***

Even barring disability, my college career so far has not been completely “orthodox.” I started the year at one school — to which I had applied as Early Decision — changed my mind about what major I’d pursue more times than I can count, transferred to another university as a sort of rash decision, and only now am I certain what path I want to go down in my educational career. Throughout this convoluted journey that I call freshman year, however, there has been a consistent, underlying theme: For as much as I would like to pretend my wheelchair does not exist, society — and especially higher education — reminds me not only that it exists, but it has a profound impact on the way I am viewed and treated.

My first semester of college began at what I’ll just call a small, liberal-arts college. I arrived at small, liberal-arts college in late August, optimistic but already a tad jaded and unsure as to what I may experience there. Earlier that year, in the midst of committing to the college, I had discovered that my choice to apply Early Decision had barred me from several scholarship opportunities; nevertheless, I decided the school was affordable and any attempt to back out would be legally, socially, and academically tedious, if not impossible. (I mention this to warn future college students: Do NOT apply Early Decision, no matter how much you love a school!) Thus, I decided to make the best of it, even moving in a week early to participate in a “pre-orientation” program. A week later, with the encouragement of my new friend group, I decided to run in my class’ election as class president. I won, seemingly in part due to my campaign slogan, “roll with me.” (Later in the semester, I had dinner with a rabbi as part of an event on the role of religion in the presidential election, and he asked me if that was “some sort of sexual innuendo.” His wife explained on my behalf, “no, it’s because he’s in a wheel-chair.”)

The semester goes on, and surprisingly the professors here (except for one) seem not to pay much notice to my wheelchair. I had heard horror stories of students in wheelchairs who received comments from professors such as, “I’ve never taught a student in a wheelchair before,” or being asked if they could perform a particular academic task (when such was not in doubt for other, non-disabled, students). What does become obvious — and bothersome — is the social and physical barriers faced throughout the first semester.

Socially, I was prepared yet unprepared for stigmatization; while I had dealt with it my whole life, I had naïvely hoped it would subside in college. Surely, I’m now showing the world I’m an “adult,” I’m surrounded by “adults,” and as “adults” things such as mobility devices or different abilities don’t matter. Well, I was wrong. The ways in which it did matter manifested in various ways — some big, some small. Some of the bigger ones were not being able to go to every place I wanted to with my new friends (and subsequently being told it’s bothersome, though understandable, how this is the case) because I can’t use most cars. It’s going along a sidewalk without a curb with your friends and watching them walk two blocks away, not noticing your absence. It’s being patronized by strangers on the street saying how they would like a ride. (I consider it a convoluted form of catcalling.) And then, it’s — as the first permanent user of a wheelchair to attend a school — constantly having to fight to make campus facilities and grounds more accessible.

Up until the time I decided to transfer, my previous school was on a surface level very good about seeking ways to accommodate for me. I volunteered as class president to write a report on how the school could approve its adherence to ADA standards (which should’ve been completed half a decade ago, by law, but anyway). I pointed out things such as how doors to dorms and academic buildings should open automatically; that some dorm buildings — in which some of my friends lived — didn’t have elevators, which risked making students who couldn’t climb stairs feeling or actually being socially excluded; that sidewalks were at points dangerously unpaved and risky for people relying on wheelchairs or walkers. There was a litany of issues, which I wrote about happily. But I got to a point where I began feeling tired. I felt tired not only because was it not my obligation to point these things out (again, legally, this should’ve been done many years ago), but also because I feared that the school was doing this exclusively for me. I didn’t want to be the reason my school followed the law. I also fought so that any student could attend that school, no matter their ability, and even if I could get by without the accommodations they slowly got started on, I wanted it so that any student that attended in the future would only have to worry about thriving, not just navigating around. And finally, I didn’t want administration to view me as a burden because of this — and my worst fear in this regard was later confirmed.

