written Spring 2024
When she was born, the doctors hadn't known what to say; there was no diagnostic label in their vocabulary to describe her. The obvious option was syndactyly, "webbed feet," but that didn't really get to the heart of the matter, did it? Because yes, her feet were webbed, but it was more than that: you see, Idoya had duck feet.
The people in her village, though, didn't struggle with terminology. They were steeped in Basque legends, and they knew the word for her was lamia. What was less clear was how she had come to be, as neither of her parents were lamiak. But she otherwise looked so very much like her parents, the same eyes and nose and hair, that there was no doubt she was theirs. So in the end, the community accepted it as just being "one of those things." And her community never made a big deal out of it or made her feel freakish, and they were more than willing to help her when needed.
But then she moved to the city for college.
Okay, it was 9:45. Her meeting was at 10:30. The trip took 20 minutes, which would leave her just under 25 to get from the bus stop to Dr. Mendialdea's office for her grad school interview.
Alright. She could do this.
Idoya threw on her coat, grabbed her bag, tugged her gloves and her booties on. She was taking her wheelchair, so she didn't technically need shoes, but she still preferred to wear them—she'd learned since going to college that it made people less likely to stare, even though her triangular boots still didn't exactly hide the fact that her feet were… funky, to say the least.
Keys in bag. Phone in bag. Water bottle in bag. She was ready to go.
She unlocked the brakes of her wheelchair. She launched herself forward by the push rims. She rolled from the kitchen island to the front door.
Then the front wheel fell off.
She blinked. Huh. That was new.
Idoya sat there, chair leaning uncomfortably, staring blankly at the wall for a moment. When her brain finally registered what had happened, she cursed under her breath, locked her chair, stood, leaned against the wall, investigated the damage.
Yep, that wheel was fully off her chair. She didn't even know that was possible.
Well, it wasn't like she knew how to fix it herself, and she didn't have the time to do so even if she did. So, wiping the tears of frustration from her eyes, she waddled to her bedroom, grabbed her forearm crutches, and set out.
A few days ago, over a glass of wine, Idoya had been talking to her best friend Mirai. "The fun thing about being an ambulatory wheelchair-user—like, being technically able to walk but still needing a wheelchair—is that when someone sees you walk, they often decide that you must be faking your Disability and you must not actually need your wheelchair," Idoya explained. "It entirely changes the way they look at you. Even though walking causes me pain and I can't do it for very long—and despite the fact that most wheelchair-users are actually ambulatory wheelchair-users—they still would rather believe that I conned my government insurance into paying for a chair I don't actually need than to assume that I have a valid medical reason for using my chair." She paused, then added, "Plus, people stare."
Mirai scoffed. "People are so ignorant. I grew up with you; I've seen you struggle to walk for as long as I can remember. You most certainly need your chair."
Idoya hummed in agreement. "I'm just hoping my wheelchair servicer fixes my wheel before my interview. I mean, it's been two weeks since my tire popped; how long can it possibly take them to replace it?"
"I'm sure it'll work out," Mirai assured her. "They'll get it back to you soon, and then you're all set."
Idoya let out a breath. "That is, assuming those clowns don't break something else while they're fixing it."
Mirai just crossed her fingers.
Walking took so much more time and energy than rolling, and by the time Idoya got off at the bus stop at the university—already peeved from having been stared at for the whole ride—she only had 10 minutes to find the right office in the right building. Her feet hurt from the uneven sidewalk, and she could feel the anxiety blooming in her chest as her interview time approached. Please don't let them look at me differently when I roll up next semester, she prayed.
Idoya stepped up to the door of the building. She pressed the push button to open it. It made a clicking noise. The door stayed shut.
She scowled. Took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Reminded herself that this may be the only accessible door. Opened her eyes. Twisted her hand at an awkward angle to wrestle the door open, hold it ajar with one crutch, and manoeuvre her way into the building.
