Thought I should mention

The just below preview was posted on behalf of someone else, since she is not very web savvy. The soon to be published to draft2digital and from there to retailers as they choose, NOT THE LIFE I EXPECTED, however, will be published under her name, Thomas Nathan Kemper.

Preview of NOT THE LIFE I EXPECTED

Sooner than anyone had expected, they found Avery had been right about the maintenance. The day after they had had that conversation, Ashley was wheeling up the ramp into the school, his mind on the math exam he had that morning, when he heard a crack. “OH SHIT!” he muttered, knowing what was coming. A moment later, he felt the concrete beneath him start to crumble. He gunned his wheels for the top of the ramp, but just as he neared the ledge, the top of the ramp came completely loose from it, sliding away, leaving a menacing gap behind. Ashley screamed as he and his wheelchair fell into it and the five feet to the base of the platform, and then as the rubble of the ramp rained down on him. Then everything went black. * Avery saw the ramp collapse with Ashley and three others on it and silently cursed her mother, her belly full of fire. Then she ran forward, yelling for others to help her dig their classmates out. When they finally reached them, all four were unconscious but all four had strong pulses. When The E. M. T.s arrived, they were quickly revived before being loaded onto the ambulance to be taken to the hospital and checked out, Ashley protesting the entire time that he needed to take this test while it was all fresh in his mind. * “That's the price of your mad quest to force everyone to be the same by treating everyone the same,” said Avery, whirling on her half sister when she heard Morgan's heavy breathing behind her. “Collapsing ramps and injured. . .” “They'll live, Ave” said Morgan with a dismissive wave of the hand. “What are you getting so worked. . ?” “Ashley and the others yes. . .this time,” came Avery's retort. “Mr. Larkin's blind son was not so lucky. By the way, Morgan LA FAT, only my friends call me Ave, and, with your support of Representative Chainlink's actions and their potential cost to my bo. . .best friend, you are no longer counted among that number.” Her younger half sister started to open her mouth in protest, then seemed to think better of it, closed it as her eyes went wide under Avery's fiery stare, then turned on her heel and ran away without further comment. * THE FULL STORY WILL BE PUBLISHED ON DRAFT 2 DIGITAL ON THE NIGHT OF SUNDAY, OCTOBER NINETEENTH AT MIDNIGHT AND AVAILABLE FROM CERTAIN ONLINE RETAILERS SHORTLY THEREAFTER.

NOT FICTION AFTER ALL

This afternoon, Wednesday, September 24th, 2014, I attended a meeting of the Texas Disabilities Issues Forum. I had hoped that the first story in the below collection, titled 'THE SILENCING OF THE BROKEN', in which a totally Republican controlled Congress makes it impossible for anyone with any kind of disability to vote, was pure fiction, or at least an exaggeration. Based on some of what I heard this morning and early afternoon, however, a slight exaggeration it may still be, but pure fiction it is NOT. The group is nonpartisan, so they had to remain neutral about who was to blame party wise, but there were several stories of People with Disabilities being told at their local polling location that accommodations for those with disabilities were not available, "we don't do that here" was, I believe, an exact quote. Now, while the group hosting the forum, as I said, being nonpartisan, could only present the facts, not make judgements about which party is to blame for these problems, I CAN. We all know which party controls the politics in this state, which party the Texas Attorney General who argued the anti A.D.A. case before The Supreme Court belongs to, which party's governor has failed to wave sovereign immunity so that even in light of this decision People with Disabilities in the State of Texas can be assured of their equal access rights being protected, and which party has overall shown itself not to be a friend to the Community of People with Disabilities, so I will go ahead and say that it is the Republican Party that wants to keep those of us with Disabilities from voting. I will of course not tell anyone else who to vote for, that is obviously an individual choice, but in light of all of this I will certainly be voting a straight Democratic Ticket this November, especially since no one from the Republican Party could even be bothered to show up today to address our concerns, and maybe provide some reason for these positions, even though I will concede Greg Abbott did fill out the survey, which I will admit that I have not yet read. That is all that I have to say.

