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I received an unexpected check in the mail from the U.S. government. I wasn’t sure what it was for. At first I figured maybe it was a tax refund. But in the memo it said “reparations for being crippled. “
I don’t recall demanding that the government pay me reparations for being crippled. And I don’t recall anyone else ever demanding that either. But sometimes the government does nice things out of the blue just for the hell of it. That’s how we got the Americans with Disabilities Act. Congress just woke up one morning feeling particularly chipper and it said to itself, “I think I’ll surprise the cripples by giving them this law, just to remind them how much we love them. They really deserve it. I can’t wait to see the look of delight on their sad little faces!” I figure if the government wants to give me free money, who the hell am I to say no? So I cashed the check. I considered it to be my patriotic duty.
There was a letter included in the envelope with the check. It said, “Dear Mike, This is the U.S. Government writing to say we’re sorry you’re crippled. Please accept the enclosed check as a token of our condolences. Consider this our way of trying to help you relieve your pain and suffering.”
So I took all the cash and flew to Vegas. And besides what I spent on stuff like airfare and hotel, I blew all the rest of my reparations on snorting lines of cocaine off the bare bellies of exotic dancers. Why not? After all, the purpose of the money was to relieve the pain and suffering I’ve endured because I’m crippled.
And now I’m back home and back to being broke ass. I think the whole thing was an experiment. Sometimes governments use cripples as guinea pigs. The Nazis had a campaign of trying to exterminate cripples so they could be more efficient when it became time to try to exterminate the Jews.
Maybe the government started out by sending cripples reparations just to see what would happen. Because a lot of people say that if the government gives cash directly to poor people they’ll just take it and blow it all.
So maybe, based on what I did, the next time the government pays some other group of people reparations, in order to keep them was squandering it frivolously, they’ll send them a gift card from Home Depot or something.
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If you’re going to find happiness and contentment as a cripple, it helps to be the kind of person who likes being a non-conformist (and I don't mean in the religious sense).
You don’t really have a choice in the matter. Sooner or later, your body and/or brain are going to defy your commands and do whatever they damn well please whether you like it or not. That’s how crippled bodies are. Eventually you’re going to walk funny or talk funny or throw a big seizure at the most inopportune time.
Your body is never going to completely conform to the norm no matter how hard you try. So you might as well embrace being a non-conformist. I know that there are a lot of fake non-conformists in the world. They conform to the standards that are necessary to qualify for membership in whatever pack of non-conformists with whom they are conforming today.
But a lot of cripples are natural born non-conformists. It’s easier to come to grips with that reality if you’re a cripple who has no chance of passing as a vert (which is what I call people who walk because it’s short for vertical). I haven’t walked since I was 17 years old. And even before then the best I could maybe do was walk a little around a room if it was a small room and I was holding onto the walls.
So whenever I went out in public, I didn’t even think about trying to tell my body to walk like a vert because I knew it wouldn’t listen to me. It was going to play by its own rules.
I was destined to make a mockery out of a lot of things just by being myself. To be ashamed of that was to be ashamed of myself. So the only way I was ever going to learn to love my crippled self was to love being a non-conformist. Because that’s what I am.
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Unlike some of my fellow cripples, I have no desire to ever ride a camel.
This must be a relatively common phenomenon because I’ve seen several pictures of cripples riding camels. But in order for that cripple to ride, first someone had to climb up on the camel’s back and construct a small scaffolding that will hold the cripple upright. Because otherwise the floppy cripple will lose their balance and fall right off of the camel as soon as it flinches.
So in these pictures of cripples riding camels the cripple is snugly secured to the scaffolding with an elaborate intertwining of straps and ropes. It doesn’t look very comfortable to me. And to me a prerequisite for having fun is being comfortable. (I also wonder how the cripple boarded the camel. It must’ve required the assistance of at least four verts, which is what I call people who can walk because it’s short for vertical. Two of the verts probably lifted the cripple out of their wheelchair by grabbing them under the armpits and knees and then swung them back and forth in order to build momentum to fling the cripple into the air on the count of three. And then the two other verts who are up on the camel’s back have to catch the airborne cripple and position them in the scaffolding and tie them in.)
