Her disability usually isn't obvious when you meet her. And when she's home visiting my parents, she spends a fair amount of time out in the city on her own. She takes the bus, she shops, she goes to restaurants. She gets her nails done.
My dad gives her her walking-around money as five-dollar bills to limit how much she can lose if someone decides to cheat her when giving change.
But like I say, mostly her disability is invisible. And when folks do notice, they're usually cool about it.
(I remember once, years ago, I was out with L and we got into some sort of awkward situation. I wanted to explain to the woman we were inconveniencing, and so I said "she's..." And then I wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. The woman said "a little slow." It wasn't a phrase I'd ever use myself, and I cringe a little typing it, but she said it with love, and when she said it I felt myself unclench. We were among friends.)
But here's something I wish I could tell everyone in the city: Not everyone can read.
I see it at least once a month, when I'm out and around. Someone on the subway or the street or in a shop will ask a question. "Is this the 14th Street stop?" "How much is a Big Mac?" "What kind of iced tea do you have?" Usually, whoever's asked will answer appropriately, but too often they'll glance up and say "read the sign."
My sister will take a menu when she's offered it. But she can't read.
She'll flip through a magazine when she's bored. But she can't read.
She has a library card. But she can't read.
She's 32 years old, and she looks like any other 32-year-old on the subway. But she can't read.
My sister is good at keeping her disability to herself. She likes keeping her disability to herself. When she's out on the street, away from all of us who know and love and worry about her, she's just another New Yorker. But every once in a while, she could use a little help maintaining her public face.
As we all could.
Today is Blog Against Disablism Day, and you can read. Go read.