FROM SILENCING US TO LOCKING US UP, THE COMPLETE COLLECTION

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER: THE VIEWS EXPRESSED IN THE FOLLOWING SHORT STORIES AND ESSAY ARE MY OPINIONS AND ONLY MY OPINIONS. I AM NOT PRESENTING THEM AS OBJECTIVE FACTS. FROM SILENCING US TO LOCKING US UP. BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKE THE SILENCING OF THE BROKEN BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “And with that vote, The So Called 'Right of Disabled People to vote' as a nation wide matter is now left up to each state, as it should be” said The Speaker of The House, bringing down his gavel. I groaned. I knew my very red state would be one of the first states to take that right away from people like me. “You disabled people always vote democratic,” one of my very few close Republican friends once told me. “You can't be totally surprised a red state like this would want to limit access, as it should be limited.” “Well,” I had retorted. “If you Republicans weren't doing everything you possibly can to limit our access elsewhere, saying only Federally Owned PUBLIC buildings should have to be A.D.A. compliant, for instance, maybe we wouldn't always vote as we typically do, since they do support those issues.” My friend had, of course, failed to understand this at all. So now every state could make up its own mind about the rights of people with disabilities. I knew that George, my friend, I suppose, would be happy. But I, being wheelchair bound with two paralyzed legs, a completely paralyzed right arm and a left arm with only very limited use, was not. And the worst of it was, I could not even express my displeasure in November, since it was specifically the right of people with disabilities to vote that was being taken away. Not surprisingly, with this news arriving on the 6:00 national news, the 10:00 local news reported that our state government had already taken brail ballots out of the mix, which I knew would make any of my blind friends, of which I have several, unable to vote, and get rid of private booths with recording devices, which is the only option for people like me. Not surprisingly, a few days later, they said that the entrance to the building did not even HAVE to be A.D.A. Compliant, which took away any hope I still had for True Justice for those of us with disabilities. Over the next two months, I noticed a lot fewer major changes than I had expected. Access is more limited yes, but not as limited as I was expecting and worried it would be. I cannot get into the library, for instance, without someone carrying me up the steps, or get into the movies on my own, as I once could, but I can still get into the grocery store, my job's building, the doctor's office and other essential places, it is more entertainment and other commodities that I have lost access to. On election day, however, I am determined to at least cast a ballot in spite of them. When I reach my precinct polling place, however, I look in bitter disappointment. The Ramp is blocked, and looking in to the building I see that even if I KNEW if some of these people might carry me inside, there was no possible place for someone like me to vote, so I guess that I really will not vote in this election. I turn and pass on towards the bus across the street to take to my usual haunts, since Conservatives made it impossible to vote early or at all. So I guess Conservatives will just keep screwing those of us with disabilities since they've made sure our voice will never be heard again. I sigh once more, then wheel my way to the stop and into a much smaller world. THE PRICE OF WHAT SOME CALL LIBERTY BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT Nick was never the same after that day. It was a summer drive, through a safe area, no steep mountain passes, no cliffs, no slippery ice. But his big brother Theodore just took the turn too fast,the car rolled several times, and ended up with Nick on his head with his right leg broken and twisted. Of course, Theodore died, so he obviously got the worst of it. But Nick's brain damage left him with permanent mental disabilities as well as very bad balance, and his leg was never entirely right again either, even though after a year or so he did start walking again. When he first began to communicate again, it seemed only three things of the old Nick had survived; he still knew and loved his family, although this did take a bit of remembering, and with a bit more remembering he still considered me his best friend, and he still loved Football. He'd always been more interested in events in the news than most kids at our high school, I must admit including me, and with a bit of time that also returned. So, when the case arguing that The Americans with Disabilities Act should not apply to state and locally owned public buildings came before The Supreme Court, as he now was an American With a Disability, he took particular interest in the case. I can not here repeat the words he used to describe those who argued the case in favor of states rights and personal liberty trumping the liberty of people like him who had disabilities and those who ruled in their favor when the ruling came down, but suffice it to say that from the look in his eyes, had he had the power to call down lightning and strike all of them dead..well, let's just say that it is fortunate for them that he did not have that power. Of course, not much changed at first. No one went out and actively destroyed ramps, handicapped parking spaces and the like, they just weren't kept up and repairs weren't made when they fell into disrepair. Eventually many such accommodations at state and locally owned public buildings, including our school, were gone. * * * Which brings us to the present moment, when the substance of this story really begins. At school the first day when the ramp was gone, Nick fell twice going up the stairs, but eventually made it. “Of course, falling or not, at least I can do the stairs,” he said. “What are people like Oliver supposed to do?” Oliver was another friend of ours, and since he had been born with no legs, he of course had no choice about being in a wheelchair. Fortunately, though, he had some very strong boys as friends, and they happily carried him up the stairs, since neither Nick nor I had the strength to do so. “That's all right, Lisa,” he told me later. “I know you would if you could. Tell Nick the same.” That afternoon at the end of the school day, though, my lunchtime conversation with Oliver was driven right out of my mind when Principal Stevens came on the P.A. with an announcement. “As you all know, Friday is our Field Trip to the football stadium. Anyone wishing to go MUST turn in their permission slip no later than tomorrow. Have a good afternoon.” I knew Nick wanted to go, but his parents were concerned because as a locally owned public building its handicapped accommodations were no longer present, and they worried that he could get hurt in his enthusiasm to see every inch of the stadium. Oliver, of course, was under no illusions. “It's all stairs now,” he said. “I couldn't even get in the front door, and I'm not going to ask Sam and Tom to carry me up and down every inch of the place, since it is all up and down.” I suspected that he was probably right. I'd never been there, but if it was anything like our high school's stadium, which I assumed it was, he was definitely right. Since Nick had had to be picked up three times that day alone after falling on the stairs, I doubted his parents would sign the form either. But I was wrong. The next day at school, first thing he went by the office and handed it in, then gave me sly grin as I went to hand mine in. I wasn't quite the fan he was, but opportunities like this don't come along every day, plus I wanted at least one person there whom I could count on to look out for him. The rest of that day was a blur, since all anyone talked about was the next day's trip. The next morning, Nick fell three times just trying to board the bus, and ended up getting carried on by Sam and Tom. I took the seat next to him. “Nick,” I said. “I know you love football, but, are you sure about this? I mean, you had trouble with just that short set of steps to board the bus, and that's not even half the length of the flights at the stadium.” “I'll be careful,” he promised, as if that settled the matter. Since three seconds later the door closed and the bus began to move, in a way, I suppose, it did. I knew we were in trouble the moment we arrived. Going down the bus steps, with nothing to hold onto but my arm, Nick fell twice, the second time face first onto the parking lot pavement. But even his bleeding forehead only deterred him long enough to stop the bleeding and bandage it. “Come on, Lisa,” he urged. “Let's go inside. We will be able to touch the actual turf they play on.” At another time, his obvious enthusiasm would have been infectious, but now I followed with great trepidation. My premonition, unfortunately, was right. The way into the stadium alone, was complicated. The one time ramp, as I expected, lay in a dusty pile of rubble. But even the railing on the stairs was gone. Tom took Nick by one arm, Sam by the other, and I walked behind as back up, not that there was much I could really have done if there had been a problem. But between the three of us we did manage to help Nick get into the stadium all right. Once inside, though, I saw that there was no possible way that Nick could achieve his dream of actually touching the astroturf. There was not only no ramp or lift of any kind from the bottom of the stands to the field, there was not even a proper staircase, just a ladder. “How are disabled students supposed to get down there?” Nick asked, pointing. Our guide looked him over. Just to look at, if you hadn't seen him walk or had a long conversation with him,you wouldn't know that Nick in fact was a disabled student. “They're not,” the man finally said, still looking a bit puzzled. “The Supreme Court said locally owned buildings like this are not subject to The A.D.A., so we spent the money we once spent keeping up such facilities in better ways.” Then he began the talk and the tour. We started at the top and worked our way down, Tom, Sam and I staying close enough to Nick to catch him when he stumbled, as he did often, although at his insistence the other boys no longer had him by both arms. Finally, we reached the bottom of the stadium, and all that remained was to go down onto the field itself. I saw the ruins of a ramp laying to the side, but the one person ladder was all that now remained. The four of us stopped, Sam and Tom looking awkward. “You guys go on,” I said. “I'll stay with him. I'm not that big a football fan anyway.” We weren't the only ones who weren't going down. There were a few others there with physical reasons like Nick, and many like me who had enjoyed the outing overall but were not big enough fans that they considered actually touching the turf a necessity. But I could tell that Nick was not taking this turn of events well. Our guide, I guess, sensed this as well. “If you want to go down, young man, your friend will b fine just waiting here.” Which was, of course, exactly what Nick had been waiting for and I had been fearing. Before I could act, or speak, or even think, Nick was at the edge, climbing onto the ladder. “Be very caref. . .” I started to call, when my words were cut off by a scream. I ran to the edge and looked just in time to see my best friend dangling from the ladder for a moment, then fall twenty feet, split his head open on the hard asphalt, and die before my eyes. WHEN EQUAL ACCESS ENDS I sat with bated breath in front of my family's television and watched the Honorable Justices of The Supreme Court file into the courtroom, one by one, all those months ago. I had been waiting for this ruling for months, ever since all of the Republican Attorneys General in the country, including my own State's Attorney General, Fredrick Lepodal, a man who is himself in a wheelchair, for Christ's sake,launched that lawsuit saying that those of us who are in wheelchairs, or have any number of other disabilities that limit movement, should not have the right, by law, to equal access to state and locally owned public buildings because the protections of The Americans With disabilities Act should only apply to federally owned public buildings, not to state or locally owned public buildings. "So, the states and cities of The United States of America are not part of The United States of America?" I had asked John, my brother-in-law, when the suit was first launched months ago and he, being a Republican Ideologue, was singing its praises with almost worshipful gusts. "Seth, Seth," he had said patronizingly. "What you wheelchair types need to understand is that states' rights and personal liberty trumps everything else, and The A.D.A. forcing any but federally owned public buildings to accommodate your type violates that. Therefore, it has to go." We wheelchair types, I thought. As if being in a wheelchair, or having any other kind of disability, made us a different species altogether. But now, of course, all of that was about to be settled, one way or another. I was sweating and breathing hard, for I really had no idea which way the ruling would come down. One by one, The Justices filed in and took their seats on my TV. set. Finally, Chief Justice Albert Grey Conserver The Third stood. I swallowed hard, for he was by far the most conservative Justice on The Court. The sweat pooled on my forehead. "We, The Honorable Justices of The Supreme Court, by a vote of six to three, find that the requirement