All this in mind, the idea of transferring slowly started creeping into my mind, but I told myself that I had good friends and good enough opportunities. Both ideas sort of fell apart around mid-November. First, the friend thing. Long story short and a ton of drama cut out, there was a falling out and I was oddly okay with it. However, shortly after, I started associating with a new friend group, but by this point I had lost any sense of fear of being alone or of attachment to other people. But, in a way, it was my falling in with this new group that led to my decision to transfer.

I was meeting with these new friends in the library some week towards the end of November and they had introduced me to one of their photographer friends. She took a few pictures of me, for free — I’m assuming to build her portfolio — and asked for some different, basic poses. After the impromptu photoshoot, we talked about school and life and how everyone has thoughts of transferring and I stopped and thought to myself, unexpectedly intensely, about the possibility of transferring. I looked at a few schools online, and simply went, “eh, no. Not for me.”

It just so happened the next day I met with a professor of mine to go over some personal matters, including pending academic opportunities. I was also discussing with him at this point the idea of perhaps triple-majoring, which he said he knew I was capable of. Then, a colleague of his walks into his office; my professor introduces us warmly to the other and speaks of me in the highest terms. He then moves onto telling the professor that just walked in about my idea of triple-majoring. This professor then says, in a slightly condescending tone, “Oh I don’t know. That’s a lot of work cut out for you. I wouldn’t be so sure.” Confused — as he knows nothing about me! — I simply respond, “Well, I’m always up for a challenge.” Now, while I can’t confirm that this comment was based on my disability and any preconceived notions this professor must have about the disabled, I later told some of my friends about this encounter, and described the comment as “condescending,” to which my friends showed dismay: This professor was never condescending towards or dismissive of students’ academic or personal ideas. In any case — whether or not it was tied to some stereotype about my disability — I was rather indignant that this professor who had never met me or known my academic work could assume on the spot what I was and was not capable of. Thus, just as my attachment to social links had disappeared, so had mine to academic ones.

I finish out the semester and do so with good grades and high spirits. Though I no longer felt “attachment” to my school or pride in it, I had every intention of going back for spring semester. I had even signed up for a program to help out with international student orientation.

I go home for Christmas and enjoy the time to reflect. I read some, start studying Russian (as part of a quasi-dare with my sister that I would if Trump won the election). I even plan a run for student body president. Then randomly, one night in the car as my mom is driving me from a pizza place I had gone to to meet up with some high school friends, I blurt out that I really didn’t like the school I was at. She said, “so transfer,” as though it had been so obvious this whole time. I then unloaded all the things that were annoying me, that upset me, that made me feel marginalized, and then it just seemed crystal clear I was in the wrong place.

I started looking at schools still accepting transfer applications, and the vast majority of them only were accepting them for the upcoming school year and not spring semester. The one exception to this was what I’ll call large, state flagship university. Inexplicably, I got the feeling I should just go for it, so I scheduled a visit and submitted my application an hour after getting home from the visit. Within a week, I’m accepted and matriculated as a large, state flagship university student.

Though, one thing lingers in the air — I’m still enrolled at small, liberal-arts college at this point.

A few hours after submitting my application to large, state flagship university, I nervously pen out emails: One to my advisor explaining briefly my decision, and one to some administrator expressing my desire to withdraw. My advisor responds the next day, a Saturday, saying he whole-heartedly supported my decision and wanted what was best for my academic future. This was a relief to me, as my advisor and I had a very good relationship and I was upset at the idea of disappointing him or negating any academic investment he had put into me.

