Whenever I have a Kindle or a pen in my hand or am looking at a computer screen, I feel (illogically) angry: while I can read poetry and essays from any time in history and enjoy the thoughts they encourage in me; while I take pleasure in researching and writing, and in translating from practically any language into English or Spanish, I have to ask help to open a juice box and to be handed anything that’s out of my reach, and I have to wheel myself to go wherever I need to go. How come if my brain can travel anywhere, my legs can’t? How come if my brain has the power of thought, imagination, and problem-solving, my arms can’t reach and my hands can’t open?
But then I remember that time when I was quite younger than I am now and used to walk the streets of Buenos Aires, the Argentinean city where I grew up. I would see a person in a wheel chair, and that chair was pushed by someone else – a spouse, a parent, or a caregiver. The person’s legs looked thin and weak. Their bent hand showed stiff fingers. Their head was tilted to the right, and their face, fixed in a smile. And I would pass by them or let them pass by without more than a glance, trying hard to avoid looking at them. And I wouldn’t wonder about their life beyond the wheelchair.
But then I remember that time when I was quite younger than I am now and used to walk the streets of Buenos Aires, the Argentinean city where I grew up. I would see a person in a wheel chair, and that chair was pushed by someone else – a spouse, a parent, or a caregiver. The person’s legs looked thin and weak. Their bent hand showed stiff fingers. Their head was tilted to the right, and their face, fixed in a smile. And I would pass by them or let them pass by without more than a glance, trying hard to avoid looking at them. And I wouldn’t wonder about their life beyond the wheelchair.
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