by The Americans With Disabilities Act that state and locally owned public buildings must be accessible to Americans of all abilities, violates The United States' Constitution's guarantee of states' rights and personal liberty, and strike that portion down, although we leave in place the requirement for federally owned buildings, since those are the purview of the Federal Government." My lower jaw hits the floor. Six to three, I repeated in my mind. Six to three? I had expected the four conservative Justices on The Court to vote against equal access, and one never knew where the one swing vote would land, they were what had made me nervous. But six to three meant that one of the so-called "liberal" Justices had betrayed us. I could see the gloat building in John's eyes and knew that his mouth would not be far behind, so I wheeled from the room and out of the house before he goaded me into saying something that would upset my sister, even though I myself would never regret it. As I wheel up the street, I hear cheers, jeers and tears from various houses, all three from some. Soon, I cannot stop my own tears. "I don't want the government to GIVE me anything, as conservatives like to allege, I just want the personal liberty to enter or exit any building I need or choose to enter without fear of injury or the need to ask others for help. And if state and city property no longer has ramps or lifts, none of those of us in wheelchairs, or even just people in walkers, can be sure of that." I look down at my ruined right leg and missing left leg, and the tears flow freely. "It's not like I have a choice about being in this chair or chose to lose one leg entirely and the use of the other one in that skiing accident nine years ago." I weep a bit more, then pull myself together and wheel back to the house I share with my sister and brother-in-law, hoping that by now John will have gloated enough in my absence to not need to try and provoke me. * * * At first, there are only small changes. The fading handicapped parking space at the library is not repainted. The crumbling ramp at the local movie theater is allowed to finish crumbling into dust, but as it hadn't been safe to use for months,neither I nor any of my friends had used it in a long time anyway. But no one goes out and actively destroys functional ramps and lifts or paints over handicapped parking spaces at state and locally owned public venues. "Although," says John when I mention this one night at dinner. "Technically, we could. . ." My sister gets to her feet. "John," she says with fire in her eyes and looking ready to breathe it. "The Supreme Court may have said that people such as Seth do not have a Constitutional legal right to equal access to state and locally owned public buildings, but Seth is still OUR family. You will limit such comments to your weekly night out with your conservative buddies." John raises a placating hand. "I meant no disrespect. I was just thinking out loud." "Well," says Tina, sitting back down. "Do not think things like that aloud." I have had to live with my sister and brother-in-law ever since the accident, for my injuries, not all physical or at least not all visible, make it impossible for me to live independently or hold down a traditional job. I write an occasional piece for one skiing magazine or another, and contribute around the house as I am able, but I know John still really feels that I am a leach off of him and Tina. Not that he would ever dare say it in front of her or to my face so that I could repeat it to her, but I know. One time, before my own injuries, when I was visiting, I heard him talking on the phone about how people with disabilities are a disease on society and President Nathan Thomas Travers was a traitor to his own Republican Party for signing The Americans With Disabilities Act into law. I guess, in the end, most conservatives agreed with him, since a decade or so later every Republican Attorneys General in the country was a party to the the lawsuit, while absolutely no Democratic Attorneys General were. "So, Seth?" says my sister. "You're awfully quiet on a subject that effects you so directly." I take a deep, steadying breath, then speak. "Technically, John, you are right, you COULD do that," I start off. "But, if you did, you could potentially be costing hundreds if not thousands of people with disabilities our lives. What will happen in the coming months as they fall apart on their own due to lack of basic up keep and when needed repairs, we cannot of course know, but taking that action would hasten things considerably." I see from the emptiness in his eyes that he would not care if every single American with a disability did die, but my sister is still right there and so he does not dare say so. However, my prediction, unfortunately, proves true. Over the following months, as equal access accommodations at various state and locally owned public buildings are not kept up in states or cities controlled by Republicans, including my own home state, ramps and lifts do fall apart, some with people on them, causing some to die and some to suffer very serious injuries, in some cases, most pertinent cases, in fact, even more serious injuries than their original injuries, for those that were not born with their disabilities, at least, and people with mobility issues seem to get mowed down in one parking lot or another every day. I try repeatedly to get John and other Republicans to see the error of their ways, but they simply refuse, and slowly the chilling truth settles on me. It is not that they do not understand that this new almost a year old ruling is a death sentence for all Americans with disabilities. It is simply that. . . a year to the day after the ruling, I am wheeling up the last ramp to any library in the county. At Tina's insistence, John reluctantly brought me here to do some research for a report on former athletes who are now disabled due to injuries for a sports magazine with a national readership which intimated there might be more than just a free lance potential in this, if they like the article. The prospect of a permanent paycheck helped persuade my brother-in-law to give me this ride. I am looking forward myself to possibly being a more permanent contributer to the household. But as I wheel up the ramp, I hear a crack. I look around. I am too far up to turn back but am not sure that I am close enough to. . .Suddenly, the ramp collapses under me and I fall ten feet. I hear someone yell to call 911 and soon hear a siren roaring near. I feel like every remaining bone in my body is broken as they dig me out and then carry me, wheelchair and all, to the ambulance. But when we get there, there is another problem. "They aren't required to be wheelchair equipped anymore," the driver explains. "So they are not." "John," I call out. "Come hold me in place. There are no fastenings anymore, thanks to you know what. Or else I won't stay in the ambulance and could. . . get. . ." the look in my brother-in-law's eyes as he shakes his head sends a chill like no other through my heart, spine and soul. I have seen it before, in the eyes of every conservative and every Republican who has been asked about potential deaths of people with disabilities with no A.D.A. protections at state and locally owned public buildings, but it is not until now that I fully understand it. It is not that they do not know that the case and more importantly the ruling could lead to many Americans with disabilities' deaths, it is simply that they DO NOT CARE if every American with a disability does in fact die. By now the team is loading me onto the ambulance, and once we are all inside, the siren revs up again and we start to move. The team goes to work on my broken bones at once, but all of them need to work on my injuries and so none of them can simply hold my wheelchair still, so it is buffeted all over as we drive at breakneck speed. Suddenly, we make a very sharp turn, they all lose their grip on my various injuries that they were tending, my wheelchair and I fly into doors at the back so hard that they fly open and I fly out and into oncoming traffic. I fly straight at a huge semi and feel my head split open as I slam into it and my brains and blood start to empty from it. Then, thankfully at this point, my world goes forever black. THE RIGHT TO BE, THE RIGHT TO PEE BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “I wish airplane lavatories had enough space for those of us in wheelchairs to use them,” I remarked to my brother after finding and using the airport lavatory after an eight hour flight. “Yes, Frank,,” Lauren agreed. “I hate to watch you suffer like that.” After picking up the car, we drove to the hotel and checked into our room, which did have a handicapped accessible bathroom. “I mean, I know those lavatories are small,” I go on. “I remember from before the wheelchair, but they still ought to in some way accommodate those of us without usable legs.” “Maybe you should start a campaign, Frank,” Lauren suggested. “I'm sure others in wheelchairs feel the same.” I consider for a moment, then nod. “I think I will at that, Lauren,,” I say. “Good idea.” To his credit, my brother neither sighs nor rolls his eyes, for I have done things like this before over other handicapped issues, but since I see them every day every time I leave my bed, I cannot really help it. It is about my life and its value ,after all. But usually, when nothing happens after a few weeks, I leave off and forget about them. I am grateful to Lauren for having the tact to not point this out. This time, though, I resolve in my mind. I will see it through to completion. * * * I start with letters to the heads of all of the major airlines and also my senators and representative. I only hear back from the last, an ultra right wing Republican from whom I expected nothing but grief, and I was not disappointed. “Dear Mr. Longoverdue,”, she wrote. “I understand your frustration with air plain lavatories, have you ever tried to do make-up in a room that small? However, government interference in private industry is NEVER the answer.” I am shocked, for nowhere in my letter had I even suggested government interference in anything. Her letter continues. “Maybe people like you should travel by car or train, for then there is no problem about bathrooms.” “I guess she hasn't been to a truck stop in a while,” I say to Lauren's shocked face after he has read these words. They HAVE toilets with bars, yes, but they're always to dirty to use. “I guess not, Frank,” Lauren finally nods. “So what are you going to do now?” “I don't know,” I say with a helpless shrug. I had hoped my blog on the matter might have gained a few new allies for people with disabilities, either other people like me who felt the same or people who cared about us. But if so, none of the new warriors have left an indication on my blog of being either, since no one has ever commented at all. “Even calling me a communist, while not at all true, would be some kind of response, but instead I have nothing at all, apart from this letter.” Ultimately, I send a response asking what truck stops she's been at, but never hear from her again, and never hear directly from anyone else at all, although government interference in private business is a theme that comes up more and more as campaigns swing into high gear, which I hear echoes of my issues in. In any case, none of my efforts seem to have much effect, so I eventually decide that I should find another way to attack this. I give this a lot of thought, and then decide to confront them with my actual person, and Lauren and I book a flight to D.C. Just my bad luck, I'm seated next to one of her big supporters and even campaigners. “And I mean, that person who wants handicapped bathrooms on airplanes,?” he raves. “I mean, can you believe the very idea. . .” “Actually,” I say. “I can. “Because I am that person.” The look that then comes into his eyes makes me shutter. The sheer, unadulterated hatred. Before I can say another word, he unbuckles both of us, picks me up with one arm, although I am heavy enough and he not muscular enough that I would have thought this impossible. I scream for help, but before anyone can get to us, he carries me to the back of the plain, forces open the emergency exit at the back, and pushes me out of it. I at first scream as I fall towards my inevitable death, but my last thought in this life is that maybe at least this act will be horrible enough to wake people up to the truth about conservative attitudes towards people with disabilities. After this thought, everything goes black, and I know nothing more in this life. 