Handicap Parking & Cheaters
AUGUST 28, 2020
My dad was a seasoned worrier. My mom, who had a physical handicap, was less of an outward worrier. Her big thing was “the lay of the land”. As in she liked to check out any new place with a drive by in the days before, to get the lay of the land. Were there steps? And if so, was there a handrail?
Years before the ADA was formed, these were real issues for people with a physical handicap. When you still said handicapped people. Actually, once my mom asked me if I was upset because other kids made fun of her or called her crippled? I was in first grade at the time and can remember a sinking feeling at hearing her use that word. No mommy, I said, no one has ever said anything bad about you. And from that moment on, my ear was tuned to listen for CRIPPLE.
Now, every other car in my neighborhood carelessly displays their blue handicapped parking pass. I hate these cheaters. They have no idea what it is like to be truly disabled. To have such pain and physical difficulties walking that you can barely make it from the car to the trunk.
I’ve had some fights with entitlers who take handicap parking spots, and they can walk. Oh, you have a heart condition so you need to park near the mall entrance to shop? Don’t you see the irony in this? Let me take your picture for my wall of shame. SHAME on you.
Handicap Parking Cheaters, I’ve seen you walk your dog. I’ve seen you on the dance floor. LIAR LIAR LIARS. I will call you out as the wild woman in me emerges. I see my mom, and her physical struggles, getting out of the car, holding on to the car, making her way to her trunk, using the lift to get her motorized cart out. Using the lift to guide and attach the seat. And then trying to find a safe path to drive into the mall. Or the grocery store. Before ADA and safe paths. Before ADA and the demand for equal experience in public spaces for people with disabilities.
My mom was lovely. Not wild. My wild anger it is always just below the surface.
In 2005, I caught my ex-husband cheating. Lying. I was devastated. Crushed. That summer when my kids went away to camp, and I realized that his begging to make things right were more lies, I filed for divorce. He was not living at home, he was not sending money to help take care of me and the kids. He was living with his smug lying sex whore. They were perfect for one another. Two worthless pieces of shit liars.
I was so broken, so scared, so surprised. The ground was not level, there was nothing I could count on. And everything in my house was a chorus of lies. Our dinner dishes, lovingly purchased. Lies. I threw them outside, watched as they shattered! And I felt a tiny bit of relief. Yes, makes sense, they should be broken like us. Next came the bowls. The cups. The glasses. Lies. All of them. Lies. I threw and threw. Smashed. Chatchkies; beautiful blown glass, ceramics, collected over the years of our marriage, collected in LOVE. During our travels. Souvenirs. LIES. How could I ever look at them again? CRASH! SMASH! Oh, I was feeling way better. A cleansing. Of him and of all the lies living on my shelves.
His lying clothes, still hanging in my closet. I take my carpet shears and slash the backs of his shirts. Worthless liar! This is how you stabbed your family in the back. This is me stabbing you in the back. WILD IN MY RAGE, MY HURT, MY TEARS and mostly my FEAR. HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO US? More crashing, more trashing. It felt good to clear out the evidence of my shattered marriage.
And then weeks later, he finally slinks back, to empty his half of the closet. And after packing up, he changes his shirt, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t even notice the slashes in the back. And I think good, you lying piece of shit - you deserve to wear slashed shirts. A sign of how you slashed your family. I should have cut your pockets. To represent your bounced checks. How you walked out of our lives and never once looked back or sent financial support to the kids.
I find the box of Christmas ornaments. Chanukah décor. I keep all the Chanukah memories for my kids. And I pack all the Christmas shit in his box. Except anything having to do with us. Those I throw out. By the end of the day I am broken. I want to climb into the garbage can with all the shattered glass. I am God’s garbage. That one thought runs through my head over and over. Why did he fight so hard to save me, only to throw me out in the end? And if the man I gave beautiful children to, and a beautiful life to, didn’t want me, then no one would ever want me. I was shattered.
I was out of control and wished I hadn’t sent the kids to camp. Home alone. Really alone. The alonest. I just wanted to die. WHEN did it all happen? And how did I miss every sign? When did he turn into such a liar? I know that men leave their wives all the time, but how could a father leave his children? HE FUCKED US ALL. We will never be okay. I started going wild again, pacing through the house, looking for things to break. I understand how cutters cut themselves. I felt relief with every crash.
Laying in the dark, on my closet floor, alone, terrified and confused, all I could do was sob. And wait and hope for morning to come.
The next day, Sunday, I head to whole foods. There I run into a man I knew in high school. He says the magic words, “I used to have such a crush on you in High School” and then asks if I remember him. He was also going through a divorce. We slowly began a love affair. Maybe I’m not garbage after all. I learn about love and sex and how being whole has nothing to do with body parts. The wild woman in me has become wild in the best way possible, wild in love.