By the time she managed to find Dr. Mendialdea's office, she had only one minute to spare.
There was a sign on the door.
Osabide Mendialdea, Ph.D.
Pronouns: she/her/hers
Professor of Critical Disability Studies
Chair of the Department of Cultural Studies
Idoya knocked.
There was a shuffling behind the door before a smooth alto told her to come in.
She opened the door.
Idoya had done extensive research on Dr. Mendialdea before applying to do her Ph.D. with her, but the one thing she'd never been able to find was a full-body picture. And it wasn't like it actually mattered to her—she'd been primarily searching for a video of Dr. Mendialdea speaking about her work so she knew if their research interests were complementary. But now that she could see her full body, she couldn't help but wish she'd known earlier.
Dr. Mendialdea was sitting at a glass desk in a wheelchair. And her legs, visible through the glass, were goat legs.
Dr. Mendialdea was a satyr.
For a second, Idoya wondered how she hadn't realized before, what with the horns protruding from the professor's forehead. Her substantial afro was pulled into a hair tie at the moment, though, and Idoya reckoned she could cover her horns pretty easily with it if she let it down.
"Kaixo, Idoya,' Dr. Mendialdea greeted her. "It's a pleasure to meet you today. Please, have a seat." She gestured at the chair across the desk from her. Idoya hurried to sit.
"Thank you for this opportunity, Dr. Mendialdea," Idoya said.
"Please," the doctor interrupted, "call me Osabide."
"Osabide," Idoya echoed. She could feel the tension melting from her shoulders. Well, not all of it, of course—this was still a grad school interview, after all—but the stress related to her Disability, at least. She thought, Someone like me has already gone here—not only gone here but succeeded here.
Aloud, she said, "I appreciate you taking the time to interview me."
"Of course!" Osabide replied. "Grad interviews are my favourite part of being the department chair. Getting to meet students interested in critical disability studies is… it's encouraging, you know? To see how much our applicants care about issues of access. And you know, I was one of the first students to go through this programme back when it was new, and I was the only student in my cohort who was physically Disabled. To be fair, there were only 3 of us… but still! It's good to see how much the programme has grown since then, of course, but it’s especially good to see how many more Disabled applicants there are."
Idoya's breath caught in her throat. Carefully regulating her tone, trying not to appear overzealous, she inquired, "Can I ask… do you know what the campus's general climate is regarding ambulatory wheelchair-users? I…" She let out a little frustrated huff. "Well, the short version is, I've been having some issues with my chair the past few weeks, but I usually use it full-time, and I just want to make sure that when it comes time to start my Ph.D. next semester, I'll end up at a campus that… that'll suit my needs, if you will."
Osabide gave her a kind smile. "I'm glad you're thinking through that kind of thing," she began. "Personally, in the 20-plus years I've been here—as both a grad student and as faculty—I've found campus accessibility to be pretty good overall. Every once in a while, one of the push buttons runs out of battery—" Idoya silently agreed. "—but all of the entrances to all of the buildings have push buttons, so it's not too too big a deal to go to another. Plus, if you alert the maintenance crew, they usually fix it within half an hour, max. Otherwise, the buildings here have plenty of ramps, railings on both sides of all the stairways, several accessible restrooms, smooth, quick elevators… I don't want to oversell it, but this is truly the most accessible campus I've seen… and I've toured a lot of campuses in my day! But the best part, at least in my opinion: people don't stare at me here."
Idoya let out a sigh of relief. "I really appreciate that feedback," she replied. "It's comforting to know that if I do come here, I won't have to worry as much about that sort of thing as I do at my current university."
Osabide's smile softened. "I'm glad I could ease your mind," she returned. Then, sitting up a little straighter, she said, "Alright, then! Are you ready to get started with the interview?"
"Absolutely!" Idoya confirmed with a nod.
And a little over an hour later, she left Osabide's office with a smile on her face.
She got her acceptance letter in the mail a few weeks later.