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 an adult who I assumed was a teacher, 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 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 seatbelt and reach for the door handle. “What are you doing, Tomas?” cries my mother. “Making it easy for those who think people like me shouldn't have the right to equal access” I reply. “Tell our family and friends that hold this view that 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. THE SCENT OF A WOMAN THE MIND OF A CHILD BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT. “Of course I want Chad, Ryan and Nathaniel to come to my sixteenth birthday party,” screamed Melisa. “Why wouldn't I. They're my friends.” Her mother and I looked at one another, trying to think how to explain. Fortunately, our show returned at that moment and by the next commercial our daughter had calmed down but appeared not to want to talk about it anymore, so we dropped it for the evening. But, of course, once our daughter was in bed, it was not something Sara and I could just drop, because we knew Melisa wouldn't drop it in the week that still remained before the party. “David,” said Sara. “I don't know what to do. I know she's been friends with them since she was five years old, but. . .” she broke off hopelessly. “But she still looks at their relationship like she did when she was five, with her unusual form of mild socialization disability, while they all three look at her as teenage boys look at attractive teenage girls, like I did at you when we were that age.” “Not that I don't still,” I quickly added. “I'm much too worried about our daughter to worry about that David,” Sara snapped. “Right, Sara,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “What are we going to do,though,?” asked Sara a bit more calmly. “She's not exactly a child any more, and we can't just say 'because we say so' and expect that to work on someone with her level intelligence. I mean, she is as sharp as a tack.” I laughed. “A tack doesn't even come close for a girl who was reading Tolkien in Kindergarten and doing Graduate Level Math by Second Grade. But you're right, without the treatment for her disorder that the state will no longer pay for since The Supreme Court ruled that The Americans With Disabilities Act only applies to federal programs, and which we can't afford on our own, we can't have boys around her with no adult supervision, and I know she doesn't want us intruding on her big day.” However, no answers sprang to mind, and we were both tired, so we tabled the matter for the night and went to bed. However, the next day Melisa had not dropped it, and since the invitations needed to go out at least a few days in advance, the matter really needed to be resolved. “I want them at my party,” she repeated. “Chad's my best friend, and the others are good friends too,” she said as we drove her to school. “Why do you want me to not have my friends at my big party?” “We'll discuss it tonight at dinner,” Sara finally said, earning a nod from Melisa and a sigh of relief from me. “That buys us a little time,” I said after we dropped off Melisa and headed for my office. However, by the time Sara dropped me off and headed for her own job, we still had not figured anything out. “So,”said Melisa that night as we sat down. “Are you going to tell me why I can't invite three of my closest friends to my biggest birthday ever, or do I get to invite them?” I sigh. Sara and I have tried it every way we can think of, and we can't find a way to tell her no without having a talk we both know emotionally she is not ready for, despite her brilliant mind and quite developed body. I look at Sara, who returns my hopeless stare and then nods. “All right,” I finally say. “You can invite Chad, Ryan and Nathaniel, but no other boys,” I finally said. She gave a joyous shout and leaped from her chair. “Yes. I'll go get the invitations ready right. . .” “Finish your dinner first, dear,” said Sara. Melisa sat back down and shoveled the food into her mouth until it was all gone, then dashed off to prepare and email her invitations. “One bright spot,” I said to Sara as we clean up the kitchen after finishing our own dinner. “There are really only two boys we need to worry about.” “How is that?” snapped Sara. “She's inviting three.” “Yes,” I admitted. “But I'm pretty sure that Ryan is gay. He's certainly never looked at her like Chad and Nathaniel do.” Sara thought a moment, then nodded. “I think you're right, David, from other things as well as that. But Chad and Nathaniel we'll have to find a way to watch closely.” I nodded, and then we started planning how we could surreptitiously do this. * * * And now, the day of the party is at hand. Several of Melisa's female friends arrive first, then Chad, then some more girls, then Ryan, then three more girls, then Nathaniel and then the last girls. I do not like the way that Chad and Nathaniel look at Melisa, but Ryan indeed seems much more interested in looking at Chad and Nathaniel than at any of the girls,whom he only seems to look at when he sees someone looking at him. Once everyone is in, I close and lock the font door and then, after a pointed look from Melisa, Sara and I go upstairs to give her some privacy. “Some privacy,” says Sara as we both keep our ears to the door, listening for anything amiss that could require quick action. Everything sounds normal at first, kids running around, laughing, playing typical party games, but then. . . “Let's play Spin The Bottle,” says Chad, and we hear a chorus of ascent. Sara and I groan. “Since it's her party,” says Sara. “All of the other girls will make sure she gets it, thinking that that's doing her a favor, and she won't understand any of it.” “Our only hope,” I say. “Is that Ryan gets the other end.” “Nathaniel, no, what are you doing?” we hear our daughter scream ten seconds later. “Apparently not,” says Sara, already at the door. Ten seconds later, we burst into the party room to find all of the other girls off to one side, as we had expected, Chad and Ryan making out, which I at least had not expected, and Nathaniel on top of Melisa, who is on the floor crying. Broken glass is everywhere. Sara and I both rush towards our daughter to pry Nathaniel off of her, but before we can reach her, she screams. “I DON'T UNDERRSTAND. What did I do wrong with the game, Nathaniel? I didn't mean to cheat. I'm sorry. They never taught me this game in therapy, so I didn't know that I was supposed to move when the bottle started spinning. So stop punishing. . .” Nathaniel silences her by forcing his lips onto hers, but right as they are about to make contact, Melisa sucks in a huge breath and holds it, a frequent response of hers to pain. Nathaniel's lips, however, stay on her lips until I pry them off, and by then she has been holding her breath for more than a minute, and Melisa's skin is already starting to change color. Sara runs to call 911, and I start CPR, but it is too late, and at the hospital she is pronounced dead on arrival, all because states are no longer required to pay for the treatment of people with disabilities. KEEP THE UNPRODUCTIVE OUT OF SIGHT AND OUT OF MIND BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “MR. Speaker, I call for a vote on my bill to completely repeal The Americans With Disabilities Act,” said United States Representative Pauline Wigman. “After all, if you cannot be a productive member of society, you should not have equal access to public buildings. The Supreme Court has already said it should not apply to state and locally owned public buildings. I say there should be no such requirement anywhere.” I was stunned as one by one a sweeping majority, including every single Republican and even several Democrats from rather conservative states voted in favor of declaring that those of us with disabilities should not have the right to equal access anywhere. MRS. Wigman had even said as much in her speech. The Senate had already passed the very same bill since after the 2014 elections Republicans had gained a sixty plus vote majority of it as well. President Roberson had already pledged to sign it within the hour if it passed, which as I sat here contemplating, Speaker Bogmanboondoggle declared that it had. I wanted to stand up and shout 'So I'm supposed to have no public access anywhere', but having been confined to a wheelchair most of my life, I had to settle for just shouting. “So, I and everyone else like me are to have no public access at all?” “Yes,” Michel Bogmanboondoggle shouted back. “And if you interrupt again, you shall be removed and miss the really good stuff.” I quieted down, horrified. What else were they planning? What more could they do to people like me than what this vote had already done? How could they possibly make it even worse for us? I had to ask. “Now that the 'Restoration of Liberty and Personal Responsibility' Bill is on its way to President Roberson's signature within the hour,” said Representative Connie Bonebreaker, standing. “I call for a vote on the 'Keeping the disabled Where They Belong, Inside Their Homes' Bill.” They're going to lock us up permanently inside our homes, I thought, only my desire to learn the full horror of the matter keeping me from shouting again. It was, as it turned out, if possible, even worse than that. “Yes,” said another Republican representative, I wasn't sure of his name. “Material used in wheelchair ramps is being just as unproductive as people in wheelchairs and with any other disability are. So every wheelchair ramp in the country should be smashed immediately and its materials turned to more productive uses, not that MORE productive is too hard, since at present that material is just as unproductive as the people who use those ramps, so any other use, in being at least somewhat productive, would be much more productive.” I COULD NOT believe what I was hearing. How could a party that called itself 'Pro Life' have that little regard for my life and the lives of others like me. I didn't have to worry about getting thrown out for another interruption, though, because I was too stunned and angry to say anything. As the vote was overwhelmingly for this measure as well, for a moment my heart stopped beating. Then it resumed, faster than ever, but I still could not speak. “Begin at once,” said The Speaker. “The Senate voted as we did at the same time we did, and the President has already said that he will sign it.” Suddenly, I and everyone around me was on the move, wanting to reach the doors and get down the ramps while they were still there. Some of the people in the very front made it, but most of us did not. Those already on the ramps when the hammers began to fall were flung screaming to the ground and most of them were buried in the debris and or trampled to mush by the people doing the smashing. When all of the ramps were beaten into rubble, the workers left without even a glance at those of us still trapped on the platform the capital is set upon. “What do we do now,John?” my friend Titania asked me. “I guess we just wait and hope some of The Democrats will help us down,” I replied. “For what, a life of total isolation?” she asked. “Completely cut off from everyone except when they choose to come to visit us? No, thank you.” Before I could say or do anything, she wheeled herself to and then off the edge of the platform. She did not even scream as she hit the ground and burst apart, so great, I guessed, was her despair at this turn of events that even dying in that way seemed less to be feared. Several others followed her example, but the rest of us waited for and eventually received help getting down. Not that our problems ended there, with this taking immediate effect nation wide. But by begging, bribing, crying and some luck, I eventually made it home. Since then, I've been here on my own, since I live alone, although once a week a friend does come by in secret at night with some food. This is how I have lived for the past two months, and I cannot stand it any longer. Titania was right. This is no way to live, able bodied or not. I have agonized over this for weeks, but I simply CANNOT go on living this way. So, having typed this account for whomever finds me, in the hopes that they will care, I load my gun, say a swift prayer imploring forgiveness since there is no other way, stick the gun in my mouth and eat a bullet. FROM SILENCING US TO LOCKING US UP, AN OVERALL SUMMARY OF SEVEN WEEKS OF PEOPLE WITH DISABILITIES So, in this collection, first they make it so that those of us with disabilities CAN NOT vote at all, so that we will have no recourse at all against anything beyond this that they do since we can no longer voice our objections at the polls. Then they start small, making it impossible for those of us with Disabilities to get into entertainment venues, but no more, and since those are elective activities anyway, no one outside of People with Disabilities who happen to be fans of these particular venues and our families and friends will much notice, so it slips by larger society. But with this beginning, slowly but surely ending equal access elsewhere still slips by largely unnoticed, except by those who needed equal access and their family and friends, of course. Once Equal Access in general ends, ending equal access to public restrooms seems perfectly natural and logical, and no one will notice. If state and locally owned buildings are not required to even keep up existing handicapped friendly infrastructure, then obviously new schools, a state matter, after all, would not be required to even be built with such accommodations, and we see the results of that. Obviously, if state and local governments are no longer required to accommodate the needs of the physically or mentally disabled, they would also not be required to accommodate the needs of the emotionally disabled, and of course that also ends in tragedy. Of course, the logical conclusion to all of this is to completely Repeal The Americans With Disabilities Act, and then make sure that Conservatives/Republicans are never reminded of the problems they have created by confining everyone with any kind of disability at all permanently to to their homes so that they are forever out of sight and out of mind. This collection is, of course, a work of fiction that reflect only my opinion and interpretation of the events of recent years and actions by some Republicans. I am not claiming to be a journalist. But, if my interpretation has any truth to it, maybe it is time to start trying to do something about this current trajectory, before it is too late. Sincerely, Matthew Lucas Beckett