The response I received from administration was not only different, but also affirmed my decision to leave. The Tuesday after I sent the email declaring my intention to withdraw, I was asked to partake in a phone interview to discuss my decision. I received every — and I mean every — talking point that I expected: “This is such a shocker, you’re the class president; you did so well your first semester here; you seemed so enthusiastic.” I didn’t say much to counter this: I’m usually a non-combative and unassuming person. I acknowledged their statements and non-committedly agreed I’d reconsider my decision. But then, the other part that I was expecting came: “And, you had signed up as an international student guide. I know the directors of that program had made special accommodations so that you could participate.” Ah, the “you’re-in-a-wheelchair-and-we-made-accommodations-for-you” guilt trip. I also knew this was not truly about the international orientation event, because, if it were, they would have simply mentioned that they would now need to find someone else — that aspect of it was never mentioned.

In any case, the remark was clever: It was masked as to not really appear to be about the wheelchair, but not only was it obviously about the wheelchair, but it was also a veiled swipe at all the other accommodations the college had made throughout the semester. You know, the ones they were legally required to do anyway. I end the call shortly thereafter, and upon being told, “we would like an official decision in writing,” I waste no time in penning my response — which, in part, included:

I would like to conclude by expressing that I felt it was highly inappropriate for you to mention the fact that [person] […] had made accommodations so that I could serve as an international student guide. Though I do appreciate the effort that [person] put in, and regret any trouble that would now be “unnecessary,” it is wrong to tell or insinuate to anyone that their legal and rightful prerogative to pursue new opportunities is inconsiderate; while [small, liberal-arts college] and all institutions have a legal and moral obligation to provide accommodations for every student, I am under no particular obligation not to pursue opportunities as they become available. It is insulting to suggest that I am indebted because a legal obligation was met — especially considering [small, liberal-arts college]’s subpar adherence to ADA standards. I fail to understand why this comment was even made to me, other than to guilt me on the basis of my disability. Any chance I had of returning to [small, liberal-arts college] vanished after this point in the exchange.

(And by the way, I did contact the coordinator of international student orientation, and they saw no problem with my decision, wishing me the best: Another piece of evidence, in my mind, that this was not the true intent behind the statement.)

A few days after submitting my withdrawal letter, I went to my dorm room to get my belongings and officially move out. No one was really there, as it was the middle of winter break at this point. However, there was some janitorial staff on the grounds, doing maintenance work. One of them recognized me — we had before said “hello” on a few occasions — and remarked that he heard I was transferring. (I guess it was the buzz around campus at this time.) I confirmed the rumor, and he said, “Well, I wish you all the best. You know, you really paved the way for some other student with a disability to attend this school. You may have been the first, but now you won’t be the last.” Stunned by his heartfelt remark, I wished him farewell and thanked him both for his work and his remark.

That debacle resolved, I went onto large, state flagship university and begin my studies in early February. The social atmosphere is markedly different, as it is a larger school and getting “lost in the crowd,” so to speak, is much easier.

As I started the semester, I began to notice a disturbing trend in the way some of my peers treated me. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t established or proven myself — at my old school, I did this by winning an insignificant election — but in any case, I noticed a marked shift in the way I was addressed. In my Russian class for example, I was doing partner work, and my partner asks me in a talking-down sort of tone if I needed her to explain some grammar topic. No — I neither needed it nor did I ask. (And I have not noticed her offer this sort of help to other students in the time since.) In my French class, I received giggles and scorn because I said the number 31 as ‘trois et un’, which in French is 3-and-1 (31 is actually trente et un). A disproportionate amount of attention focused on a disproportionately small error. (It was the first day, after all.) Fortunately, as the semester went on, these sort of incidents subsided, likely because I focused really hard on proving myself and asserting myself.

These sort of minor instances — which some sociologists may call “micro-aggressions,” but really, I just call them “being a jerk” — come with some key points. The single biggest problem is that all of them are too small to point out in the moment they occur, but their psychological toll is far from small. What if I’m just looking too much into it? What if I truly deserve to be spoken to this way? What if in the moment that I’m writing about them right now, I’m being too “whiny”? To point it out and to call it out seems like too much of a gamble — maybe the set of circumstances truly is fortuitous. But then I have to look and see that the vast majority of people are not spoken to in this manner. In any case, it adds to the burden of those with disabilities (or whoever may be on the receiving end of such comments), by making them feel that they must prove themselves twice as hard, three times as hard, even more, just to get the same results as anyone else. That we must prove ourselves to an extraordinary standard just to command the same respect that is default for anyone else. Truly, respect and humility should be the default setting for everyone, no matter their ability, disability, background, appearance, or anything else.

