How do I look?

It's been said a million times before, but human behavior ebbs and flows. We operate on cycles (in reality my cat operates on cycles also). I am no exception. What controls the cycles I follow is human interaction. Until about a month ago, I had for a long time operated freely and confidently out in public, unconcerned about any attention or stares that my short stature may solicit. In fact, I had been riding such a positive cycle that I believed my internal confidence negated the impulse of any stranger to stare or gawk.

The cycle swung down four weeks ago when the passenger of a car with New York license plates snapped my photo while I was on my bicycle. Since then, rather than a load of confidence, I've been carrying a shield, tentatively ready to defend myself against unsolicited negative behavior from strangers.

Soon after the flow moved downward, I came across a book by Rosemarie Garland-Thomson called Staring: How We Look. The book studies why people stare, divides staring into several categories and includes testimony from the starees. I have not read much of the book. In fact, I only printed out a few pages in hopes of finding testimony from people of short stature, and new coping strategies. Indeed, most of the starees about whom the book speaks are people with disabilities. While the best testimony may not come from people of short stature, one little person reported he often "flips them (starers) the bird," the pages are filled with helpful information. From information that helps explain why people stare, "The visual presence of disability robs the encounter of firm cultural guidelines," to words of empowerment, "stares do not necessarily make one a victim; rather, they can make one a master of social interaction."

Based upon my experience, I am far from a master of social interaction, but I am always trying to learn. During the learning process, it's always nice to find new information and experience new things to move the process forward.

Stickers

I heard from a friend who has come up with the idea of creating stickers that say "accessible." She plans to use the stickers on public signs and on public services that use the word handicap. For example, a sign in a parking lot that says handicap parking. The accessible sticker would go over the word handicap. The meaning of the original sign would remain the same and a positive statement about language would be made.

The sticker reminded me of something I'd once planned to do. I wanted to have my own stickers made. I'd carry the stickers with me whenever I rode my bike. If I ever run into cars like the New York plate car mentioned in the previous post, I could grab a sticker and place it on the car's bumper. The problem is coming up with a clear message that, like the "accessible" sticker, sends a positive message and also makes sense to the people who read it. But even if my sticker doesn't carry the perfect message, it'd satisfy me overwhelming need to just do something, anything, when personal space is obstructed the way the car with the New York plate interfered with mine.

As a follow up to the car from New York taking my picture, when the car and the police officer left the scene, I pushed my bike over to the sidewalk. The whole scene took place right in front of a hotel. When it was over, a hotel staffer, he was probably a concierge, asked me, "What happened?" I told him why I tried to get the picture from the people in the car. He asked me a few more questions and listened to my answers before I pushed my bike to the bakery.

Last week, I was back in that part of town, and found myself in front of the same hotel, this time on foot. The hotel staffer I had spoken with a few weeks before was again on duty. "How you doing?" he asked. "I am doing good," I answered. That was the extent of the conversation, but it made me happy. I was glad he took the time to listen to me after the original confrontation. Now, whenever I think about the car from New York, I'll remember something positive.