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like pacemakers—fundamental exten-
sions of our bodies. For me, too much
time in a loaner can trigger debilitat-
ing back pain, increased leg spasms
and skin breakdown. After one terrify-
ing hour, they tracked down my chair,
a small inconvenience compared with
the real possibilities. A loaner proved
fatal for disability activist Engracia
Figueroa after an airline destroyed her
wheelchair this summer; the pressure
sore she incurred after sitting for hours
in an ill-fitting chair eventually became
infected and led to her death, a breath-
taking and avoidable loss.
By the time our flight landed this
fall, my tongue was fuzzy from thirst,
my strength to parent depleted. Even
so, my chest opened with a sigh when
I saw my wheelchair waiting outside
the plane entrance—intact, familiar.
As I sank into bed that night, I
thought about my dad’s maxim. Travel-
ing with a toddler, juggling a career and
parenthood, flying with a wheelchair—
all of it is hard. But as I lay in the dark,
it dawned on me how slow the world
has been to imagine someone like me
as a participant. When commercial air
travel took off in the mid–20th century, many wheelchair
users were still trapped at home or in institutions, made in-
visible by an inaccessible world. There was no legislation that
required a space to accommodate a wheelchair. That meant
banks, schools, businesses, buses, trains, sidewalks, parking
lots and public restrooms were largely off-limits. Even the
transformative Americans With Disabilities Act of 1990 did
not apply to air travel. Airlines have yet to catch up to the fact
that hundreds of thousands of people travel in wheelchairs in
the U.S. each year.
I am my father’s daughter. I work hard and don’t gripe.
I also grew up disabled. I learned to joke and go with the
flow, even when I’m made small by an ableist world. Still,
I’ve started to see how often I’m expected to use this tool—
as if the ability to roll with the punches doesn’t come with
a cost, or the capacity to keep my chin up means there isn’t
a problem. Right now, even when it goes well, flying with
a wheelchair means signing an invisible contract that says
you agree to give up your dignity, autonomy and indepen-
dence for the duration of the experience.
Accommodations are almost always considered “unrea-
sonable” until they’re actualized, at which point almost ev-
eryone, regardless of disability, appreciates them. Consider
how often we rely on and enjoy video captions, audiobooks
and curb cuts. Before the pandemic, disabled people were
told time and time again that telehealth and working remotely
were impossible. And here we are.
Who else would benefit from rethinking air travel? Peo-
ple in larger bodies or bodies in pain? People traveling with
children? What if accommodations weren’t reserved for
extra ordinary circumstances? What if we took this moment
of rebuilding to listen to the ones on the edges experienc-
ing the brunt of our inadequate systems, and used their
insights to make those systems work better for all of us?
I realize there is not a simple fix. Making planes accessi-
ble will require expertise, collaboration, dedication, money
and time. But I also think we are up to the challenge. In
fact, you might be surprised to learn that the technology to
safely secure a wheelchair in a plane is already under way,
thanks to the efforts of Michele Erwin, a mom with a son
who uses a wheelchair. While working her full-time job,
Erwin spearheaded All Wheels Up, a nonprofit that crash-
tests wheelchairs to make commercial flights accessible.
There is so much work ahead, but Erwin’s tenacity has al-
ready sparked more progress than we’ve seen in decades.
Life is so hard, isn’t it? We are tied to bodies that are in-
herently vulnerable to viruses, disease and injury. There’s so
much outside our control. That feeling can make us want to
turn inward—to prioritize our own momentary survival. But
when we do that, we cut ourselves off from our greatest tool
for long-term survival: each other. We expect individuals to
toughen up, but I wonder about a collective toughening up.
Because together we are capable of making this place so much
better—kinder and more inclusive. It might be hard, but hard
doesn’t have to be a bad thing.
Taussig is the author of Sitting Pretty: The View From My
Ordinary Resilient Disabled Body
△
The author took
a three-hour
flight with
her partner
and toddler in
September
COURTESY REBEKAH TAUSSIG (3)