***

Throughout my first year at college, I have learned a tremendous amount about myself, and have learned so much that I decided I should transfer elsewhere to continue learning. One of the most profound things I have learned, through it all, is that the more you learn, the more you realize you really don’t have things figured out. You can accommodate to one setting and everything changes tomorrow, either because your environment changes or you change. I’ve learned that I will continue living a life that requires me to go above and beyond just to prove myself, and whenever I appear to “fall behind” on that — either because I move on from a place that has accommodated to me, or I use the wrong form of a verb or number in a foreign language — I will have to work a lot harder just to get back to baseline respect. And it may be something I never fully receive. Despite how seductive it seems to just give in and give up, to just say, “Society sucks and I shouldn’t have to work any harder than anyone else,” I know I can’t do this. Not only will this get me nowhere personally — I’d likely wind up unemployed, broke, and miserable — but it will get me nowhere whenever I decide to advocate for others. That’s because if I don’t take my struggle seriously — if I don’t work hard for myself, even if it involves marginalization and disrespect along the way — I cannot expect others to do the same when I fight for justice and equality in whatever way I can. Thus, I end with this: Fight for others, but first, and always, fight for yourself.

Prior to the passage of the Education for All Handicapped Children Act of 1975 (EAHCA), there existed no federal law mandating that disabled children in America had to go to public school, and with the barriers that existed for them, many would not have attended adequate public schooling. The act — which itself arose out of the recognition by the federal government that students had the right to an “adequate” education — appropriates funds to states for them to provide an “acceptable” education to students with mental, physical, or emotional disabilities. It also mandates that, whenever possible and appropriate to the student’s disability, disabled students should take classes with non-disabled students as to assimilate students into the overall school culture[1]. In part because of the several amendments needed to address gaps in the EAHCA, and partially because of weak protections for the disabled, the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) is enacted in 1989. The IDEA serves a few purposes. First, it serves to define disability, with eleven different groupings thereof; these groupings, according the legislation, factor in disabilities, such as developmental delays and orthopedic impairments, that could interfere with a student’s ability to access a full opportunity. Based on the disability and the scope of its impact on a student’s ability to receive an education, the IDEA allows for the provision of each student with an “individualized education program,” an IEP, which, written in collaboration with the school district and the parents of the student, outlines the necessary accommodations to a student’s education[2]. Under the IDEA, the goal of an IEP is to ensure permanent, guaranteed access to a “free appropriate public education.” In addition to the IEP, the IDEA modifies punishment and discipline protocols for disabled students, categorizing mentally disabled students’ behavior patterns as “manifestation” and “non-manifestation” behavior (i.e., behavioral issues that do or do not result from the nature of the student’s disability, respectively) [3]. Thus, by nature, the IDEA focuses primarily on students with cognitive and behavioral disorders; even so, it can be applied to students with physical disabilities — sometimes appropriately, but other times not. For example, the IDEA mandates that schools must provide schooling in the most suitable setting for disabled students, even if this education takes place in a non-traditional school or in a homebound structure[4]. However, other provisions of the IDEA are at times falsely applied to physically-disabled students. Going back to the idea of “manifestation” and “non-manifestation” behavior, a teacher not properly trained in psychology — and not necessarily to their own fault — may wind up inappropriately punishing students with mental or physical disabilities. Because of these difficulties in applying the provisions of the IDEA, discrepancies result between schools and school districts with different demographics; more specifically, minority students with disabilities often fail to receive the accommodations and treatment they need. [5] African-American students with disabilities are substantially more likely to receive suspensions than are white students with and without disabilities, and are more likely to attend schools in school districts that cannot afford to properly fund the special education programs — such as individualized education — that they need[6]. This perpetuates the ever-present “school-to-prison” pipeline in the American education system — particularly in public schools that serve minority-majority and urban areas[7].

