Doors
Doors have been the bane of my existence recently. For many people, doors symbolize beginnings. Opening a door symbolizes entering a magical world or discovering new opportunities. For me, doors can become an obtrusive nuisance.
Picture this: you’re running late for an event. You zoom into the building, only to be confronted by a thick, heavy door that you need to pull towards you to open. For a while, my response to this scenario was either to wait in the cold, precipitous weather until a benevolent stranger noticed my drenched and shivering self, or to bang my fists on the door repeatedly until someone finally noticed that there was a human out there that needed help. Neither of these experiences was enjoyable. When I’m out with my crutches, I can open a door wide enough to slide my crutch in and use it as a doorstop. However, this only works when nobody else is around. The minute someone notices me and pulls the door towards them, I turn into the human version of a collapsing Jenga pile.
You might ask: What about the accessible doors with the buttons? Functional and accessible doors are certainly an upgrade from the regular 18th-century door with an invisible pile of bricks behind it, which are all the rage where I live. However, they can also be pesky, especially when using my scooter. One day, I encountered a particular building with large double doors, and the accessible button was located opposite to the door that actually opened. For 10 minutes, I pressed the button, wheeled my scooter to the open door, and watched it close on me just as I was about to go through the door. Thankfully, someone opened the door on the side that I was closest to. Frankly, opening a door shouldn’t feel like playing a game of whack-a-mole where you are the mole.
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Here’s a revolutionary thought. Why don’t the double doors both open automatically when a button is pressed? Why can’t an automatic button be located on the same side of the door that opens? I want to get on with my day without being turned into a human pancake by a pane of glass.
I am not writing about two slabs of wood or glass on a hinge because of my interest in architecture. Rather, doors are one example of the mundane things that become inaccessible and consume more time when you are disabled. In disability theory, this is called “crip time,” or the idea that disabled people experience time and space differently than non-disabled people. A 15-minute trip to get lunch takes 30 minutes when dealing with a broken elevator or a malfunctioning door. You might ask: Can’t you ask a non-disabled to get you lunch in that situation? That requires flagging a stranger down, explaining the situation, telling them what food you want, and then waiting for them to bring it to you, in a system similar to messenger pigeons. And unlike messenger pigeons, humans cannot fly and need to attend to other things. If you have additional disabilities that affect communication or are introverted, this process takes much longer. That ganache glazed cupcake may not seem worth it anymore.
The moral of the story is to not assume that an event is easily accessible to mobility-impaired people, even if there is an elevator or an accessible button. There are ways to raise awareness and mitigate these barriers if you are planning events. For example, you could offer hybrid events. You could also draw attention to accessible entrances and show people the fastest and easiest way to get there. Accessibility is not as simple as many people think it is. I hope that someday, I will be able to open inclusively designed doors with people like me in mind.
Fayza Jaleel is a junior at Wellesley College in Massachusetts, majoring in Anthropology. In her spare time, she likes badgering her older siblings with arbitrary facts, making up lyrics to songs, and laughing at her own jokes before she can tell them to other people.