-disabled college freshman would rather have people around, since social situations are among the greater challenges we tend to have. Oops.

I was reminded of this mix-up recently, when for the billionth time I had to duck down to get cash at an ATM. In a growing number of instances, when an ATM stands alone, it is at wheelchair-accessible height. I grant that this is a wonderful thing that allows the wheelchair-bound to gain access to cash on the road, but it also presents an issue for people like me: namely, the tall and partly blind. If the constant bending of my back lands me in a wheelchair, I will not be amused.

OK, maybe a little.