Does getting a disabled person ID card change anything?
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Β© Chona Kasinger / Disabled And Here
Does a disabled person ID card change anything?
Is a disabled person ID card worth it? For all its perceived benefits, a disability ID card still relies on others to accommodate you. This article is about the authorβs first experience with an official βdisabled personβ card
I have a flashy new card in my wallet. It arrived a few weeks ago.
It says, βDisability Cardβ and is Valid only upon presentation of ID.
Itβs worth gold at the airport β not once did I have to wait on a line that was really way too long for me to stand in, and I didnβt end up with my feet killing and my knees aching!
Its value is more unstable on the bus. I rode standing up, and I was so exhausted I actually started nodding off and brushed against the lady in the seat nearby. She yelled, βThatβs really bothering me!β
When I asked, can I please sit down, the lady just sneered and said, βUh, no.β And when I showed her the card, she said, βYeah, yeah, Iβm in the same situation.β And maybe she is. And honestly, if it was me in that chair, I wouldnβt have gotten up either, and Iβd feel totally justified for it.
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But her attitude was so acidic that when I asked her neighbor the same thing, it really seemed like the neighbor felt pressured to say no β as if giving up her seat for me meant surrendering, giving in to a bully.
My card is also worth a 30 percent discount at the movie theater. But not quite as much among strangers, roommates, and sometimes even friends. As it states in large friendly letters, the decision whether or not to accommodate the cardholder is up to the person (or organization) to whom you are presenting it β you canβt force them.
Itβs stamped and signed, but itβs not an automatic ticket to consideration. Itβs got my name and my identification, but it does not require the person behind the glass to believe me when I say, I canβt.
It doesnβt prevent people from pitying me (even though Iβm a badass!) or envying me for all the wrong reasons. It doesnβt force people to see me as a complex human being who is more capable of some things (i.e., solving complicated math problems) and less of other things (i.e., an βeasyβ hike). It only says, we have it on good authority that this person, in some way or other, is disabled β take that as you will. It leaves the choice in their hands with no guidelines or explanations.
Most of all, it doesnβt come with a reminder of how difficult it is to ask for help. It doesnβt broadcast that trickle of cold shame when you ask the security worker if you can skip the luggage line, the heat in your face as you wonder whether you really need assistance, or if youβre just being dramatic, or the pounding of your heart while you try to lift your own suitcase for several minutes before finally asking for help and hoping you picked a nice person.
Β It doesnβt provide a diagram of how the words βCan you help me?β float to the tip of your tongue, and you swallow them repeatedly in a cycle of self-doubt so that by the time they finally come out itβs almost too late.
I wish my card came with all those things, but it doesnβt. It just comes with a choice. A choice for someone else.
Now, sometimes I enjoy having a deep conversation and sharing the intricacies of life with an invisible illness.
But sometimes all I can say is, βCan I please sit down?β

Liora Halevi
Liora Sophie is an Israeli writer with a B.Sc. in mathematics and education.
Caption:
My "Disability Card" doesn't force people to see me as a complex human being who is more capable of some things and less of other things. It only says, we have it on good authority that this person, in some way or other, is disabled - take that as you will. It leaves the choice in their hands with no guidelines or explanations.