What is Everyday Ableism?
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When someone holds the door for us, there’s a moment of connection. When someone cuts ahead of us in line, it’s the opposite.
Small actions matter. They connect us to our fellow humans, to our community. When I became disabled I was surprised at how hard it was to handle the cumulative impact of all the disability-related small actions I now experienced.
When we think of ableism, we often think about the structural - inaccessible buildings or discriminatory laws.
Casual ableism is equally damaging. Each small action on its own doesn’t seem like much, but they add up to a culture that excludes disabled people and treats us as inferior.
Most people don’t even realize these everyday actions are ableism. An extra-long look (or a quick looking away), a joke, an overly persistent offer to help.
Whether disabled people are treated as weirdly conspicuous or completely invisible, the message is that we don’t belong. It’s exclusion by a thousand paper cuts.
What does everyday ableism look like?
Here are three kinds of casual ableism with examples taken from my experiences in airports. Because a lot of stuff happens in airports. And then - two kinds of everyday inclusion that matter more than you might think.
1) Ignoring a disabled person.
At the airport, I use the wheelchair service to get to the gate. One time, I had a wheelchair attendant who directed all his questions to my husband instead of me (“Does she have TSA pre-check?”). Even when I would answer his questions, his gaze and the next question quickly went back to my husband.
As you can imagine, it doesn’t feel great to be treated like you’re irrelevant. I would almost rather have overtly ableist comments than have someone act like I’m not even a person, just a package to be delivered.
Something similar: trying hard to not stare at a disabled person out in public. Trust me, the obvious “not looking” is just as conspicuous as staring. It’s totally fine to look at us, just like you look at the other people around you.
2) Dismissing what a disabled person tells you about their own needs.
At a different airport I had a wheelchair attendant who while willing to talk to me, definitely didn’t see us as equals. When speaking directly to me she used a sing-song tone that reminded me of a preschool teacher. Annoying, but not uncommon.
Then it got dangerous. With a “wheeee!” she decided to rush us to the inter-terminal tram. I asked her to slow down because I didn’t feel safe. She gently chided me and told me it was fine.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t fine. She almost tossed me out of the chair when weaving through the crowd, then got the wheelchair stuck when the tram doors were closing. I was scared and sad. My husband was livid. There were lots of feelings all around. Feelings aside, this was a nondisabled person who thought she knew what I needed better than I did.
A more subtle version of the same thing: rushing to “help” a disabled person without checking in to see if they actually want help. I’ve had acquaintances literally take things out of my hands because it made themuncomfortable to see me carrying something (I was fine).
3) Joking about someone’s disability.
One time when arriving at the airport, I had to go through an extra step to get access to the wheelchair service. As I hustled to the ticket counter on my crutches, an airline employee grinned and remarked to my husband “You’d better hurry if you want to catch her!” The joke being that my nondisabled husband would ever find it hard to keep up with his mobility-impaired wife. Haha.
A more subtle version: making joking diagnoses of medical or mental health conditions. “I’m a little ADHD about my hobbies,” “my house looks like I’m on an episode of Hoarders,” “I’m a shopaholic.”
All of these casual statements minimize the experiences of people dealing with real health conditions. Even if you don’t think there’s a disabled or neurodivergent person around to hear you, trivializing health conditions still contributes to a culture and a mindset that devalues the experiences of disabled people.
Now, some everyday acts of inclusion!
1) Treating a disabled person like a regular person.
At my home airport (Chicago O’Hare), I have a favorite wheelchair attendant. I adore her. Why? Because she treats me like a regular person. She asks me what gate, if I need to stop at the restroom or buy a snack, etc. She helps me through security without making it feel like she’s doing me a huge favor. I almost don’t know what to write because the interactions are just so ordinary. But when you’re often treated like you’re invisible, a child, or the butt of a joke, ordinary is splendid.
2) Seeing the whole disabled person.
My forearm crutches are a beautiful mulberry color. I love them. To me, they’re both functional and a fashion accessory. One time when I was waiting to pre board, a fellow passenger approached me. I braced myself for some casual ableism because hey, it’s an airport. But what he said was, “I love your whole pink and purple look - the hair, the fit, everything. Even your crutches match!”
While I’ll happily take any compliment, this one was especially meaningful because it included my crutches. Being disabled has a profound impact on my life; it’s part of my identity. This stranger’s compliment acknowledged that. He saw my whole self.
My crutches are part of me. Complimenting them is like complimenting any other part of my outfit, including my glasses (my other stylish assistive device). Being treated as a regular person is great. Being seen as a disabled person without it being weird is even better.
Why does casual ableism matter?
When there’s so much structural ableism in society, why work on casual ableism? The easy answer is that any kind of ableism is harmful, so it’s good to reduce harm wherever we can.
But there’s a more nuanced reason to address casual ableism. Let’s examine that.
One of the things I learned when I became disabled was that trying to live your best life when you’re part of a marginalized population means being finely attuned to your spaces. Will I be physically or emotionally safe here? Will my needs and perspective be respected? Metaphorically or literally, will I even be let in the door?
The answers to these questions don’t come from mission statements, policies, or community agreements, although those do provide information. The most meaningful answers come from what people do in the everyday moments.
Because really, people are the heart of any space.
So I gather clues from my casual interactions with the people around me. Do they ignore disability? Joke about it? If I make an observation, do they tell me I’m being too sensitive? If they do, I don’t immediately assume they’re unkind people. After all, we don’t know what we don’t know. But I will be cautious.
When people around me treat me with respect and show an openness to different points of view, I feel connected. I’m more willing to share my lived experiences, my perspectives, my concerns. And that doesn’t just help me feel more comfortable in a space.
When your everyday actions show disabled people that it’s safe for them to be their full selves in your spaces, you build connection. You create an opportunity to learn.
It’s a lot easier to be inclusive when you have some sense of what life is like for the people being excluded. And more importantly, what meaningful inclusion looks like to them.
It’s a splendid example of “when you know better, you can do better.”
And that doesn’t just benefit the disabled people in your spaces, though that’s pretty great on its own. It also creates the energy, confidence, and momentum to help you strengthen your own inclusion practice.
Small acts of inclusion add up. For everyone.
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