A BRIEF NOTE SEVEN

It was mentioned in today's Newspaper that some woman had said that those in wheelchairs are just faking, implying that they could walk if they wanted to. I just wanted to say that that is the STUPIDEST, MOST IGNORANT AND ABSURD thing that I have ever heard, and so I had to respond to it with that. However, it is not even worth any further response.

THE SILENCING OF THE BROKEN REVISITED

NO REPRESENTATION WITHOUT THE LAW'S EQUAL PROTECTION: THE SILENCING OF THE BROKEN. BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “And with that vote, The So Called 'Right of Disabled People to vote' as a nation wide matter is now left up to each state,” said The Speaker of The House, bringing down his gavel. I groaned. I knew my state, Texas, would be one of the first states to take that right away from people like me. “You disabled people always vote democratic,” one of my very few close Republican friends once told me. “You can't be totally surprised a red state like this would want to limit access, as it should be limited.” “Well,” I had retorted. “If you Republicans weren't doing everything you possibly can to limit our access elsewhere, saying only Federally Owned PUBLIC buildings should have to be A.D.A. compliant, fighting tooth and nail against anything to enable blind people to know when a traffic light is green, not wanting to invest in public transportation and mass transit so that those of us who are unable to drive could still get around independently, maybe we wouldn't aways vote as we typically do, since they do support those issues.” My friend had, of course, failed to understand this at all. But, I later reflected, what could one expect from someone who willingly completely extracted and completely destroyed his own brain in order to register to vote. So now every state could make up its own mind about the rights of people with disabilities. I knew that George, my friend, I suppose, would be happy. But I, being wheelchair bound with two paralyzed legs, a completely paralyzed right arm and a left arm with only very limited use, was not. And the worst of it was, I could not even express my displeasure in November, since it was specifically the right of people with disabilities to vote that was being taken away. Not surprisingly, with this news arriving on the 6:00 National News, the 10:00 Local News reported that our state government had already taken brail ballots out of the mix, which I knew would make any of my blind friends, of which I have a lot, unable to vote, and get rid of private booths with recording devices, which is the only option for people like me. Not surprisingly, a few days later, they said that the entrance to the building did not even HAVE to be A.D.A. Compliant, which took away any hope I still had for True Justice for those of us with disabilities. Over the next two months, I noticed a lot fewer major changes than I was expecting. Access is more limited yes, but not as limited as I was expecting and worried it would be. I cannot get into the library, for instance, without someone carrying me up the steps, or get into the movies on my own, as I once could, but I can still get into the grocery store, my job's building, the doctor's office and other essential places, it is more entertainment and other commodities that I have lost access to. On election day, however, I am determined to at least cast a ballot in spite of them. When I reach my precinct polling place, however, I look in bitter disappointment. The Ramp is blocked, and looking in to the building I see that even if I KNEW if some of these people might carry me inside, there was no possible place for someone like me to vote, so I guess that I really will not vote in this election. I turn and pass on towards the bus across the street to my usual haunts, since Conservatives made it impossible to vote early or at all. So I guess Conservatives will just keep screwing those of us with disabilities since they've made sure our voice will never be heard a. . . I look up at the sudden squeal of ties, see the truck right on top of me, and then everything is gone and the world goes black.

THE PRICE OF WHAT SOME CALL LIBERTY REVISITED

THE PRICE OF WHAT SOME CALL LIBERTY BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT Nick was never the same after that day. It was a summer drive, through a safe area, no steep mountain passes, no cliffs, no slippery ice. But his big brother Theodore just took the turn too fast,the car rolled several times, and ended up with Nick on his head with his right leg broken and twisted. Of course, Theodore died, so he obviously got the worst of it. But Nick's brain damage left him with permanent, mental disabilities as well as very bad balance, and his leg was never entirely right again either, even though after a year or so he did start walking again. When he first began to communicate again, it seemed only three things of the old Nick had survived; he still knew and loved his family, although this did take a bit of remembering, and with a bit more remembering he still considered me his best friend, and he still loved Football. He'd always been more interested in events in the News than most kids at our High School, I must admit including me, and with a bit of time that also returned. So, when The Case arguing that The Americans With Disabilities Act should not apply to State and Locally owned Public Buildings came before The Supreme Court, as he now was an American With a Disability, he took particular interest in the case. I can not here repeat the words he used to describe those who argued the case in favor of States Rights and Personal Liberty trumping the liberty of people like him who had disabilities and those who ruled in their favor when the ruling came down, but suffice it to say that from the look in his eyes, had he had the power to call down lightning and strike all of them dead..well, let's just say that it is fortunate for them that he did not have that power. Of course, not much changed at first. No one went out and actively destroyed ramps, handicapped parking spaces and the like, they just weren't kept up and repairs weren't made when they fell into disrepair, and eventually many such accommodations at State and Locally owned Public Buildings, including our school, were gone. Which brings us to the present moment, when the substance of this story really begins. At school the first day when the ramp was gone, Nick fell twice going up the stairs, but eventually made it. “Of course, falling or not, at least I can do the stairs,” he said. “What are people like Oliver supposed to do?” Oliver was another friend of ours, and since he had been born with no legs, he of course had to be in a wheelchair. Fortunately, though, he had some very strong boys as friends, and they happily carried him up the stairs, since neither Nick nor I had the strength to do so. “That's all right, Lisa,” he told me later. “I know you would if you could. Tell Nick the same.” That afternoon at the end of the school day, though, my lunchtime conversation with Oliver was driven right out of my mind when Principal Stevens came on The P.A. with an announcement. “As you all know, Friday is our Field Trip to The Cowboys Stadium. Anyone wishing to go MUST TURN IN THEIR PERMISSION SLIP NO LATER THAN TOMORROW. Have a good afternoon.” I knew Nick wanted to go, but his parents were concerned because as a locally owned public building its handicapped accommodations were no longer present, and they worried that he could get hurt in his enthusiasm to see every inch of the stadium. Oliver, of course, was under no illusions. “It's all stairs now,” he said. “I couldn't even get in the front door, and I'm not going to ask Sam and Tom to carry me up and down every inch of the place, since it is all up and down.” I suspected that he was probably right. I'd never been there, but if it was anything like our High School's Stadium, which I assumed it was, he was definitely right. Since Nick had had to be picked up three times that day alone after falling on the stairs, I doubted his parents would sign the form either. But I was wrong. The next day at school, first thing he went by The Office and handed it in, then gave me sly grin as I went to hand mine in. I wasn't quite the fan he was, but opportunities like this don't come along every day, plus I wanted at least one person there whom I could count on to look out for him. The rest of that day was a blur, since all anyone talked about was the next day's trip. The next morning, Nick fell three times just trying to board the bus, and ended up getting carried on by Sam and Tom. I took the seat next to him. “Nick,” I said. “I know you love football, but, are you sure about this? I mean, you had trouble with just that short set of steps to board the bus, and that's not even half the length of the flights at the stadium.” “I'll be careful,” he promised, as if that settled the matter. Since three seconds later the door closed and the bus began to move, in a way, I suppose, it did. I knew we were in trouble the moment we arrived. Going down the bus steps, with nothing to hold onto but my arm, Nick fell twice, the second time face first onto the parking lot pavement. But even his bleeding forehead only deterred him long enough to stop the bleeding and bandage it. “Come on, Lisa,” he urged. “Let's go inside. We will be able to touch the actual turf they play on.” At another time, his obvious enthusiasm would have been infectious, but now I followed with great trepidation. My premonition, unfortunately, was right. The way into the stadium alone, was complicated. The one time ramp, as I expected, lay in a dusty pile of rubble. But even the railing on the stairs was gone. Tom took Nick by one arm, Sam by the other, and I walked behind as back up, not that there was much I could really have done if there had been a problem. But between the three of u we did manage to help Nick get into the stadium all right. Once inside, though, I saw that there was no possible way that Nick could achieve his dream of actually touching the astroturf. There was not only no ramp or lift of any kind from the bottom of the stands to the field, there was not even a proper staircase, just a ladder. “How are disabled students supposed to get down there?” Nick asked, pointing. Our guide looked him over. Just to look at, if you hadn't seen him walk or had a long conversation with him,you wouldn't know that Nick in fact was a disabled student. “They're not,” the man finally said, still looking a bit puzzled. “The Supreme Court said locally owned buildings like this are not subject to The A.D.A., so we spent the money we once spent keeping up such facilities in better ways.” Then he began the talk and the tour. We started at the top and worked our way down, Tom, Sam and I staying close enough to Nick to catch him when he stumbled, as he did often, although at his insistence the other boys no longer had him by both arms. Finally, we reached the bottom of the stadium, and all that remained was to go down onto the field itself. I saw the ruins of a ramp laying to the side, but the one person ladder was all that now remained. The four of us stopped, Sam and Tom looking awkward. “You guys go on,” I said. “I'll stay with him. I'm not that big a football fan anyway.” We weren't the only ones who weren't going down. There were a few others there with physical reasons like Nick, and many like me who had enjoyed the outing overall but were not big enough fans that they considered actually touching the turf a necessity. But I could tell that Nick was not taking this turn of events well. Our guide, I guess, sensed this as well. “If you want to go down, young man, your friend will b fine just waiting here.” Which was, of course, exactly what Nick had been waiting for and I had been fearing. Before I could act, or speak, or even think, Nick was at the edge, climbing onto the ladder. “Be very caref. . .” I started to call, when my words were cut off by a scream. I ran to the edge and looked just in time to see my best friend dangling from the ladder for a moment, then fall twenty feet, split his head open on the hard asphalt, and die before my eyes. All because somebody thought making a football stadium handicapped accessible was an infringement o n what some call liberty.

