Roughly 15% of American schoolchildren are documented as receiving assistance for a disability, but most adults and caregivers are unequipped to navigate these challenges in social settings. It’s time to issue a stern reminder: the first line of defense against bullying and exclusion begins with comprehensive education on these topics at home.
I had seen wheelchairs before. My grandmother used one. I was four years old, and I wasn’t unfamiliar with mobility aids—walkers, wheelchairs, canes, leg braces—but this one looked strikingly different. This was my first exposure to someone diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), and I didn’t yet understand that some wheelchairs had computers on them that allowed their users to speak with their eyes, move with a joystick, or operate with electricity.
We were at the Buffalo International Airport waiting in line to get our bags checked pre-flight. A customer in line a few places ahead of us asked if the company provided accommodation for his powered wheelchair, such as a place to recharge its batteries, and assistance during boarding through the jet bridge. At some point, my mother noticed me staring and told me to cut it out—staring acknowledged people’s differences and made them feel singled out, which was rude. It reminded them that they were different and “not the norm.” Disability was a very personal and private subject matter that shouldn’t be brought up outside of very specific contexts. Doing so could elicit stares and scoffs of disapproval from bystanders. It could accidentally offend someone. So, I didn’t question it again, and I never gave the subject of disability or human variation much conscious thought for a while.
For the next ten years, I carried my mother’s sentiment with me everywhere—at school, in public, around family and friends. Like religion and politics, disability was another taboo subject that was met with awkward silence or unnerved glances when brought up in casual conversation. I did not yet identify as a disabled person at this point in my life, having missed out on receiving an early diagnosis for my atypical cognition in my formative years. My peers, not yet understanding the cause of my idiosyncrasies, picked up on my differences and ensured, albeit cruelly, that I was made aware of them—an experience rendered unfortunately all too common among disabled and neurodivergent students in the public school system.
I also believe it is worth mentioning, on principle, that these collective incidents informed my vitriolic disdain for typical depictions of bullying in media, as such inaccurate depictions onscreen effectively contribute to our society’s large-scale misunderstanding of bullying behavior among adolescents in the modern age; most bullies do not engage in “locker shoving” nor lunch money thefts, and most modern incidents of bullying do not entail a group of jocks roughhousing their victim in the halls nor dunking their heads in toilets. Insults like “nerd,” “freak,” and “loser” have largely gone out of style. This is not to say that these events never happen, but bullying tactics have evolved, as has their socio-technological context. Most incidents of bullying occur covertly and with a plausible degree of deniability—the shy, unsociable student with a passion for drawing and an aversion to loud noises is systematically excluded from the social sphere of their peers. The quiet boy with a mild learning disability is asked to the homecoming dance as a joke. The socially inept introvert, who lacks understanding of social cues, is exploited for her eccentric personality by her “friends,” who crop her out of photos. A teenager with emotional dysregulation issues is recorded having a meltdown and uploaded to the internet.
From these experiences (both witnessed and experienced), I remain fully convinced that most, if not all, forms of bullying can be marginally reduced with an early education on human variation starting in the home. A child who is raised to understand the manifestation of autistic features is less likely to ridicule another peer for stimming or having unusual interests. A child who is raised to tolerate those of all intellectual or cognitive capabilities will not accuse a student with ADHD of being stupid or lazy. A child who is exposed to mobility-impaired persons early on in life will not be seen pointing or staring at a wheelchair in public. A child who is taught to ask questions before making assumptions about someone else’s lived experiences will grow into a compassionate, open-minded adult who sees the value in others beyond their labor output or proximity to “normalcy.” So why isn’t this practice of early, in-home disability education more common?
There is no existing overarching, objective answer for each individual case of action or inaction, but one may reasonably assume that the adults, despite their parental wisdom, are unsure of how to approach the subject in a non-offensive, “correct” manner. Perhaps these adults assume their children are too immature or incapable of grasping complex, nuanced topics like disability and human variation. Maybe they feel uncomfortable addressing a child’s seemingly endless stream of questions about a topic they don’t yet understand. Either way, the result is the same: the child matures without a foundational understanding of human diversity, fostering fear or distrust toward those who fall outside their perceived norm. The deeper affliction of our society is its preference for ignorance over the risk of causing offense.
The greatest piece of advice I can give these parents is to live by the motto “just ask.” Parents and children with questions about disability should feel empowered to seek guidance from informed, willing advocates—particularly those with lived experiences pertaining to disability, chronic illness, or disfigurement. Consider the following parallel: for many generations, discussions of money and salary differences were considered impolite and taboo among adults in the workforce. Monetary discussions sowed jealousy and resentment among coworkers, causing a potent disruption that interrupted the flow of routine in the workplace. Thus, such discussions were historically heavily discouraged, protecting employees’ feelings while simultaneously (and conveniently) protecting employers from public outcry over salary inequality and financial discrimination. Oftentimes, the affliction of social injustice hides behind the veil of stigmatization, or “protecting the peace.” Our hyper-individualistic mindsets have rendered us far too comfortable with ignoring injustice for the sake of personal comfort.
In terms relevant to disability, this same mentality persists: “don’t ask the gentleman about his wheelchair” gives way to “why bother investing extra resources to build a wheelchair ramp?” Similarly, “don’t acknowledge the differences of the intellectually disabled child in your class” eventually turns into “what do you mean you need extra time on the exam? That’s not fair to everyone else.” Before addressing disability-related issues, parents, teachers, and educators must seek insight from those with lived experience. The next generation must learn that disability is shaped by societal and institutional exclusion—not individual difference—and it is disabled people who will lead the movement for systemic change. Since I have already provided examples of disability discourse done “wrong,” it’s only fair that this dissertation includes an example of disability addressed in a correct manner by a parent to a child.
This incident occurred one afternoon, as I was deeply struck by the thoughtful and compassionate way my aunt explained mobility differences to my younger cousin. At the time, he was about six and began attending first grade. One afternoon, in a densely populated supermarket, he pointed boldly at a woman whom he had witnessed standing up from her wheelchair and exclaimed, “So she could walk all along!” His reaction, though unfiltered, reflected a child’s genuine confusion. Nearby patrons turned around, gasped, some chuckled, and some muttered. I braced myself for what I expected to be a barrage of scolds born from embarrassment and shame from my aunt, but the eruption never came. Instead, she gently sat down next to her son and said, “Not all people who use a wheelchair are paralyzed or unable to stand. Wheelchairs are for anyone whose legs need a little bit of extra help to work. If you’re curious about someone’s wheelchair, you can ask them if they are willing or able to answer your question.”
Over the past fifteen years, I have noticed that the tone surrounding disability discourse has undergone a marked transformation within my family. Where once a child might have been shamed for broaching the topic in public, he was now guided to engage with it through curiosity and a willingness to understand. To my aunt, the act of pointing out differences, whether implicit or explicit, did not need to bear the same stigma it once did. Instead, difference had come to be recognized as a neutral facet of lived experience, no longer framed as a source of embarrassment or exclusion. I would like to see this attitudinal transformation occur on a much broader scale next.
Just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, changing the hearts and minds of an entire society won’t happen overnight. Reframing millions of perspectives requires sustained effort from every family by embracing conversations about disability, encouraging inquiry, and affirming its inherent humanity. Ultimately, the greatest piece of advice I can give to parents with children on the subject of disability is to understand that disability has no singular “look.” It’s okay to ask questions, and to approach disability as a natural, and normal aspect of human life.