In a broader sense, legislation such as the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), passed in 1990, has attempted to provide accessibility for the disabled in society at large, with its provisions also applying to public schools; however, its application in public and private schools alike has proved challenging, thus creating a patchwork of uncertainty and inaccessibility for many disabled students. The ADA, mandates, in part, that buildings that provide services to the public must be “reasonably” accessible for the disabled, and provides no funds for buildings that were before inaccessible to be modified[8]. This presents two unique challenges: first, the definition of “reasonable,” and second, the funding of modifications for buildings that are either difficult to modify or are in poorly-funded regions of the country. This has led to many public schools following the letter of the law, but not necessarily the spirit of the law: based on ADA requirements on paper, the government could accept their modifications as reasonable, even if the disabled still cannot fully access the school or its resources without impediment. In the context of public schools, this could mean that students with disabilities have difficulty navigating classrooms, school resources and common rooms, or school buildings themselves — especially in poor or urban areas where renovations for the purpose of accessibility cost significant amounts of money in the face of a lack of government funding. Furthermore, many private schools have yet to modernize and accommodate for changes called for by ADA — as private institutions do not always have to follow the same set of government regulations, including those for disabled access — meaning that otherwise capable and qualified disabled students lack access to a private education as private schools often lack even more so than their public counterparts the resources and adaptations needed to serve disabled students[9]. Private schools sometimes lack even the most basic accommodation measures, such as elevators and ramps (as, if placed in old buildings, private schools can circumvent accessibility regulations by citing them as “unreasonable”), and seldom provide special education resources such as individualized education and paraprofessionals, as they can choose the students they admit — and can thus elect not to admit a student with a disability[10]. Though outright discrimination against the disabled is illegal — and thus a school that denies a qualified student on the sole basis of their disability does so illegally — it can elect not to admit a student to whom they cannot provide services and accommodations with anything above “minor adjustments.”[11]

On top of the physical barriers of inaccessible buildings and lack of resources, the disabled face a general lack of acceptance from their peers and of understanding from their teachers and administrators. Disabled students face bullying more frequently than their non-disabled counterparts, and often lack the resources they need to handle such situations — even if counselors available in schools and colleges have training in psychology, their lack of consistent exposure to students with disabilities may hinder their ability to provide specialized advice and aide. This problem, in fact, continues onto college campuses; while in the context of colleges and universities in the United States, it remains unclear if disabled students face harassment and abuse more frequently than the non-disabled, there exists a noted lack of resources — such as counselling and therapy from professionals experienced to exposure with disabled students — for disabled students who have been subjected to abuse[12]. This causes a challenge for college campuses and students alike: As the regulations of the ADA have gone into effect, more disabled students have attended college[13]; however, if colleges lack realistically-useful accommodations (despite their fitting into the letter of the law) or social resources for the disabled — as disabled students may perceive stigma in requesting them — the disabled student’s educational attainment can be impaired. This explains why the college retention rate for students with disabilities falls short of that for non-disabled students, and why disabled students who do remain in the tertiary education system may struggle academically more so than their non-disabled counterparts [14]. Even in educational setting where administrators have the funding and resources to respond to the needs of the disabled, stigmas and stereotypes surrounding the disabled often prevent a full understanding of the issue at hand. In the case of students with physical disabilities, for example, many educators and administrators may be subject to the preconception that the nature of their disability impacts their cognitive and behavioral functions as well, even if the disorder does not. This leads certain textbooks to have to explain that students with disabilities, such as physical disabilities, add to classroom diversity and do not necessarily learn at a different pace than their non-disabled peers[15]. Continued misconceptions such as these explain the hindered student outcomes for those with disabilities, particularly, as previously discussed, the fact that the rate of college dropout amongst disabled students is higher and that the path towards academic excellence for disabled students is riddled with physical, social, and academic barriers.