WHEN EQUAL ACCESS ENDS, THE CHILLING TRUTH OF CONSERVATIVES ANTI ADA ACTIVITIES REVISITED

I sat with bated breath in front of my family's television and watched The Honorable Justices of The Supreme Court file into the courtroom, one by one, all those months ago. I had been waiting for this ruling for months, ever since all of The Republican Attorneys General in the country, including my own State of Texas's Attorney General, Fredrick Lepodal, a man who is himself in a wheelchair, for Christ's sake,launched that lawsuit saying that those of us who are in wheelchairs, or have any number of other disabilities that limit movement, should not have the right, by law, to equal access to State and Locally Owned Public Buildings because The Protections of The Americans With disabilities Act should only apply to Federally Owned Public Buildings, not to State or Locally Owned Public Buildings. "So, THe States and Cities of The United States of America are not part of THe United States of America?" I had asked John, my brother-in-law, when the suit was first launched months ago and he, being a Republican Ideologue, was singing its praises with almost Worshipful gusts. "Seth, Seth," he had said patronizingly. "What you wheelchair types need to understand is that States' Rights and Personal Liberty trumps everything else, and The A.D.A. forcing any but Federally Owned Public Buildings to accommodate your type violates that. Therefore, it has to go." We wheelchair types, I thought. As if being in a wheelchair, or having any other kind of disability, made us a different species altogether. But now, of course, all of that was about to be settled, one way or another. I was sweating and breathing hard, for I really had no idea which way the Ruling would come down. One by one, THe Justices filed in and took their seats on my TV. set. Finally, Chief Justice Albert Grey Conserver The Third stood. I swallowed hard, for he was by far the most Conservative Justice on THe Court. The sweat pooled on my forehead. "We, The Honorable Justices of THe Supreme Court, by a vote of six to three, find that the requirement by The Americans With Disabilities Act that State and Locally Owned must be accessible to Americans of all Abilities, violates The Unite States' Constitution's Guarantee of States' Rights and Personal Liberty, and strike that portion down, although we leave in place the requirement for Federally Owned Buildings, since those are the purview of The Federal Government." My lower jaw hits the floor. Six to three, I repeated in my mind. Six to three? I had expected the four Conservative Justices on The Court to vote against Equal Access, and one never knew where the one swing vote would land, they were what had made me nervous. But six to three meant that one of the so-called "Liberal" Justices had betrayed us. I could see the gloat building in John's eyes and knew that his mouth would not be far behind, so I wheeled from the room and out of the house before he goaded me into saying something that would upset my sister, even though I myself would never regret it. As I wheel up the street, I hear cheers, jeers and tears from various houses, all three from some. Soon, I cannot stop my own tears. "I don't want the Government to GIVE me anything, as Conservatives like to allege, I just want the Personal Liberty to enter or exit any building I need or choose to enter without fear of injury or the need to ask others for help. And if State and City Property no longer has ramps or lifts, none of those of us in wheelchairs, or even just people in walkers, can be sure of that." I look down at my ruined right leg and missing left leg, and the tears flow freely. "It's not like I have a choice about being in this chair or chose to lose one leg entirely and the use of the other one in that skiing accident nine years ago." I weep a bit more, then pull myself together and wheel back to the house I share with my sister and brother-in-law, hoping that by now John will have gloated enough in my absence to not need to try and provoke me. At first, there are only small changes. The fading Handicapped Parking Space at the library is not repainted. The rumbling ramp at the local movie theater is allowed to finish crumbling into dust, but as it hadn't been safe to use for months,neither I nor any of my friends had used it in a long time anyway. But no one goes out and actively destroys functional ramps and lifts or paints over handicapped parking spaces at State and Locally owned public venues. "Although," says John when I mention this one night at dinner. "Technically, we could. . ." My sister gets to her feet. "John," she says with fire in her eyes and looking ready to breathe it. "The Supreme Court may have said that people such as Seth do not have a Constitutional Leal Right to Equal Access to State and Locally Owned Public Buildings, but Seth is still OUR family. You will restrain such comments to your weekly night at the with your Conservative Buddies." John raises a placating hand. "I meant no disrespect. I was just thinking out loud." "Well," says Tina, sitting back down. "Do not think things like that aloud." I have had to live with my sister and brother-in-law ever since the accident, for my injuries, not all physical or at least not all visible, make it impossible for me to live independently or hold down a traditional job. I write an occasional piece for one skiing magazine or another, and contribute around the house as I am able, but I know John still really feels that I am a leach off of him and Tina. Not that he would ever dare say it in front of her or to my face so that IO could repeat it to her, but I know. One time, before my own injuries, when I was visiting, I heard him talking on the phone about how People With Disabilities are a disease on society and President Nathan Thomas Travers was a traitor to his own Republican Party for signing The Americans With Disabilities Act into law. I guess, in the end, most Conservatives agreed with him, since a decade or so later every Republican Attorneys General in the country was a party to the the lawsuit, while absolutely no Democratic Attorneys General were. "So, Seth?" says my sister. "You're awfully quiet on a subject that effects you so directly." I take a deep, steadying breath, then speak. "Technically, John, you are right, you COULD do that," I start off. ""But, if you did, you could potentially be costing hundreds if not thousands of People With Disabilities our lives. What will happen in the coming months as they fall apart on their own due to lack of basic up keep and when needed repairs, we cannot of course know, but taking that action would hasten things considerably." I see from the emptiness in his eyes that he would not care if every single American With a Disability did die, but my sister is still right there and so he does not dare say so. However, my prediction, unfortunately, proves true. Over the following months, as Equal Access Accommodations at various State and Locally Owned Public Buildings are not kept up in States or Cities controlled by Republicans, including my home State of Texas, ramps and lifts do fall apart, some with people on them, causing some to die and some to suffer very serious injuries, in some cases, most pertinent cases, in fact, even more serious injuries than their original injuries, for those that were not born with their disabilities, at least, and people with mobility issues seem to get mowed down in one parking lot or another every day. I try repeatedly to get John and other Republicans t see the error of their ways, but they simply refuse, and slowly the chilling truth settles on me. It is not that they do not understand that this new almost a year old ruling is a Death Sentence for all Americans With Disabilities. It is simply that. . . A year to the day after The Ruling, I am wheeling up the last ramp to any library in the county. At Tina's insistence, John reluctantly brought me here to do some research for a report on former athletes who are now disabled due to injuries for a Sports Magazine with a National Readership which intimated there might be more than just a free lance potential in this, if they like the article. The prospect of a permanent paycheck helped persuade my brother-in-law to give me this ride. I am looking forward myself to possibly being a more permanent contributer to the household. But as I wheel up the ramp, I hear a crack. I look around. I am too far up to turn back but am not sure that I am close enough to. . .Suddenly, the rap collapses under me and I fall ten feet. I hear someone yell to call 911 and and soon hear a siren roaring near. I feel like every remaining bone in my body is broken as they dig me out and then carry me, wheelchair and all, to the ambulance. But when we get there, there is another problem. "They aren't required to be wheelchair equipped anymore," the driver explains. "So they are not." "John," I call out. "Come hold me in place. There are no fastenings anymore, thanks to you know what. Or else I won't stay n the ambulance and could. . . get. . ." The look in my brother-in-law's eyes as he shakes his head sends a chill like no other through my heart, spine and soul. I have seen it before, in the eyes of every Conservative and very Republican who has been asked about potential deaths of People With Disabilities with no A.D.A. Protections at State and Locally Owned Public Buildings, but it is not until now that I fully understand it. It is not that they do not know that the case and more importantly The Ruling could lead to many Americans With Disabilities' deaths, it is simply that they DO NOT CARE if every American With a Disability does in fact die. By now the team is loading me onto the ambulance, and once we are all inside, the siren revs up again and we start to move. The team goes to work on my broken bones at once, but all of them need to work on my injuries and so none of them can simply hold my wheelchair still, so it is buffeted all over as we drive at breakneck speed. Suddenly, we make a very sharp turn, they all lose their grip on my various injuries that they were tending, my wheelchair and I fly into doors at the back so hard that they fly open and I fly out and into oncoming traffic. I fly straight at a huge semi and feel m head split open as I slam into it and my brains and blood start to empty from it. Then, thankfully at this point, my world goes forever black.

