Accessibility Explorations 1
this post was originally posted here on my blog
NOTE: parts of this were written quickly on my phone while exploring, others were written post-trip as a consideration of the whole thing. Different tenses are used in the piece because of that. Editing has been done for clarity but not to remove the feelings associated with being in the moment.
This post was written far before the COVID19 situation.
Today I start a series where I explore accessibility in places around my town. I went to a little shopping center called the Landings. Its very modern and there are quite a few wellness and mommy stores. I try to look for places with mommy stores, because where strollers go (sometimes) wheelchairs can too!
Joining me today is a Model H wheelchair, a hybrid manual-power chair. My experiences with this chair have been rocky to say the least, but at least it’s better than my Drive Rebel.
I started my day parking at one end of the center, on the bottom level, and entered the I Love Juice juice bar. I signed up for rewards and learned that this franchise allows you to fully customize any of their juices. Last time I was a bit disappointed that they had basil in a lot of things, turns out if I had asked they’d have remade my drink without the basil free of charge! Entering the building was a snap. The curb cut was gentle enough where I could easily navigate up. The accessibility aisle was clear. There was only one accessible spot for the store and the massage parlor beside it. Surprisingly, a woman leaving the store ASKED if I needed her to open the door, and when I said “no thank you” she politely said okay and continued upon her day. A+ civilian! Inside the building there was a room to the side with extra seating and no door leading into that space, a wide entryway, and a central room with all the seating to a side, leaving the area in front of the cashier free.
There was a “Juice Peep” free who I asked about options and offered me a paper menu. Their wall menu has good sized text but is a bit low, due to the height of the ceilings and the length of the menu. The whole bottom is cut off to people in chairs or people who are short.
End rating: 9.5/10, with only points deducted for small and handle able things, like high countertops and small staff size.
Making my way to my next destination wasn’t simple. I had to pass all the way to the closest sidewalk to the road to find a crosswalk, and I had to go into the road to get on it. No curb cuts on the sidewalk itself. I then had to navigate by applebees, where the sidewalk was very slanted and hard to go up. My motor despaired, but we made it! Upon getting where I wanted to go next, I noticed no curb cuts between the parking area and the stores, save a single crosswalk one. If I had parked here I’d have had problems getting to and from the car, having to go to the same spot over and over.
Next I traveled to the center of the bottom half of the Landings for some chicken salad! I love Chicken Salad Chick. My option of choice? The Barbie-Q. All their salads have southern women’s names, like Olivia’s Old South or Miss Tamara’s Tarragon Dijon. I ordered The Chick, which is their version of a meal. One scoop, one side, or one soup. Choose two. They also offer a version where you can choose all three! The meal comes with a pickle spear, lots of crackers (6 packages of “Wheat Twins!) and my favorite, a small buttercream frosted cookie. Yum!
CSC gets a little tougher when you look at the accessibility side of things, though. To get to the counters, there’s a high wall leading you around the side of the building. I could not see over this while seated. PTSD issue. The aisles in the seating area are technically ADA compliant…when no one is sitting in their chairs. Being a mommy-attracting store, there were two groups with small kids, and diaper bags plus people sitting in chairs made passage impossible until those nice parents showed how absolutely delightful they are and one stood, moved her diaper bag, and helped me get through. Seating is also a little tight. I found a table for four that I could sit at without blocking aisles, but this was the only place I could see where I wouldn’t be in the way, and I’m taking up a large table. I have no idea from this part how I’ll get out of the store without breaking something, since the doorways are obscured by staggered tables.
Picking back up after my lunch, I was pretty hot and extremely tired, so it was time to head back for my car. I considered a longer route back, but I wasn’t in the mood to stay out in the Georgia heat much longer. So I hooked back the way I came. Getting out of Chicken Salad Chick wasn’t easy, I had to weave between tables and over a spilled drink. The building is carpeted almost completely throughout the dining area, so this is a mildew hazard as well as making it hard to navigate. The door leading outside was heavy and there were no accessibility buttons. A nice pedestrian opened the door for me and didn’t stand directly in the way of me getting out the door.
NOTE: if you’re helping someone in a wheelchair or using a mobility device by holding the door, ask first HOW you can help. Don’t assume your help will be useful and act based on what makes sense to you. My chair is a few inches thinner than the average doorway, so if you’re standing towards the inside of the door I can’t squeeze through without stepping on your toes.
Ending the day one more thing of note happened: I made a man angry.
It wasn’t on purpose, but it was intentional in a way. I’m a staunch proponent of doing things myself when I can, of being independent as possible. I sometimes burn myself out or hurt myself trying to do things all myself, never asking for help. Part of it is I’m stubborn. Part of it, though, is the hopeless, helpless feeling of having people truly believe in their hearts that if you’re in a wheelchair you can’t do anything for yourself, that you’re not going to be able to contribute to society, that you’re going to be a burden your whole life.
So, I’m ambulatory. I can walk if I have to. Doing it, though, takes a huge toll on my body. So I usually transfer from my chair to the edge of the trunk of my car and then pull my chair in behind me. Of course this isn’t super safe as I should lift more with my back, but those rules can’t apply easily to disabled life.
Here I am, then, pulling my chair into my car, and a guy rips into the parking lot, pulls into a spot super quick, and runs over to help me. I hold up a hand and holler “I’m okay!” but he continues approaching, my PTSD rumbling a little. He asks briefly how he can help, and I say I’d prefer to do it myself. He finally agrees after some arguing, though he’s definitely not happy, and I finish up, secure my chair, hobble to the car, and drive away. Still, his face of disbelief that a disabled person, especially a small, female-bodied one, can handle a heavy chair? It haunts and invigorates me; haunting – because I am seen as so little, invigorating – because I am so very much.