Yipes! Stripes!

by Dean Kramer 
May, 2003

There’s a tradition among those who enjoy violent but sanctioned pursuits of recognizing and celebrating a participant’s first “victory.” I believe earning one’s stripes is among the terms used.

People with disabilities who use designated parking spaces ought to have their own version of this honor because parking your car, if you are disabled, offers many opportunities for violent, but sanctioned, pursuit. It seems merely a matter of time before you earn your stripes.

I have a friend with MS who regularly argues with people over parking etiquette. She argues with people who are sitting in their cars using a handicapped-accessible space while someone else is in the store doing their shopping. She argues with people who have a placard but who have left their disabled person at home. She argues with people who are “only going to be a moment, for Pete’s sake! Don’t get your panties in a twist!” And she argues with the able-bodied “morons” (her term) who see the parking space set aside for us as an alternative cart return area. My friend is a veteran at these altercations.

In chat rooms, on message boards and in conversation with other disabled people I hear about these interactions. Some try to damp down their angry retorts in favor of educating the TABs. In other cases sarcasm is given free reign, threats are hurled, legal enforcement is sought.

I have to confess that I have gone through 19 years of disability without ever arguing over access to a parking space. I’ve experienced annoyance and disappointment. I’ve tried to give anyone in a handicapped accessible space, tag, placard, or not, the benefit of the doubt. To some extent I’ve even wondered what all the fuss is about echoing Rodney King’s “why can’t we all just get along?”. Arguing over a parking space seemed like something I could pass up. Maybe I was, deep inside, a little bit afraid to get into a public fracas.

Last Thursday I went to the small public library in the small town near Cripple Creek to pick up a book they were holding for me. It was a quick, run in and run out, stop. I pulled into the small parking area to discover workmen and a variety of dump trucks and paving equipment all busily resurfacing part of the lot. Many of the parking spaces were cordoned off but, fortunately, not the handicapped space. However, there was a bright blue pick-up truck in the space with no placard and no appropriate plate. Since I expected to be a short time in the library I parked behind the truck and hung my placard. The only available spaces were too far for me to walk from easily and it was a very hot day.

One of the workmen pulled his dump truck beside me and said I was blocking access to the dumping area. I apologized and asked if he’d mind waiting while I ran in and grabbed the book they were holding inside. I told him I was disabled and needed to park close to the door. He agreed to wait Then I asked if, perhaps, one of the workmen owned this blue truck. “No.” He said, “It belongs to the lady who works in the library.”

 Hmm, I thought, maybe there’s a disabled person working in the library. How cool!

So I went inside. The lady at the counter was a very unhappy looking person, tense in her body and glum in her expression. Sometimes you can feel when another person is not well mentally. They give off a vibe. I asked for the book and said, “There’s a truck outside in the handicapped space do you—“

“It’s MY truck.” She snarled.

I put a very sympathetic expression on my face and said, “Did you forget your hang-tag?”

“I don’t HAVE a hang-tag because I am not a handicapped person but there are few parking spaces out there and I was NOT going to walk as far as—“

Okay…in my mind I’m thinking a number of things all at once. I’m thinking, gee, if I could walk really well I wouldn’t gripe about it. I’m thinking, yes, you are disabled. You have a very sick attitude. I’m thinking, don’t get in a fight with this woman. She’s very fragile emotionally. I’m thinking, I’m parked. I’m inside. I don’t need to—

“Well, I AM handicapped. And I DO have a hang-tag. And I couldn’t use the handicapped space BECAUSE YOUR TRUCK WAS IN IT.” The words were out of my mouth. My voice was intense but I whispered (it was a library, after all). “It’s not okay to ever use a space set aside for people with disabilities. Not EVER.”

The librarian puffed up. Her eyes widened. Next they narrowed to a mean squint. Her lips curled in a sneer as she began a reply, “Well!” she began, “I’m not gonna…” I held her eyes. She dropped her gaze and muttered, “I’m sorry.” Sometimes people just know when you mean business. And no matter how disturbed they are or how much they’d like to fight with you, their survival instincts tell them to back off. I smiled at her, took my book and left.

Earlier that week I’d spoken with someone of the need we both had to learn to be more compassionate toward those who cause us pain. Sometimes, correction is the most compassionate gift you can offer. I’ve worked hard to find serenity and to keep stress at bay. Sometimes, the acceptance implied in standing up for yourself can lead to a deeper, more genuine serenity. And if I was scared of expressing such public disapproval? Well, it wasn’t that hard. In fact, it came naturally. I’m on the way to earning my stripes.