REPUBLICAN INJUSTICE IN THE RESTROOM THE RIGHT TO BE THE RIGHT T PEE REVISITED

THE RIGHT TO BE, THE RIGHT TO PEE BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “I wish airplane lavatories had enough space for those of us in wheelchairs to use them,” I remarked to my brother after finding and using the airport lavatory after an eight hour flight. “Yes, Frank,,” Lauren agreed. “I hate to watch you suffer like that.” After picking up the car we drove to the hotel and checked into our room, which did have a handicapped accessible bathroom. “I mean, I know those lavatories are small,” I go on. “I remember from before the wheelchair, but they still ought to in some way accommodate those of us without usable legs.” “Maybe you should start a campaign, Frank,” Lauren suggested. “I'm sure others in wheelchairs feel the same.” I consider for a moment, then nod. “I think I will at that, Lauren,,” I say. “Good idea.” To his credit, my brother neither sighs nor rolls his eyes, for I have done things like this before over other handicapped issues, but since I see them every day every time I leave my bed, I cannot really help it. It is about my life and its value ,after all. But usually, when nothing happens after a few weeks, I leave off and forget about them. I am grateful to Lauren for having the tact to not point this out. This time, though, I resolve in my mind. I will see it through to completion. I start with letters to the heads of all of the major airlines and also my senators and representative. I only hear back from the last, an ultra right wing Republican from whom I expected nothing but grief, and I was not disappointed. “Dear Mr. Longoverdue,”, she wrote. “I understand your frustration with air plain lavatories, have you ever tried to do make-up in a room that small? However, government interference in private industry is NEVER the answer.” I am shocked, for nowhere in my letter had I even suggested government interference in anything. Her letter continued. “ Maybe people like you should travel by car or train, for then there is no problem about bathrooms.” “I guess she hasn't been to a truck stop in a while,” I say to Lauren's shocked face after he has read these words, they HAVE toilets with bars, but they're always so dirty unless it's an absolute emergency I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those restrooms for using it. “I guess not, Frank,” Lauren finally nods. “So what are you going to do now?” “I don't know,” I say with a helpless shrug. I had hoped my blog on the matter might have gained a few new allies for people with disabilities, either other people like me who felt the same or people who cared about us, but if so none of the new warriors have left an indication on my blog of being either, since no one has ever commented at all. “Even calling me a communist, while not at all true, would be some kind of response, but instead I have nothing at all, apart from this letter.” Ultimately, I send a response asking what truck stops she's been at, but never hear from her again, and never hear directly from anyone else at all, although government interference in private business is a theme that comes up more and more as campaigns swing into high gear, which I hear echoes of my issues in. In any case, none of my efforts seem to have much effect, so I eventually decide that I should find another way to attack this. I give this a lot of thought, and then decide to confront them with my actual person, and Lauren and I book a flight to D.C. Just my bad luck, I'm seated next to one of her big supporters and even campaigners. “And I mean, that person who wants handicapped bathrooms on airplanes,?” he raves. “I mean, can you believe the very idea. . .” “Actually,” I say. “I can. Because I am that person.” The look that then comes into his eyes makes me shutter. The sheer, unadulterated hatred. Before I can say another word, he unbuckles both of us, picks me up with one arm, although I am heavy enough and he not muscular enough that I would not have thought that possible. I scream for help, but before anyone can get to us, he carries me to the back of the plain, forces open the the emergency exit at the back, and pushes me out of it. I at first scream as I fall towards my inevitable death, but my last thought in this life is that maybe at least this act will be horrible enough to wake people up to the truth about conservative attitudes towards people with disabilities. After this thought, everything goes black, and I know nothing more in this life.

THE WHEEL TURNS REVISITED

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 seatbelt 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 ISABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH OR BAD ABOUT THE END OF THIS STORY, PERIOD.

