Don’t be fooled by the term “micro-aggressions;” even small actions can have a big impact — especially as they build up over time.
As a self-aware adult, I’m comfortable with the fact that I have a neurodivergent brain. I use my experience as a highly-sensitive person in my work as a therapist, to better empathize with my clients and understand their perspectives. I also happen to be a parent and main caregiver for a child with disabilities. I’d like to share an experience I had with microaggression today, to illustrate some of the silent struggles that people with disabilities may experience during the course of a normal day.
Today is a beautiful, sunny spring day. Both kids were off to school, and I decided to treat myself and Wonder (the service pup) to a long walk in a new place: a blooming outdoor garden, situated within a public park, with lots of walking trails and pathways to explore and enjoy nature. I’d never been to this park before, but I couldn’t wait for a morning of self-care: exercising with the dog (who needs exercise to do her job), breathing fresh air, taking it all in while I’ve got the time. I drove the 30 minutes it took to get there, parked, and Wonder and I set off on the trails.
After about 10 minutes, I was stopped by an employee of the nature center. She told me there were no dogs allowed at this park. Remembering my training, I politely replied that this was a service animal. She asked if I had a vest or a way to mark her as a service animal, and I told her that I’d left Wonder’s vest in the car due to the heat, but I didn’t mind going back to get it. The woman thanked me, and encouraged me that I’d probably have a nicer experience in the park if Wonder was clearly marked as a service animal. No problem. I turned around, and walked 10 minutes back to my car to get Wonder in her service dog gear. Despite the fact that clearly marking a service animal isn’t a requirement for public access, I could deal with this small, understandable inconvenience. However, I paused at the thought of what a major derailment it would’ve created for my son if he’d been with me. He needs Wonder for mobility purposes: a 10-minute walk for me is more like a 15–20 minute walk for him. But, I digress. I am the able-bodied handler. No sweat for me. Right?
Finally, back to my walk. Wonder and I were getting moving, enjoying the exercise for a few more minutes — just long enough to start working up a good sweat — and I was stopped again by a woman who wanted to ask questions about Wonder. Very nice lady. No biggie, just a little break in stride. I don’t mind chatting and answering questions about Wonder, but I’m here to exercise and relax my mind during the time of day when I’m not in caretaker mode. These moments don’t come about often, and I have to be very intentional about building in time to decompress. I walked around the park with Wonder for about an hour total. I got stopped 3 more times.
When Wonder and I had our fill of the beautiful nature, I decided to fight my normal urge to keep on truckin’ to the car and hit the road, and instead just take a cue from some of the other park patrons, who were sitting around various areas of the vast lawns, admiring the flowers and foliage. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I found a shady spot under a tree to sit, let Wonder cool off, and stretch my muscles. It was lovely. For about 2 minutes. Suddenly, I’m approached by a worker on a lawnmower. I thought he was just mowing, but when I looked at him, he was making eye contact with me and shaking his head, a scowl of disappointment on his face. My stomach dropped. My throat tightened. I put on my polite face.
“What is it?” I asked.
He pointed at Wonder. “I understand that’s a service dog,” he said, taking out his earplugs and making it clear that he was irritated with me, “but I’ve been spraying pesticide out here, and the longer you sit there, the better chance your dog is absorbing the chemicals into its paws. Today is not a good day to be here. Tomorrow would be better.”
I said “Ok” and got up to leave.
My eyes were stinging by the time I reached the parking lot. Was the man’s message cruel? No. But the micro aggression of his scowling, head-shaking approach to me was enough to make me feel like I’d done something wrong, just by sitting on the lawn with my service dog. There were no signs about the lawn being sprayed…how was I to know? Like many neurodivergents, I am highly sensitive to criticism or the “unjust” perception of wrongdoing. I felt anxious and rattled. I found myself thinking, “Why couldn’t he just have said the second part, without the headshaking?” I knew in my logical brain I’d done nothing wrong, but the guilt I felt as I packed up to go home was heavy.
One of the hardest parts about having a disability — speaking as someone who spends a large amount of time going through life with a child with multiple disabilities — is the feeling that you’re a burden, that your needs are excessive. People with disabilities often have to put a good deal of care and attention into their outings, and venturing to a new place can be tricky. Is the place I’m going accessible enough? Are there facilities nearby to accommodate me if needed? It’s not always easy, or straightforward — and sometimes, you end up in situations where you have to explain things about yourself that really aren’t anybody else’s business. I don’t mind that people know that my son is a cancer survivor and has a physical disability, but these intimate details of my life aren’t exactly for unbridled public consumption. If a person has a service animal, it’s because they have a disability. That’s all you need to know.
So on this day, in this situation, I was feeling very protective of myself, and I had an emotional reaction to someone else’s ignorance. I wish I’d had the strength in the moment to say, “You know, I’m glad you informed me about the pesticide, but you might have delivered the message in a kinder way.” Instead, I cried in my car. I cried for kids like mine, who are more likely to be met with these kinds of non-verbal messages of misunderstanding; these regular reminders of eternal “otherness.” I cried for the millions of people with disabilities who struggle to enjoy simple things like an hour-long walk in the park without feeling hurried along or in the way. I cried for myself, because I’m tired of always feeling the need to explain — but these things need to be said, so that maybe, just maybe, when my child is an adult he will just be accepted with kindness in his community. In my heart I believe that lawnmower man meant no harm, but I also believe actions speak louder than words. Maybe, if we all work harder to teach our kids that kindness matters — especially those first impressions — and that people with disabilities often just want to blend in with everyone else, he won’t feel the need to explain himself quite as much.
It made me think of one day back when Brody (my son) was in the dark throes of his cancer treatment. He was at home between chemo infusions and had spiked (another) neutropenic fever. I had to get him to the hospital for antibiotics ASAP, but he was sooooo sick that the car made his nausea worse. He was in pitiful shape. As I was winding through D.C. traffic on the way downtown, I had to keep my speed low to give Brody a better chance of not vomiting in his rear-facing carseat (it had happened many times already, 0/0 do not recommend). Behind me, over and over again, were angry and frustrated drivers beeping, zooming around me, annoyed at my lower-than-posted speed. I could understand their frustration, but it really hit home for me in that moment: you never know what’s going on in another car (or in another person’s life, for that matter). I thought to myself: if these people only knew that there was a tiny, fragile baby, sick with cancer in this car, I doubt they’d be honking at me to move it.
Just be kind. Be intentionally kind. Pass it on.
