Sometimes, Disabled People are seen in public. That they exist is usually reinforced by signage and the arrangements for public biology stations we call rest rooms. After that, we might encounter an occasional wheelchair. Whether or not people who stumble about with their dog or pony on a lead in public spaces are disabled or not, they do not throng normatively, and public spaces are about normative gathering. One of the jokes that circulates the disabled community is that line about how you can join us at any time. Indeed, disability—the medical conditions of the human body that don’t fit the bell curve of human activity in modern society—crosses the typical social boundaries of race, class and gender. Thus, seeing a disabled person in public might be so rare for some that children are told not to stare.
Public event spaces were, for a generation, required to provide access to disabled people: some of these efforts are visible to the public by curb cuts, ramps to buildings, wheelchair accommodating elevators, braille signage, and sign language interpreters alongside public speakers. Of course, these architectural modifications to public spaces are predicated upon the notion that the disabled person can physically get to those public spaces, and transit problems abound. That transit problems are a typical issue in the disabled community is not part of public discourse, but an obvious factor on why disabled people are not a common sight, especially since a good third of the population has some sort of limiting physical condition. It’s big work to attend events. Humans are hardwired to herd up, and deprivations—solitary confinement that is so typical of disabled life—are seen as a form of torture, psychologically; therefore, disabled people too must sometimes attend some kind of gathering.
We made the drive across the forest to St. Augustine, hugely historical St. Augustine.
The event was held at a building called the Waterworks, because it was once a 19th century pumphouse for Mr. Flagler’s hotel—a historically significant edifice that was instrumental in the westernization of the southeastern part of this country. What the eye first sees is very old brick, and a style of masonry that bespeaks lost craftsmanship. The plaque to the building’s history eventually tells us that the building is now under the care of the local cultural entity, the St John’s Arts entity. The interior event space is a study in restoration: the ancient bricks, the repairs, the tuckpointing, the odd mortices of floor and junctures of terrazzo over centuries old pavers. The place has had a through exorcism, yet there’s still a green room for the stage, and every backstage is haunted. What’s architecturally fascinating about this restoration is the wheelchair lift: a compartment with locking gates that raises or lowers the chair to the backstage, rest and boardrooms. This visitor did not bring the mobility device, because of other logistics, so whether or not the wheelchair elevator operated correctly was not tested. This is important in a cultural space that often hosts visiting artists, concerts and other cultural events—can a person in a chair have access to take a pee. There is an office next to the rest facility, and there was a framed certificate displayed about respecting autism. The bathroom itself made some use of old tile styles no longer available and did seem to have room to transfer from the chair to the commode, but, again, this was not tested. Overall, the space did well by its history, given its original industrial intent.
The event itself was a meeting of a local arts group, which is a common usage of the building. What is shocking is that there are still local arts groups in a state beleaguered by wholesale destruction of libraries. Whatever it is that one many think of the potential anarchists of such groups, it turned out to be a gathering of apparently ordinary citizens. The building’s representative was an art kid, and the pre-event gathering included a couple of mature males practicing their guffaw; Some of the ladies made the effort to dress. The disability status of this visitor was made obvious by being the solo person in a mask.
Now, masklessness in public spaces is a language involving complexities of interior identity and social responsibility, but the wearing of a mask is also a signifier: many people find a posture of violence in response to seeing a person in an N95. In the realm of the disability community, where the wearing of a mask is truly self-preservation for many, there is still controversy about covid safety protocols. The mask is not as overt a sign of disability as a wheelchair, because some relatively abled people engage in safe practice, but it is an unspoken social taboo in Florida. Some disability activists call a mask ban a slippery slope to the return of ugly laws—where people can be institutionalized for their appearance—but there was no one else at that event space in a mask, despite the other disability accommodations. Efforts to chitchat with other attendees revealed odd generational prejudices, as the younger people were more accepting of Disabled in Public person…unless it was the summer dress revealing the tattoos. All this was balanced by the smooth charm and experienced organization of the host, who maintained an engaged presence that was also egalitarian.
This particular group, Ancient City Poets, hosts an annual festival in their lovely city that this disabled person found to be worth the drive. That it also seems to be the most accessible poetry collective, a lovely building and a welcoming host, does give hope to the arts under the current jackboot governmental depression that seems to be squashing local arts organizations. Most critically, as famous writing conferences cement their reputations for being unfriendly to the disabled, in some cases fatal super-spreaders, that such disability-friendly organizations still exist says that all might not completely be lost.
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More from Su Zi: Deaf Girl Listens to Live Music: The Liverpool Legends, Deaf Girl Listens To The Rolling Stones, A Deaf Girl Listens To Rachmaninoff