The barriers that the disabled have faced in the American education system reach far into the history of the education system and cause real and profound challenges in the present day, as for the majority of American history, the very chance of receiving an education remained out of reach for most disabled students, and only have recent legislative acts, such as EAHCA, IDEA, and ADA, changed this. Yet, barriers in these pieces of legislations’ applications persist: These continued barriers undermine the American promise to provide an education for all students, and presents challenges for disabled students that transition from the education system to the workforce. The disabled as a whole face higher rates of unemployment and substantially lower participation in the workforce; among those that do manage to find employment, the positions are often lower-wage jobs than those taken by the non-disabled and less gainful financially and professionally. While part of this has to do with the culture of individual businesses, which may not necessarily accept disabled workers as a part of a diverse team of professionals, part of this stems from the lack of training, resources, and programs originating in the public school system[16]. Improvements in order for students of all abilities to achieve their full potential, engage fully in American life and culture, and contribute to the economy include ensuring the physical access of all schools, public and private; the funding of special education programs, especially in already underfunded districts; a recognition amongst peers, teachers, and administrators that a disability does not necessarily define the confines of one’s educational potential; and the broad recognition in society that disability often only impedes an individual as much as society tells that very individual it must serve as an impediment. With these improvements in physical access and culture, a more inclusive, productive, and educational school system will improve quality for disabled and non-disabled students alike.

References

[1] “Enforcing the Right to an ‘Appropriate’ Education: The Education for All Handicapped Children Act of 1975.” Harvard Law Review, 1979. 1103. JSTOR Journals, EBSCOhost.

[2] Lusk, Sarah. “The Dimming Light of the IDEA: The Need to Reevaluate the Definition of a Free Appropriate Public Education.” Pace Law Review 36, no. 1 (Fall2015 2015): 295–296. Academic Search Complete, EBSCOhost

[3] Ibid., 296.

[4] Lusk, Sarah. Ibid., 297–298.

[5] Yell, Mitchell L., and Tim Conroy. “Disabled Education: A Critical Analysis of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act.” History Of Education Quarterly 55, no. 4 (November 2015): 495.

[6] Lusk, Sarah. Ibid., 293.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Leake, David W., and Robert A. Stodden. “Higher Education and Disability: Past and Future of Underrepresented Populations.” Journal Of Postsecondary Education And Disability 27, no. 4 (December 1, 2014): 399–400.

[9] Rosenbaum, Stephen A.1. “Preserving Public Values in the Private Sector: Unintended Consequences or Vouching for Ableism-Free Schools?.” Journal Of Law & Education 45, no. 3 (Summer2016 2016): 370–371.

[10] Ibid., 378–379.

[11] Ibid., 379.

[12] Findley, Patricia A., Sara-Beth Plummer, and Sarah McMahon. “Exploring the experiences of abuse of college students with disabilities.” Journal Of Interpersonal Violence 31, no. 17 (October 2016): 2801–2823.

[13] Leake, David W., and Robert A. Stodden. “Higher Education and Disability: Past and Future of Underrepresented Populations.” Journal Of Postsecondary Education And Disability 27, no. 4 (December 1, 2014): 400.

[14] Ibid.

[15] Ryan, K. and J.M. Cooper (2013). Those Who Can, Teach (14th ed.). Boston: Houghton Mifflin., 71–77.

[16] Santuzzi, Alecia M., and Pamela R. Waltz. “Disability in the workplace: A unique and variable identity.” Journal Of Management 42, no. 5 (July 2016): 1111–1135.

Any IDEA?: Examining the Barriers Faced by the Disabled in the American Education System was originally published in Age of Awareness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.