Thus, I think the only kind of rush I would get out of riding a camel is the daredevil rush you get when you do something stupid and reckless and survive. All the enjoyment is in retrospect. While you’re in the middle of the stunt, all you’re thinking about is getting out of it alive. When it's over, you feel the sweet release of relief.
I don't envy the fact that verts can spontaneously ride a camel and I can’t. That's not one of the losses of crippledom that I mourn. I might feel differently if I lived in the desert and I was surrounded by sand and riding a camel was the only way to get anywhere, like just going to the drugstore. Motorized wheelchairs like mine suck when it comes to driving through sand. They just sink and get stuck. That might be enough to make me consider going through all the hassle of trying to ride a camel.
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I’m looking to hire someone to join my pit crew. That’s what I call the people who come to my home every day and help me do stuff like get out of bed and get dressed.
So I have to update the want ad I usually post. I feel like I have to make it clear, among other things, that I don’t have a piano. Because I like to be up front about what the job entails so applicants will understand what they are signing up for. And there’s been a lot of commercials on televion lately for home healthcare agencies. And these commercials feature a video montage of what it’s like to be paid to go into someone’s home and help them out, like my pit crew does for me. It shows stuff like the caregiver sitting on a piano bench next to an old person and singing along joyously while that old person plays and sings old time standards.
That’s why I feel compeled to include in my ad that I don’t have a piano. Because if someone saw any of those commercials, they’ll surely get the wrong idea of what the job is all about.
I also remember seeing in a montage a caregiver leading an old person by the arm to the gazebo in the backyard. I don’t have a gazebo. Hell, I don’t even have a backyard.
And I remember seeing in the montage an old man painting a still life of sunflowers. So I should probably mention in my ad that I don’t paint sunflowers.
I never see in the montages anybody doing the kind of stuff my pit crew people do for me, like hauling my ass on and off the crapper or giving me a shower.
That’s why I think I ought to update my ad. I wouldn’t want anybody to think that this job is all glamour.
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Their bottom line is to get a federal law passed criminalizing abortion (and maybe even the use of birth control) in every state.
I also know that if they’re ever going to pull off anything like that, they’ll have to disguise that law as something else. Because it’s getting to be where more and more people don’t like that idea.
But I also know that a lot of those staunch pro-lifer types fancy themselves as the best friends of cripples because a lot of fetuses get aborted when it is discovered in prenatal testing that they will be crippled, like with Down Syndrome. And so they think that they’re standing up for cripples because they’re standing up for crippled fetuses.
The problem is that those staunch pro-lifer types are usually among the first to stop giving a shit about what happens to these crippled fetuses once they are born. They attack the public programs that crippled fetus may well need to survive as a crippled human, especially if it is a poor crippled human, like Social Security and Medicaid.
So maybe those staunch pro-lifer types could disguise their meddlesome legislation as a civil rights law and thus pass themselves off as freedom fighters. They could call it the Fetuses with Disabilities Act.
All the law would have to say is, “Fetuses with disabilities have the right to be born.” And then there would be a paragraph or two about how therefore nobody anywhere can ever have an abortion or use birth control because it might deprive a crippled fetus of its right to be born.
That’s all the Fetuses with Disabilities Act would have to say. Because that’s all that matters to those staunch pro-lifer types.
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I’ve talked before about how if one of my assistants goes out and about with me enough times, someone will inevitably refer to them as my son (or daughter.) It doesn’t matter if my assistant is white or black or Latino or Asian or whatever. It’s happened to them all.
Usually what happens is someone sees me being assisted outside my home by one of the people in my pit crew, which is what I call the people who help me every day to get out of bed, etc. And the observer is curious about the nature of our relationship because most people’s idea of how things work is that the people who assist cripples every day are nurses or some sort of medical professionals. But my pit crew people don’t wear surgical scrubs or nurse-looking garb, They wear regular civilian clothes
Something similar even happened to my pit crew member, Victor, although he’s older than me and black. Victor accompanied me to a pharmacy to get a vaccine. The pharmacist didn't seem to know what to make of us, probably because Victor wore civilian clothes and he was too old and black to be my son. So the pharmacist says to Victor, “Are you his guardian?”
