The Exclusive Membership Nobody Asked For

There’s nothing quite like the warm glow of being treated as a second‑class citizen—a feeling disabled people know all too well. It’s almost like society hands out a complimentary “less than” badge the moment you roll, limp, or navigate your way into a public space. A real VIP experience, if the “V” stood for “Very inconvenient”.

Take public transport, for example. Nothing says “we value you” like a ramp that works only on alternate Tuesdays or a “priority space” currently occupied by a suitcase, a bicycle, and/or someone who swears they “didn’t see the sign.” It’s touching, really, how consistently the world reminds disabled people that accessibility is a charming optional extra—like heated seats or a sunroof.

And then there’s the classic: being spoken to like a confused toddler. Because nothing screams equality like strangers assuming your mobility device has somehow short‑circuited your IQ. A delightful daily reminder that ableism isn’t just structural—it’s conversational.

Workplaces also love to join the fun. They’ll proudly post about inclusion on social media, complete with stock photos of smiling wheelchair users, while their actual office remains a labyrinth of stairs, narrow corridors, and “just pop upstairs” meetings. Representation matters, after all—as long as it’s theoretical.

But the real magic lies in the expectations. Disabled people are meant to be grateful—ecstatic, even—for the bare minimum. A ramp? A working lift? A door wide enough to enter the building? What luxury. What extravagance. Surely we should be thanking society for its generosity.

Sarcasm aside, the truth is simple: disabled people aren’t asking for special treatment. They’re asking for equal treatment. And if equality feels like an upgrade, maybe the problem isn’t disability—it’s the system built around it.