Guest Blogger: Naomi Stewart "The Advantage of a Wheelchair"

 

Naomi C. Stewart

Memoir

WRIT 101

05-21-20

                                                The Advantage of a Wheelchair

 

Clunk! “If anyone ever says pushing a wheelchair is easy, don’t believe them,” I think for the thousandth time. Struggling to push the wheelchair, I hurry to cross the road. As one of the busiest cites in the US, D.C. doesn’t give one copious amounts of time to cross the road. Once across, I look for a place that is out of the way. I need to check my phone. Looking down, I try to focus amidst a racing heart and honking horns. I see that the wheelchair access is on the back side of the building. Eventually, I find the ramp that leads into the National Gallery of Art. As I enter, I realize that I have to go through security with the wheelchair. “What must they be thinking? I look ridiculous.” Once through the scanner, the guards hand me the chair with a look of curiosity and judgment. To be fair, I am sixteen and carrying a wheelchair. I would be judging too. Wandering up to the help desk, I ask for a map. I am greeted by an old lady with smile wrinkles and a “how are you today?” I answer with something general such as “I’m fine.” She sees my wheelchair, smiles wider and hands me a map. She then proceeds to tell me about her favorite exhibit. Finally, after a thank you, I leave the desk and go to the middle of the museum to center myself. Opening the wheelchair, I sit down, figuring that it will be less awkward to see a girl sitting in a wheelchair. People who see a girl in a wheelchair understand. People who see a girl pushing a wheelchair don’t know what to think.

            Wanting to go to the impressionist area of the museum, I start wheeling in the right direction. I think. Even in the main hallway, people look at me and I feel uncomfortable. The two old ladies on an afternoon outing, a man by himself with a hat, a mom pushing a stroller hoping the baby doesn’t wake, they all look. I defiantly decide that if they look, I will smile. That is better than looking at the ground in shame, right? Some smile back, others look away. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. Off the main corridor, I roll into a room of landscapes. Causing the floors to creak, I twirl around to see what surrounds me: waterfalls, rivers, corn fields, cows, and mountains. I drift over to a painting with a barn and a field. How had I not noticed the artist’s rendering of a single blade of grass before? How had I missed the bird flying through the barn’s window? I have passed by this painting numerous times. Only now do I realize I have passed by exquisite detail. What was the artist thinking when he picked that shade of red? Was it by chance or was it thought out? I stare at each painting in this room for five minutes.

 Slowly, I notice that while these paintings are beautiful, they are not impressionistic. I must have gone to the wrong wing of the museum. A glance at the map reveals I must wheel the length of the museum to go to the impressionist paintings. Along the way, I meander through exhibits. Upon entering the first gallery, I immediately want to leave. The room is full of people. Most are looking at art, but as I clumsily go over a dent in the floor, I produce a “thud” and people turn around. The man in skinny jeans and a scarf seems annoyed that I disturbed his thinking. The lady in a floral shirt smiles and looks away. The rest I do not see. I’m focusing on the floor and trying not to run into anything or anyone. As people are in front of every painting, I decide to leave.  I roll out and tell myself “that wasn’t the room you wanted to see anyway.”

            In the hallway, I start to remember. I think back to that Friday night three years ago when I should have died. Having been hit by a drunk driver going 100 mph and pushed into an oncoming car going 75 mph, it’s a miracle that I’m even here today. “I have been through constant pain since that night and now I am wheeling myself in the National Gallery of Art! I have been through harder things than people staring at me.” As I think over this, something small begins to bloom. I begin to be grateful for where I am, even though it isn’t exactly how I want it to be. I just feel grateful to be alive, grateful to be here at all. Savoring this truth, people are still looking at me, but instead of looking away I smile. I want to show them how happy I am to be alive.

            Halfway on my trek to the impressionist paintings, my arms give out. I am sweating and my back muscles are spasming. I stop wheeling and stand up with a courage I didn’t know I had.  I collapse the chair and start pushing the last half of the way. I smile at people who stare, even though I’m not in the wheelchair. Finally I’m here! I enter the first room and smile, not for anyone, but simply because my heart is glad. Impressionism is my favorite style of painting. Every canvas is colorful, full of light, and tells a story. The first painting I come to is a beach. I see the waves crashing on the shore and suddenly I’m no longer in a museum. I no longer hear the annoyed whispers of people, but instead I hear the call of gulls and the whistle of the wind. I taste the salt in the air and feel the warmth of humidity. For a moment, I am no longer just a girl standing in front of a painting with a wheelchair.

Yet, this is not the painting I have been waiting to see, I want to see Monet’s painting of his garden and kids. I locate where it is on the map and guess what! It is right next door. Elated, I walk over to the next room with my chair. Upon entering, I’m deflated; the room I have looked forward to is full of people.

I fortunately realize I am falling away from what is true and try to reorient myself. “My identity doesn’t come from what they think of me. I need this wheelchair to go through the museum. It’s okay if they don’t understand.” After a few breaths, I steer my chair to the center of the room where my favorite painting is. Up until this point, I have been looking at the ground, partly to avoid toes, but mostly because I don’t want to see people look away.  I see a spot adjacent to the painting and open the wheelchair. Sitting down, I look up for the first time. The painting is breathtaking, transportive, elegant. I’m in Monet’s garden listening to his child’s laugh as he chases a dog. I feel the wind moving across my skin in the same way its moves across the sunflowers. I savor the warmth of the setting sun as it falls. I don’t realize there are other people in the room. I’m brought back to reality when I realize the traffic in the room. People move in and out, snap a picture and then leave. “How are they missing this painting?” I notice they have nowhere to sit, there are no benches in the room. “Maybe they would sit if they could.” Suddenly, something I never thought would happen did. I am grateful for the wheelchair. The chair I am in because of pain. I wheel out of that room, cause the floors to creak, and smile with a joy I didn’t know was possible in a wheelchair. 

The Artist’s Garden at Vetheuil

          Claude Monet

           

A year later, I’m outside the museum again. I am hot and sweaty, though not from pushing a wheelchair. My dad and I have been walking the Mall for a mile or so and are now climbing the steps of the National Gallery of Art. I smile. As we enter, we go through security and look for the wheelchair checkout area. I triumphantly sit down in the wheelchair. My dad begins to push, and I think, “What will I discover this time?”