I’ve also said that I look forward to the day when this doesn’t happen anymore because I think the level of confusion reflects how little a lot of people know about how cripples like me make our way through the world. It shows that too many people still assume that cripples who need as much help as I do either are sent off to nursing homes, where the medical professionals can look after us, or family helps us out for free. They have no idea that there are public programs like the one through which I hire my pit crew. I place ads and interview people and I hire the people I want and I set the schedule and determine the tasks and they get paid with state funds for being my assistants. It’s a great alternative to going into a stinkin nursing home or relying on family to help for free.
So the day when pedestrians stop thinking my assistants must be my offspring will be the day when it’s not so hard to imagine cripples getting assistance in the socially-cooperative manner that I do.
Well recently I went to a car repair garage with one of my pit crew guys, who is 23. And the mechanic says to me, “Is he your grandson?”
Things have changed, but not in the way I hoped.
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There’s one thing that seems to make humans unique from other species of animals. As far as I can tell, humans are the only animals that switch sides and join up with their predators so as to try to convince them to change their ways.
Like for instance, you don’t see a hen hanging out with foxes, just so the foxes won’t fuck with them.
But humans do that kind of stuff all the time. Just take a look at the republican party. There are the Log Cabin Republicans, who are gay. They think republicanism is great, except for that homophobic stuff
And there are a few black republicans, too. They think republicanism is great, except for that racist stuff.
There are Joe Worker republicans who seem to think that the republican party is on their side.
If the foxes did allow hens to mingle among their ranks, they would probably use them as unwitting decoys. to lure in their fellow hens. Their job would be to convince the other hens that the foxes aren’t such bad guys after all. Once you get to know them, you'll see that the foxes really do have the best interests of hens at heart. And once enough hens flew the coop and came on over to the other side, the foxes would gobble them up. That’s what being a fox is all about.
It works the same way with the republicans. As soon as enough gay and black Joe Worker republicans convince enough of their own kind to come on over because this is the place to be, the republicans will gobble them up. That’s what republicanism is all about.
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These days you can know what gender your future child will be before it is even born. And so some people throw one of those silly gender reveal parties, where they tell all the invited guests whether the fetus is a boy or a girl. But the information is delivered with great fanfare. Dozens of pink or blue balloons might be released into the air. Or maybe a plane might fly overhead pulling a banner that says IT’S A BOY or IT’S A GIRL. There might even be fireworks involved somehow.
You can even purchase items for gender reveal parties. For instance, there are gender reveal smoke bombs and confetti cannons.
These days you can also find out a lot of other things about your future child before it is even born besides gender. You can find out whether or not it will be crippled and if so how. You can find out if the kid will be crippled for the same reason I am. And when that happens, people don’t start thinking about having festive events to celebrate their fetus. People instead start thinking about aborting the damn thing.
That’s how a lot of fetuses that will eventually become people with Down Syndrome get aborted. I don’t think there ever has been such a thing as a Down Syndrome reveal party. No, the best a fetus like that can hope for is that the mom will quietly continue with the pregnancy.
Throwing a Down Syndrome reveal party would be considered by polite society to be tastelessly disrespectful. The proper etiquette for an occasion like this would be to have a somber event that’s more like a funeral. Everybody shows up and offers their condolences. No confetti cannons or fireworks or anything like that. That could be seen as making light of tragedy. If there are any theatrics at all, it might be releasing black balloons into the air.
Giving birth to a regular, standard-issue baby is looked upon as one of those joyous occasions in life that's worthy of high celebration. But giving birth to a crippled baby is something else altogether.
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When I was a kid, it seemed like Poppy Day happened at least once a year, if not several times a year. I knew it was Poppy Day if I was out riding around in a car because whenever we’d get stopped by a red light people would walk out into the intersection with slotted cans in one hand and red flowers in the other. They’d come up to car windows shaking the cans so that the people inside the car could hear the coins in the can clanging around and if someone rolled down the window and dropped a few more coins in the can they’d receive one of the red flowers as a token of appreciation.
