THE WHEEL TURNS, LET IT BE HEARD FROM SEA TO SEA

THE WHEEL TURNS. BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT On the first day of the new school year, I came to the new school building with great anticipation. My old school had been, to put it mildly, less than accommodating in its construction for people like me. But eighty percent of the students at this new school had some form of disability, I had been told by my parents, so I hoped other students would be more tolerant and certainly that the construction of the actual building would be more accessible. I was wrong. “Where is the ramp?” I asked one of what I assumed were the teachers, an adult at any rate, as I struggled to find a way to enter the building with my walker. “There isn't one,” she said without any sympathy at all. “But, how are those of us with walking difficulties,” I gesture at other struggling students with walkers and even more at those in wheelchairs “supposed to get inside. I thought the majority of students at this school were supposed to have some kind of disability, so how can the very entrance to the building fail to accommodate us?” “Because,” she said. “Installing all of that junk would have dramatically increased construction costs, and since this is not a Federally owned public building, The Supreme Court has said that it does not have to be A.D.A. Compliant.” Before I can reply, she huffs and walks away. I am shocked. I thought the whole point of this new school was that it was supposed to be better for those of us with disabilities, since most of us at it have some kind of disability, but clearly I was wrong, if it doesn't even have walker and wheelchair ramps at the entrance. “Tomas,” I hear a familiar and friendly voice behind me. “Hey, Bud,,” my best friend Mark says as he comes up beside me. “What's going on?” I gesture at the staircase infested facade of the building. “Apparently the fact that at least two hundred students at this new school have walking difficulties is not enough to make them build a school building that accommodates us, since The Supreme Court has ruled that The A.D.A. only applies to Federally owned buildings, which this is apparently not” I reply. Mark looks even more outraged than I feel. “That's RIDICULOUS!” he cries. “This was sold as a handicapped friendly school. How can it be handicapped friendly if it's not even handicapped accessible.” I shrug, the same question going through my mind, but finding no answer. “Well,” Mark says after a moment. “There are three other guys from the football team over there. The four of us could just carry you and your chair in, at least.” For the sake of my pride and their backs, I hesitate a moment. If there was any other way, I would take it, but there is not, so I at last reluctantly nod my consent. “OK,” I say. “Do it.” He calls. “Hey Jack, Paul, Orlando, come over here and help get Tomas into the building.” I hear the strain from their mouths and their bodies as they lift my chair and I, step by step, into the building, and I wish above all that it were not needed, but there is no other way. I thank them profusely when we reach the top, and apologize for needing it, but they brush both aside with a “what are friends for?” and so I drop it. But, of course, they cannot be with me throughout the entire day, and so getting to classes on different floors proves. . .challenging. At the end of the day, I am ready to go back to my old school, because while it did have its problems, at least it was built when all public buildings had to be A.D.A. Compliant, so it was. But of course it is not that simple. “Getting you into that school took a lot of work, Tomas, and getting you out will take even more” says my mother. “Can you give it a little time, a week perhaps?” I agree, although I'm not sure I can last that long,. The next day I find new people to carry me places, but I still feel guilty about it. After a week I am still considering when I see on the news that a ramp at my old school collapsed and they are going to save money by not replacing it. When I hear that, I make up my mind about an idea that has been forming in my head for two or three days now. The next day, on the way to school, as we pull onto the freeway, I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door handle. “What are you doing, Tomas?” cries my mother. “Making it easy for those on the so called 'right,,'” I reply. “Tell our conservative family and so-called friends they're welcome.” Before I can open the door, however, my mom locks in control of the locks to the driver's seat. I sit back. “OK,” I say. “You're probably right.” “Of course I'm right,” she says briskly. “How can you even think of something like that, Tome?” I remain silent. The answer is quite simple, really. Because so much of the rest of the country thinks it, or at least that people like me should be dead, but I don't want to upset her further, so I keep still and silent for the remainder of the ride. When we reach the school, I am carried out and sat in my wheelchair, and then she pulls away and heads for work. When I am certain she is out of sight, I get out my I-pad, type and email a brief note to my family and friends, then wheel myself into oncoming traffic and my world shatters. ANYONE WHO THINKS THE A.D.A.SHOULD NOT APPLY TO STATE AND LOCALLY OWNED BUILDINGS THINKS THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH OR BAD ABOUT THE END OF THIS STORY, PERIOD.