In 2011 I wrote this piece for an ABC website and unfortunately some recent events have proved that it’s still relevant today. I’m reposting a slightly modified version here to mark today’s International Day For People With Disability.
Thanks to Anjan Chatterjee
I’d heard the expression ‘white men can’t jump’, but last week I learnt that ‘disabled people don’t drive sports cars’ … evidently. It seemed impossible to me that not one of the two and a half million Australians who have a disability, don’t drive sports cars but there you go. Let me explain.
Last week my friend Julian and I dropped into the local shops on the way to a picnic with friends. Julian was driving. As an ACROD (disability parking permit) carrier for 23 years he made a beeline for the familiar blue parking space a short distance from the front door.
On good days he doesn’t park in the disabled bays, but on bad days like today, the twenty steps to the shopping centre front door requires the stamina of a marathon runner. Once inside he’d dive on a shopping trolley for support, then alternate between bursts of energy and periods of loitering on the closest bench, until the security guard made his presence known.
‘You ready?‘ Julian asked raising an eyebrow, a look of resignation on his face.
I nodded in agreement, steeling myself for the inevitable.
Within seconds of getting out of the car we were greeted by an icy-cold glare from a striding, fully functioning octogenarian. You’d think we’d murdered her first born.
You might assume the problem was that we walked to the front door. Yes, it’s true we walked, slowly, Julian using a walking stick that didn’t fully capture the extent of his mostly hidden disability. Yet that wasn’t the real problem. The real problem you see was the luxury sports car we disembarked from.
Three months prior Julian had entered a competition to win said sports car. In his winning entry he’d pointed out that the cars steering wheel ‘flippy gear paddle thingys’ would enable him to keep driving and thus retain his independence. Now, he was the proud owner of a fancy British Racing Green MX 5. Interestingly we’d never received this kind of hostile reaction when exiting his beaten up old Holden, a car he could no longer drive because it relied on a foot pedal clutch.
Somehow it seemed there was an unwritten law we’d overlooked. A memo we’d missed. The Eleventh Commandment: ‘Disabled people shalt not drive sports cars’, evidently.
Were there other unwritten laws we’d missed? Other things disabled people weren’t meant to do? I could go on but you get the idea, besides what happened next was even more surprising.
With our marathon shopping expedition completed, we arrived back at the car and inspected the new, fourth scratch along the cars passenger door. Four scratches in two months, maybe Julian should contact the Guinness Book of World Records.
As we were about to get into the car, a middle aged lady in a knee-length tight floral dress strode purposely up to us. Oh no we thought, both readying ourselves for the potential onslaught. Julian had become quite used to this and had prepared a speech just for said occasions. Actually one night, over one too many wines, we considered whether he should turn the speech into a rap, that way he could get royalties every time it was performed, the extra cash would certainly help round out his pension.
‘I like your car,’ smiled floral lady.
‘Pardon?’ Julian managed as we both stood dazed looking at each other.
‘Your car, I really like your car’, she explained while salivating over the bonnet, ‘I’ve always dreamt about driving one’.
Neither of us answered, unsure whether she was luring us into a false sense of security. There we were, frozen, three people staring at each other. No further comment. No deeply personal questions about what was wrong with Julian. No disparaging remarks. We waited, but no that was it. After one last look at me, Julian replied.
‘Ah thanks, yeah it’s great.’ Then strangely he found himself launching into his usual explanation, ‘Actually it’s lucky I got it because I can’t drive a normal car anymore, can’t use my left foot, see?’ He tried to move his foot to emphasize the point. ‘I won it in a competition, see.’
Julian had become so used to having to explain that he felt cheated if he didn’t get to elaborate.
‘Oh … really … I guess that would make it easier … would you mind if I looked inside, my name’s Diane by the way?’
Still weary, Julian opened the door thinking that maybe the tan leather interior was about to be slashed with a hidden knife. Instead Diane simply ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’, thanked us for letting her sit in the driver’s seat and then waved a cheery goodbye.
While it occurred to Julian that he’d obviously been watching too many crime shows, I considered what a wonderful world it would be if exceptions were always the rule. As we settled into the car we discussed some potential strategies for the future, they included whether Julian should …
- Park further away and risk passing out before getting to the shops;
- Continue using ACROD parking bays and end up with a car resembling a Jackson Pollock painting;
- Order his groceries online;
- Buy a more ‘disabled appropriate’ car;
- Invite Diane along on all future shopping trips.
Seeing the octogenarian approaching from the shops, and with our spirits lifted by our encounter with Diane, we pushed the soft top down and drove off, waving the disability parking permit defiantly in the air.
Julian has decided to take a stand and educate the public one by one about inappropriate stereotypes. It may take a while.
