The View from Below

In an attempt to inspire creativity, my friends and I collectively decided to get the gang together for a trip to The High Museum of Arts. Planned weeks in advance, I was eagerly anticipating this adventure, surrounded by good company of like minded souls and heavily opiniated lovers of the arts. To my dismay, the weekend prior to this grand endeavor, though temporarily, I conveniently incurred the experience of undergoing a physical disability when my partner mistakenly produced on ankle contusion by ramming me directly in the bone with an electric scooter. He was only slightly tipsy, I was fully sober, and I hadn't even begun to mount my electric mode of sporty transportation before the collision occurred and knocked the wind deep from within my chest.

In simplest terms, walking soon became difficult. I wouldn't be myself if I didn't refused a doctor's visit for a full week, believing I could continue on. Perseverance runs in my veins, and the body cannot be limited by pain. I was wrong, of course. Days of hobbling turned to a week, until the art of walking morphed into a foreboding and painful tax on the remainder of my body. Needless to say, I was terribly slow and in too much discomfort to conquer the museum by foot with my mostly able bodied cohorts.

As city dwellers often do, a small group of us enjoyed Sunday brunch at a nearby restaurant before entering the museum. We floated the idea of utilizing the complimentary wheel chairs provided by the Woodruff Arts Center before arrival. Our 300ft journey from the cafe to our second destination proved this accommodation more than convenient, but essential to the success of this experience. After the estimated three minute route turned to a fifteen minute hike, and briskly moving elderly citizens strolled by my limping form on the sidewalk with ease, my partner sat me down on a bench outside of the entry of the High.

He located the security officer's station and beckoned me over to claim my throne. I climbed into the chair with shame, believing I was not worthy of a such an accommodation, or that perhaps there would be others more in need than myself. Our small group of four encouraged me to not only accept the resource, but to accept my injury. All I could think about was the fact that I could walk, all-be-it not well or with any sort of efficiency, but I could do it. Accepting the chair felt like a crime, like I'd stolen something that didn't belong to me, like an elaborate privilege that I had no business being granted. It was an internal battle of ablism at it's finniest, a case of inner turmoil I'd never known existed until this exact moment. As I turned over the definition of a disability in my mind, back and forth and in every direction, I conceded to the fact that my injury did indeed classify as such. American culture had stained my awareness. There was no need to pull up my boot straps and carry on.

As the rest of the group began to arrive, my cheeks flushed with heat at each greeting and every question lending itself to the necessity of the wheelchair. I explained my temporary situation to each companion with a sense of remorse, only to be met with care and support from every member of the party. Although the view from below was a strange adjustment, and my voice has always been soft and small, I did my best to carry out our mission. The collective gathered round, and we set off as a unit to pass our judgements upon the arts.

Then came the elevator. You see, if you have never visited The High Museum, you should know that there are many levels to explore. Each floor contains a collection of creations from a specific time period, the first level begining on floor two. Although there is a walking ramp that would appear ADA friendly, a quick glance at the traffic pattern determined wheelchair access impossible. Despite the ease of rolling a chair up the ramp, the walk way was too narrows, and foot traffic from both directions halted any spark of hope. So, as my friends ascended by foot to the first level, my partner and I awaited the elevator. We waited, and we waited, until finally, it arrived.

As a courtesy, my partner scooted the chair all the way to the backwall to make room for additional incomers. It was a lovely view of our egg shell colored cage, accompanied by the pleasant scent of must and summertime body odor. We politely requested our fellow passengers to select floor two. We did not realize that our request was either ignored or denied when we mistakenly exited on level three. We glance down to find our friends below, and once again, we waited for the return of the elevator. This time we made our selection upon entry.

The group gathered and shared in a comfortable banter as we squeezed through the masses of people to view the museum's collection. Maneuvering the chair through the crowds was more challenging than expected. It soon became apparent that I was spending more time staring at the asses and knees of those who refused to make way for my temporarily disabled form, than time spent appreciating the arts. Still, I persisted, slowly rolling myself from side to side, around the displays, careful not to run over some poor patrons foot. It didn't take long for the group to catch on.

The view from below quickly changed as the handles of my chair passed from friend to friend, each with their own particular interests. A new adventure had begun. Rather than fighting the crowds with a tiny voice too difficult to make out over the noise, my comrades forcefully rolled me through each section of the museum with determination. Conversations were vibrant as we shared in observations and laughter of our own interpretations of what we saw. With each new captain of my sailing ship, I was granted a new perspective. I saw the art through their lens. We shared in our own little world of wheelchair maneuverings and appreciation of the ancient creations and modern expos. Previously drenched in nervousness, shame, and a frustrating level of inconvenience, the view from below came to be one that I will remember fondly.