My mother always enthusiastically rolled down her window and dropped coins in the cans on Poppy Day. And she’d display her poppy by tying its stem to the rearview mirror. I noticed that the poppy wasn’t even real. It was made of cloth. So I asked my mother why she was so eager to buy and so proud to display a fake flower. She explained that the poppy was a symbol of something of far greater importance. When she purchased a poppy, she was helping the handicapped because the poppies were made by handicapped people.
I also noticed that right around Poppy Day a lot of people had cloth poppies hanging from their rearview mirrors. So, I guess displaying a poppy had the added benefit of showing everyone that you help the handicapped.
I think it’s a good thing that they don’t have Poppy Days anymore. It shows that cripples have bigger and better things going on than making cloth flowers. But sometimes even today when I’m waiting for a red light I get solicited to give money for cripples. But it’s the cripples themselves that approach my car, not their surrogates. These cripples shake canisters full of coins. But the canisters are usually more makeshift, like used cups from fast food restaurants. And if I give them coins, they just say thanks and move on to the next car. They don’t give me a poppy or anything.
Without a poppy to display. how is everyone going to know that I help the handicapped?
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People sometimes tell me I’m a good role model for criplets. But I have a hard time seeing myself as a role model because I don’t really know what a role model is. There are no standards or anything.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d like to go around being a role model. If nothing else, it might be a way to make a few bucks.
But what qualifications do I have to call myself a role model? Just because I’m an adult cripple who’s managed to accomplish a few things in life, big deal. Is that all it takes to be an official crippled role model? I sure hope not.
And I ‘ve always been suspicious of cripples who brazenly go around acting like they’re everybody's big-time role model. You know what I ‘m talking about. It’s those motivational speaker types. They make me not want to be a role model for sure. To quote the great 20th Century philosopher Groucho Marx, I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.
I’d feel a lot more confident if there was some kind of state licensing test I had to pass to be allowed to call myself a role model.The first question would be, “What the hell makes you think you’re a role model?” I’d be too intimidated to answer that question so I’d give up taking the test right then and there and I‘d never get certified. But at least I’d know for sure that I’m not a role model.
I’d also feel more confident being a role model if role models were required to have malpractice insurance. One of the things that holds me back from declaring myself a role model is I’m afraid of being sued. What if some criplet decides he wants to be like me and finds out the hard way that was a bad idea? It's bound to happen. And there’s bound to be some ambulance-chasing lawyer out there who will gladly take the case.
I guess that’s why I resist being a role model so hard. It’s too much responsibility.
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I, Smart Ass Cripple, do hereby solemnly swear that I will never be the type of cripple who makes uncrippled people dive into a freezing cold body of water in the dead of winter just to raise money for them.
It seems like every week in winter I see a local news report about a group of uncrippled people who, presumably, are otherwise sane and rational, going to the beach on a frigid day, stripping down to their bathing suits and jumping in the lake. To get people to do stuff like this you’d better have a damn good reason. And what better reason is there than raising money for cripples?
In Chicago, they jump in the lake in winter to raise money for the Special Olympics. There’s something sadistic and tyrannical about that, making people freeze their asses off for you. It sounds like something a spoiled little 10-year-old king would do to the peasants for laughs.
I know nobody is holding a gun to anybody’s head and making them jump into a frigid lake. But if those people were raising money for me, I’d be horrified. I’d feel obliged to go down to the beach with a bullhorn and shout, “What the hell are you people doing? Are you nuts? Go home and get warm!” If I was in the Special Olympics, I'd mess up their whole gig.
No offense, but I would never jump in a freezing lake for you. There would have to be a helluva lot at stake for me to make me do that. Someone would have to be holding my family hostage and threatening to kill them, or something like that.
So if anybody out there ever feels so sorry for or inspired by me that you’re ready to raise money for me by taking a flying leap into a freezing lake, please don’t. You can just write me a check instead.
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Like I said last time, I always love giving tips to young criplets about ways I’ve found to navigate through the world as a cripple.