THE SCENT OF A WOMAN THE MIND OF A CHILD REVISITED

THE SCENT OF A WOMAN, THE MIND OF A CHILD. BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT. “Of course I want Chad, Ryan and Nathanial to come to my sixteenth Birthday Party,” screamed Melisa. “Why wouldn't I. They're my friends.” Her mother and I looked at one another, trying to think how to explain. Fortunately, our show returned at that moment and by the next commercial our daughter had calmed down but appeared not to want to talk about it anymore, so we dropped it for the evening. But,, of course, once our daughter was in bed, it was not something Sara and I could just drop, because we knew Melisa wouldn't drop it in the week that still remained before the party. “David,” said Sara. “I don't know what to do. I know she's been friends with them since she was five years old,, but. . .” she broke off hopelessly. “But she still looks at their relationship like she did when she was five, with her unusual form of mild autism, while they all three look at her as teenage boys look at attractive teenage girls, like I did at you when we were that age.” “Not that I don't still,” I quickly added. “I'm much too worried about our daughter to worry about that David,” Sara snapped. “Right, Sara,” I say, not knowing what else to say. “What are we going to do,though,?” asked Sara a bit more calmly. “She's not exactly a child any more, and we can't just say 'because we say so' and expect that to work on someone with her level intelligence. I mean, she is as sharp as a tack.” I laugh. “A tack doesn't even come close for a girl that was reading Tolkien in Kindergarten and doing Graduate Level Math by Second Grade. But you're right, without the treatment for her autism that the State will no longer pay for since The Supreme Court ruled that The Americans With Disabilities Act only applies to Federal Programs, and which we can't afford on our own, we can't have boys around her with no adult supervision, and I know she doesn't want us intruding on her big day.” However, no answers spring to mind, and we are both tired, so we table the matter for the night and go to bed. However, the next day Melisa has not dropped it, and since the invitations need to go out at least a few days in advance, the matter really must be resolved. “I want them at my Party,” she repeats. “Chad's my best friend, and the others are good friends too,” she says as we drive her to school. “Why do you want me to not have my friends to my big party?” “We'll discuss it tonight at dinner,” Sara finally said, earning a nod from Melisa and a igh of relief from me. “That buys us a little time,” I said after we dropped off Melisa and headed for my office. However, by the time Sara dropped me off and headed for her own job, we still had not figured anything out. “So,”said Melisa that night as we sat down. “Are you going to tell me why I can't invite three of my closest friends to my biggest Birthday ever, or do I get to invite them?” I sigh. Sara and I have tried it every way we can think of, and we can't find a way to tell her know without having a talk we both know emotionally she is not ready for, despite her brilliant mind and quite developed body. I look at Sara, who returns my hopeless stare and then nods. “All right,” I finally say. “You can invite Chad, Ryan and Nathanial, but no other boys,” I finally said. She gave a joyous shout and leaped from her chair. “Yes. I'll go get the invitations ready right. . .” “Finish your dinner first, dear,” said Sara. Melisa sat back down and shoveled the food into her mouth until it was all gone, then dashed off to prepare and email her invitations. “One bright spot,” I said to Sara as we clean up the kitchen after finishing our own dinner. “There are really only two boys we need to worry about.” “How is that?” snapped Sara. “She's inviting three.” “Yes,” I admitted. “But I'm pretty sure that Ryan is gay. He's certainly never looked at her like Chad and Nathanial do.” Sara thought a moment, then nodded. “I think you're right, David, from other things as well as that. But Chad and Nathanial we'll have to find a way to watch closely.” I nodded, and then we started planning how we could surreptitiously do this. And now, the day of the party is at hand. Several of Melisa's female friends arrive first, then Chad, then some more girls, then Ryan, then three more girls, then Nathanial and then the last girls. I do not like the way that Chad and Nathanial look at Melisa, but I was right that Ryan looks at Chad and Nathanial more than any of the girls,whom he only seems to look at when he sees someone looking at him. Once everyone is in, I close and lock the font door and then, after a pointed look from Melisa, Sara and I go upstairs to give her some privacy. “Some privacy,” says Sara as we both keep our ears to the door, listening for anything amiss that could require quick action. Everything sounds normal at first, kids running around, laughing, playing typical party games, but then. . . “Let's play Spin The Bottle,” says Chad, and we hear a chorus of ascent. Sara and I groan. “Since it's her Party,” says Sara. “All of the other girls will make sure she gets it, thinking that that's doing her a favor, and she won't understand any of it.” “Our only hope,” I say. “Is that Ryan gets the other end.” “Nathanial, no, what are you doing,” we hear our daughter scream ten seconds later. “Apparently not,” says Sara, already at the door. Ten seconds later, we burst into the party room to find all of the other girls off to one side, as we expected, Chad and Ryan making out, ,which I at least had not expected, and Nathanial on top of Melisa, who is on the floor crying. Broken glass is everywhere. Sara and I both rush towards our daughter to pry Nathanial off of her, but before we can reach her, she screams. “I DON'T UNDERRSTAND. What did I do wrong with the game, Nathanial? I didn't mean to cheat. I'm sorry. They never taught me this game in therapy, so I didn't know that I was supposed to move when the bottle started spinning. So stop punishing. . .” Nathanial silences her by forcing his lips onto hers, but right as they are about to make contact, Melisa sucks in a huge breath and holds it, a frequent response of hers to pain. Nathanial's lips, however, stay on her lips until I pry them off, and by then she has been holding her breath for more than a minute, and Melisa's skin is already starting to change color. Sara runs to call 911, and I start CPR, but it is too late, and at the hospital she is pronounced dead on arrival. Just before they seal her in the body bag, one last time I hold in my arms the daughter whose autism made her life not worth caring about, according to some on the political so called right.

KEEP THE UNPRODUCTIVE OUT OF SIGHT AND OUT OF MIND REVISITED

KEEP THE UNPRODUCTIVE OUT OF SIGHT AND OUT OF MIND BY MATTHEW LUCAS BECKETT “MR. Speaker, I call for a vote on my bill to repeal The Americans With Disabilities Act,” said United States Representative Pauline Wigman. “After all, if you cannot be a productive member of society, you are subhuman and should not have equal access to public buildings. The Supreme Court has already said it should not apply to State and Locally owned Public Buildings. I say there should be no such requirement anywhere.” I was stunned as one by one a sweeping majority, including every single Republican and even several Democrats from rather Conservative States voted in favor of declaring those of us with disabilities, essentially subhuman, no, not 'essentially', entirely subhuman. MRS. Wigman had even said as much in her speech. The Senate had already passed the very same bill since after the 2012 Elections Republicans had gained a sixty plus vote majority of it as well. President Roberson had already pledged to sign it within the hour if it passed, which as I sat here contemplating, Speaker Bogmanboondoggle declared that it had. I wanted to stand up and shout 'So I'm just subhuman to you', but having been confined to a wheelchair most of my life, I had to settle for just shouting. “So, I and everyone else like me are just subhuman to you people?!” “Yes,” Michel Bogmanboondoggle shouted back. “And if you interrupt again, you shall be removed and miss the really good stuff.” I quieted down, horrified. What else were they planning? What more could they do to people like me than what this vote had already done? How could they possibly make it even worse for us? I had to ask. “Now that the 'Restoration of Liberty and Personal Responsibility' Bill is on its way to President Roberson's signature within the hour,” said Representative Conny Bonebreaker, standing. “I call for a vote on the 'Keeping Subhumans Where They Belong, Inside Their Homes' Bill.” They're going to lock us up permanently inside our homes, I thought, only my desire to learn the full horror of the matter keeping me from shouting again. It was, as it turned out, if possible, even worse than that. “Yes,” said another Republican Representative, I wasn't sure of his name. “Material used in wheelchair ramps is being just as unproductive as people in wheelchairs and with any other disability are. So every wheelchair ramp in the country should be smashed immediately and its materials turned to more productive uses, not that MORE productive is too hard, since at present that material is just as unproductive as the people who use those ramps, so any other use, in being at least somewhat productive, would be much more productive.” I COULD NOT believe what I was hearing. How could a party that called itself 'Pro Life' have that little regard for my life and the lives of others like me. I didn't have to worry about getting thrown out for another interruption, though, because I was too stunned and angry to say anything. As the vote was overwhelmingly for this measure as well, for a moment my heart stopped beating. Then it resumed, faster than ever, but I still could not speak. “Begin at once,” said The Speaker. “The Senate voted as we did at the same time we did, and the President has already said that he will sign it.” Suddenly, I and everyone around me was on the move, wanting to reach the doors and get down the ramps while they were still there. Some of the people in the very front made it, but most of us did not. Those already on the ramps when the hammers began to fall were flung screaming to the ground and most of them were buried in the debris and or trampled to mush by the people doing the smashing. When all of the ramps were beaten into rubble, the workers left without even a glance at those of us still trapped on the platform the capital is set upon. “What do we do now,John?” my friend Titania asked me. “I guess we just wait and hope some of The Democrats will help us down,” I replied. “For what, a life of total isolation?” she asked. “Completely cut off from everyone except when they choose to come to visit us? No, thank you.” Before I could say or do anything, she wheeled herself to and then off the edge of the platform. She did not even scream as she hit the ground and burst apart, so great, I guessed, was her despair at this turn of events that even dying in that way seemed less to be feared. Several others followed her example, but the rest of us waited for and eventually received help getting down. Not that our problems ended there, with this taking immediate effect nation wide. But by begging, bribing, crying and some luck, I eventually made it home. Since then, I've been here on my own, since I live alone, although once a week a friend does come by in secret at night with some food. This is how I have lived for the past two months, and I cannot stand it any longer. Titania was right. This is no way to live, human or subhuman. I have agonized over this for weeks, but I simply CANNOT go on living this way. So, having typed this account for whomever finds me, in the hopes that they will care, I load my gun, say a swift prayer imploring forgiveness since there is no other way, stick the gun in my mouth and eat a bullet. ANYONE WHO OPPOSES EVEN ONE COMMA OF THE AMERICANS WITH DISABILITIES ACT FOR ANY REASON AT ALL WHATSOEVER AND ITS APPLICATION TO ALL PUBLIC BUILDINGS, FEDERALLY, STATE AND LOCALLY OWNED, SUPPORTS THE COURSE THAT THE NARRATOR OF THIS STORY TAKES IN ITS ENTIRETY, PERIOD.