This Monday morning, I drove 10 minutes from Bowdoin to Thomas Point Beach, armed with a late-season apple I picked at Rocky Ridge Orchard the weekend before. What better way to start the week than scampering down wide wooden stairs, flopping in sand so warm it feels like August, not October and watching the shadows of minnows darting over the ocean floor?
Two Mondays ago was the opening of a photo exhibit about the experiences of Bowdoin students with disabilities. Walking into a packed Lamarche Gallery and seeing my face on the wall was momentarily surreal. Living with what is called an “invisible disability” rarely puts me under the public eye. But living with any type of disability means a constant reevaluating of spaces and places: navigating accessibility.
Everyone moves through space with certain capabilities. I can run down the steps at Thomas Point Beach. I can flop in the sand with the delightful mix of confidence and carelessness that signifies comfort and ease. Some other people can run for exercise or take long plane rides without the relief of Tylenol, which are not options for me. Accessibility is wavelike and mutable; everyone’s specific abilities lead them to find different spaces and places easier or harder to navigate, and what we find accessible can and will change.
Before continuing I want to note that I am privileged to have insurance that covers not only routine doctor’s visits, but also the tens of thousands of dollars worth of medication I take each year. This dependence represents a sometimes forgotten way in which this election will impact so many lives. Trump’s misogyny, homophobia, racism, xenophobia and climate change denial are frightening, and his healthcare policies and extreme ableism represent another enormous potential harm to people with disabilities and chronic conditions. T-2 weeks to Election Day.
My current medication increases my quality of life, but it is also a powerful immunosuppressant, which leaves me vulnerable to the kinds of communicable diseases that flourish when we return from breaks. I am unable to travel through any regions with a possible threat of yellow fever, including 43 countries in South America and Africa. Accessibility can be local and global, personal and communal.
At Bowdoin, we should hold each other accountable for questions of accessibility on all levels. Will every space be accessible for every person? Likely not. Can we thoughtfully utilize places and change spaces to make them navigable to as many people as possible? Yes.
A few years ago, hiking Tumbledown over Fall Break would have been out of the question for me. Perched atop its peak, I saw swathes of red and umber, autumnal hills spilling down to Webb Lake. Tucked by the ascending path, Tumbledown Pond reflected blue sky and yellow trees in a splendor of complementary colors. The memory of scrambling up the rocky, leaf-sprinkled path is a dear reminder that mobility is not a given in my life—my own narrative of accessibility in my connection to places.
It’s easy to assign our own abilities to other people, to overlook that one person may need extra time to read and process work for a group project, while for another person the meeting location might pose a challenge. Having a broader conversation about ability at Bowdoin will also help us understand one another and give students with disabilities space to advocate for themselves and their stories.
But my story is not everyone’s story. Climbing Tumbledown or visiting Thomas Point are very different issues from climbing the stairs to the top floor of a College House. Basic accessibility should not be a privilege, but an individual right—one our community must push itself to reflect upon. As Bowdoin students, we can look out for one another and provide space for community and personal advocacy. We can open the conversation about accessibility and ability and, in doing so, engage more deeply with the personal needs people have for the spaces and places we share.