Allison Kirkland
After scanning the parking lot and finding no available spaces, I pull up to the adjacent parking garage. I would have brought my accessible parking placard with me if I’d known that I’d have to park in a parking garage, but I’d left it at home because I don’t use it very much.
I begin the process of pulling into the garage by putting the car in park at the entrance to the deck. When the engine has stopped humming and I know the car is solidly in place, I unbuckle my seatbelt with my right hand and it slides across my torso and back up into its holster.
My left arm doesn’t extend because I was born missing a bone in my arm, so my elbow is fused at a 90-degree angle. It doesn’t get used as much as my right arm; it’s a little weaker, not as precise in its movement. But I know I can push my left elbow against the car door and slowly apply more pressure until the door is all the way open.
I slide out of the car—a slight drop onto the pavement, as I am unusually short, so short that my car is professionally outfitted with pedal extenders. When both feet are on the ground, the heaviness of the car door causes it to swing shut behind me, so I hold it open with my right arm – its heavy – until I maneuver my way out of the car. I try not to notice that there are any cars behind me, waiting. I always take so much longer than everyone else.
I turn toward the machine at the entrance and push the small button that dispenses the ticket with the finger on my right hand. I was born with only one digit on each hand, so I use both of my hands in tandem to grasp most objects. When the ticket pops out I grab it in between my fingers. Now I’ll have to decide where to put it.
My fused left arm isn’t as long as my right arm so as I am lowering the ticket into my pocket both hands can only reach so far until I have to balance it with my right palm against the outline of my stomach and hip as I slide it down toward my pocket. As I use my right hand to tuck the ticket in, I think Oh I’m glad I wore pants with pockets today.
I reopen the car door with my right hand, careful to hook my one finger underneath the handle of the car and hoist my body up back into the car. I reach across my torso with my right hand for the seatbelt, wrap my arm around it, drag it toward the buckle with both hands and click it into place with my right hand. Sometimes it takes a while for the seatbelt to click, but over time I’ve learned the precise angle to point the buckle so that I only need one hand to steer it into the clasp. I know that I’m taking too long; the line of cars behind me has grown. A familiar thought pops into my brain: I am taking too long; my body is bad.
I shift the car back into drive with my right hand. When I am safely situated in a parking space, I use my right hand to dig the slippery ticket out of my pants pocket. I need to hold the ticket with both hands, so I slide it across my torso from my right hand until I can join both hands together and place it in the pocket on the inside of the car door. I’ll need it later, and I want it to be easy to retrieve.
I’m there to run a short errand. Less than thirty minutes later I’m back in my car and idling at the exit of the parking garage. I unbuckle my seatbelt with my right hand and slowly push open the car door with my left elbow. I step down out of the car, and again the heaviness of the door causes it to swing shut behind me. I heave the door open again and with both hands I grab the ticket that’s in the side pocket of my car door.
I maneuver the ticket into the slot, happy when it goes in smoothly the first time. The screen reads $2. I realize that my wallet is in my purse in the passenger seat. I swing the car door open with my right arm and hop up into the driver’s seat, then crane my right arm over the seat, hook it onto the handle of my purse, and drag the purse toward me. My credit card sits where it usually does, at the bottom of my purse, where it’s easier to get to than when it’s tucked safely into my wallet.
I use both hands to dig down into the detritus of my purse—gum wrappers and lip glosses and old receipts—clutch the thin credit card against my torso with my right hand and use my left elbow to push open up the car door. I hop back out of the car and the car door swings closed again. With both hands I push my credit card into the thin slot that’s at eye level, then remove it when the sign says to do so.
Credit card accepted, the electronic screen says. PAID. I tuck my credit card into my pants pocket. I’ll have to remember to place it back into my purse when I get home. I crane the door open with my right arm, hoist myself into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt. I shift the car into drive. I drive away.
***
When I decided to make this process easier by applying for a handicap placard, I discovered that I didn’t fit under any of the requirements bulleted on the application. I am able to walk 200 feet without stopping to rest, and I don’t use an assistive device. I don’t have problems with my lungs or a cardiac condition. I’m not blind. I wasn’t sure if it mattered. I took the form to my primary care appointment to get it signed by a doctor anyway.
My doctor, a tall white man, a friend of the family, looked at me before he checked a box at random and scrawled his cramped signature in black pen. “I just want to note that you’re asking me to lie by filling out this form,” he said. I thought at first he was joking, and I looked up at him to laugh but saw that he wasn’t smiling. He made sure I heard him correctly. “You understand what I’m saying? If I get called in by the Board I’m going to tell them that you made me lie so that I don’t lose my license.”
I felt the words against my cheek, flinched. This man in a white coat—a symbol of expertise and authority—was calling me a liar. I hadn’t thought of it that way. My body is bad because it makes people do bad things. My body is slow, I hold up the line. My body is excluded from the forms, it’s a bad body.
I walked out of his office, chastised. Years later, when I found the words for it, I wish I’d told him, Don’t you know your body fits on all the forms? Years later, when I wrote this down and found the words to describe with precision all the things my body can do, I wish I’d told him, My body is a marvel.
#
Allison Kirkland earned an MFA in creative nonfiction from The New School and her work can be found in Under the Gum Tree, Brevity Blog, and elsewhere. She’s currently at work on a memoir. Connect with her at allisonkirkland.com.