Here are some more: Never wear underwear or pajamas but always wear slip-on shoes.
I learned these valuable lessons because the high school I attended was a state-operated boarding school for cripples, which I affectionately refer to as the Sam Houston Institute of Technology (SHIT).
The great existential question every inmate faced was, "Is there life beyond SHIT?” SHIT was a bubble. There were staff to meet our needs. The people who helped us get in and out of bed were the houseparents. There were therapists aplenty.
But what happened if an inmate graduated or reached age 21 and couldn’t live at SHIT anymore? Without the houseparents around, who was going to help us get in and out of bed?
The therapists thought their job was to help me figure out how to do as much of that kind of stuff as I could for myself. They devised elaborate, makeshift technology, like long sticks with hooks and snaps and pulleys on them, to help me do stuff like pull up my socks. It didn’t matter if it took me all day to pull up my socks. The important thing was that I did it myself.
And so I came up with all kinds of shortcuts. I wouldn’t have to worry about putting my pajamas on without any houseparents around if I slept naked. I wouldn’t have to figure out a way to wiggle my underwear on and off if I didn’t wear any. I wouldn’t have to waste any time tying my shoes if I wore slip-ons.
These are the things I did to ensure my survival beyond SHIT. I still don’t wear pajamas or underwear because, well, what’s the point? And not buying those things saves money, too. I sometimes wear shoes that have laces, but regardless of what kind of shoes I wear, I have someone else put them on me. There’s a crew of people that I’ve hired to do all that kind of stuff for me. I call them my pit crew. They’re all paid an hourly wage but it doesn’t cost me anything, except when I pay my taxes. The state government covers it all.
I hope these tips aren’t as relevant as they once were. Fortunately, there are a whole lot more of these programs around, so today’s cripples don’t have to stress about doing everything yourself or going broke paying someone to help. But there aren’t nearly enough of these programs and a lot of cripples can’t get the help they need. So my tips may prove to be helpful after all.
Oh crap! I just remembered that a few years back, I was invited to be the commencement speaker at SHIT. I’m one of their prize alumni. (Do you see why I call it SHIT?) I talked all kinds of shit to the graduating criplets, but I didn’t share these tips with them. Sorry about that, criplets. Maybe the SHIT people will invite me to speak again.
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I always love giving tips to young criplets about ways I’ve found to navigate through the world as a cripple. I strongly believe that young people represent the future and it’s not just my obligation but my honor to use the benefit of my experience to help them get ahead.
One of the first life challenges every wheelchair cripple faces is finding an adequate vessel to piss into. We wheelchair cripples (who have penises) piss from our wheelchairs, sitting down. I pissed into a mayonnaise jar when I was a kid. But I’m not suggesting that all you criplets reflexively do the same just because I did and I’m your role model because you admire the shit out of me. Consider the sound reasoning behind it.
The mayonnaise jar must’ve been my mother’s idea. She had good instincts as a mother of crippled kids. She probably calculated that a mayonnaise jar was precisely the right receptacle for her dear son to piss into. A pickle jar was too bulky. The opening on a pop bottle was too narrow, leaving very little margin for error.
But my mother’s primary motivation was probably her legendary frugality. She wasn’t cheap. She was frugal. A cheap person does everything they can to keep from spending their money. A frugal person tries to get the most out of their money. A good way to accomplish this is to figure out ways to get more than one use out of things. That’s why my mother loved shopping at resale stores.
My mother approached problem-solving from this frugal perspective. So I imagine that one day while contemplating how to reuse an empty mayonnaise jar, a light bulb went off in her head.
I don’t piss into mayonnaise jars anymore, but I do retain my mother’s frugal value system. And I defend my actions by saying that I am being an environmentalist. Like for instance, when I get carry-out food and it comes in plastic containers, I keep the containers for a while and use them for storing other leftovers in my fridge, thus shortening the time these containers are cluttering up some landfill. I’m waging war against the destructiveness of America’s disposable consumer culture. I’m saving the earth, just like I was doing when I pissed into a mayonnaise jar.
I saw a weird poker game on one of those obscure sports channels buried on cable in the wee hours of the morning. It was called the Social Security and Medicaid Championship Tournament.
The contestants were a blind guy, two guys in wheelchairs and a Down Syndrome woman. The grand prize was that the winner got enough money to be able to tell both Social Security and Medicaid to fuck off.
Because if you’re a cripple who needs to collect Social Security and/or Medicaid to survive, you have to be broke ass and stay broke ass. If you start making much money at all, you get kicked off because in the eyes of the law you don’t need Social Security and Medicaid to pay for all your shit anymore because you have money now so you can pay for it all yourself.
But that’s like being pushed off of a cliff because being crippled is expensive as hell. You need things uncrippled people don’t have to worry about like wheelchairs or you may need to pay someone to help you take a shower or drag yourself in and out of bed. And you have to figure out a way to pay for all that. So just because you’re making money doesn’t mean that you’re still not broke ass and you don’t need help paying for all your shit anymore. About the only way for a cripple to suddenly leave all the public support programs behind and still function is if they suddenly become a millionaire.
In this poker game, the pot was a million dollars. These contestants were the final four. They looked at their cards intensely. The blind guy felt the Braille bumps on his cards. He opened the bidding by throwing in five chips. The Down Syndrome woman and one of the wheelchair guys folded.
But the other wheelchair guy matched the bet. So the blind guy went all in. Not only did he push in all his chips, he also reached in his pocket and took out all his food stamps and threw them on the pile. Then he revealed his hand. He had three kings. The wheelchair guy only had two pair.
The blind guy leapt up from his chair and raised his fists in triumph. He ripped up his food stamps and threw them in the air.
The cheerleaders did somersaults of joy. Confetti rained down. The band played a version of Take this Job and Shove it. Except the lyrics were Take this Social Security and Medicaid and Shove it.
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I was pissed off because all the accessible parking spaces were occupied at Trader Joe’s. Whenever all the accessible spots are taken like that, I always suspect that the people clogging them up aren’t entitled to be there because they lack the proper cripple credentials, such as a license plate with the wheelchair stick figure guy on it.
Anyway, that’s why I was pissed off. We had to park on the lower level, which has no accessible parking space. We made do with a regular space. I felt like a commoner. But as I entered the store a guy wearing a Trader Joe’s work shirt and nametag bellowed out, “Welcome to Trader Joe’s!”
This must be the autistic guy I’ve heard so much about, I said to myself. He’s kind of a neighborhood celebrity because he was written up in a local publication because he’s autistic and he works at Trader Joe’s. Our societal opinion of crippledness has advanced to the point where possessing either of those characteristics unto themselves doesn’t make one particularly newsworthy, but when you put together the two, that’s a human-interest feature just dying to be written.
How did I know he was the legendary autistic guy? I mean, autistic people aren’t immediately obvious. You can see a wheelchair cripple coming from a mile away. And blind people are a dead giveaway with their white canes and dogs. But people with autism aren’t as easy to peg. I’m told that some of them are wild eyed and snort a lot. (Or is that Tourette’s people? Or maybe that’s schizophrenics. I get mixed up.) But this guy didn’t display any of that. And he certainly wasn’t wearing a button that said HELLO I’M AUTISTIC.
No, the reason I figured he must be autistic was because he was so enthused about working at Trader Joe’s. I know that’s screwed up of me to assume that if a person is excited to be working at a place like Trader Joe’s they must be autistic. But really, the only other people that are really enthused to be working at corporate places like Trader Joe’s or Burger King are people in commercials.
But actually, why is being enthused about what you’re doing such a bad thing? Isn’t that what we all want, to be happy and content as much as possible? I could stand to give myself a break in that regard. I’m always finding myself trying hard to resist enjoying simple things, I guess because I have this dumb idea that enjoying simple things means I ‘m a simple person. I don’t know what prize that attitude will win me in the end.
The autistic guy (alleged) hustled ahead of me and pushed the elevator button. The door opened and he welcomed me in with a swoop of his arm. As we rode up in the elevator, I was star struck to be in his presence, like he was Brad Pitt or something.
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