KANSAN.COM / THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN / TUESDAY, APRIL 27, 2010 / NEWS
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y using a special rig for his steering wheel. Brian avoids climb
Matt Shoreman, a sophomore from Hays, arrives at Wescool Hall only to find a heavy set of doors that he cannot open without help. Cattlin Johnson, a sign language interpreter, assisted him into the large lecture hall.
w, who is blind, depends on the Jaylift to drop her off at exact locations for class every day.
eos
ates during her Western Civilization class with her
her mouth to complete daily tasks such as taking
up her entire life.
titled, "All that Matters":
I was born into this world
Looking different than the average girl
Though I am missing a few body parts
And that's all that matters
Her mother still cries when she reads it. Her father, brother and sister encouraged her to pursue writing, and friends still marvel at how well she has done in college — physically and academically.
"People still can't believe I'm here," she said. "I'm halfway through my college career."
Though she doesn't write poems much anymore because studying traveling to and from campus engulfs most of her energy for the day. Carmen dreams of using her applied behavioral science major to bring independence to autistic children — independence she wishes she had.
BRIAN'S DAY:
ONE STEP AT A TIME
Brian Smith, a 23-year old senior from Oklahoma City who has cerebral palsy, calculates each step in an effort to balance his body and propel himself forward — right foot down, left toe out, right insole down.
He tries pushing his heel down manually, but he eventually relies on the click of a button connected to an electronic device strapped to his leg just below the knee that does it for him.
Brian, who stands about 5-foot-5 with knees facing inward and his back bunched slightly forward, deliberately moves to put one foot in front of the other.
From beneath a red and white KU cap that covers his dark brown hair and shades his thick prescription glasses, Brian explains that each movement feels tighter than the average person's. Brian, who was diagnosed after suffering a brain hemorrhage at birth, has extreme stiffness in his muscles — just one neurological disorder affecting those with cerebral palsy, according to the National Center for Neurological Disorders and Stroke. It restricts his movements but is not degenerative, as long as Brian attends physical therapy.
Traveling to and from class on a daily basis is problematic for Brian, given the effort that goes into just stretching his muscles enough so he doesn't have to walk on his toes or trip over his own feet.
--it cool when that happens.
His roommates help with some everyday tasks, such as tying his shoes or butting his shirts.
For Brian, just putting one foot in front of the other requires rigorous training.
Every Monday and Friday, Brian visits Marc Hunley, his Lawrence-based physical therapist of four years.
To ease some physical challenges, Brian has a note-taker for several of his classes. He requests separate and extended time on exams and occasionally asks people to help him carry books and bags.
Brian also uses a computer device that functions like a printer to write out his exams. The device connects to his desktop and prints his essays as Word documents. For tests, Brian circles the answers, and professors fill in the bubbles on the Scantron sheet.
Brian lies face up on a cold brown massage table, as Hunley grabs his hand and stretches it as far away from his body as it will go without injuring him. The process is mildly painful, and by the end, Brian's hand is tired.
He pulls Brian's leg up and over his shoulder, the other remains flat on the table. Hunley then puts his hand on Brian's chest and extends his left arm 45 degrees away from his torso to increase the range of motion in his arm.
Some days he's so exhausted after therapy that his roommates have to drive him home.
Technology helps him in the classroom and remedies part of the physical strain posed by campus topography. The combination of Brian's limited dexterity, uneven sidewalks and steep inclines have occasionally caused Brian to fall or drop things, but he's learned to play
That's a light day for Brian. His most excruciating sessions include about 25 minutes on a treadmill.
The running joke with his friends:
"He's drunk during the day"
Though he remembers when the jokes directed at him were not funny — being made fun of and being treated as if he were mentally challenged — he's now able to laugh at himself and stay positive.
SHANNON LOSES HER WAY
"I'm not a person with a disability. I'm just Brian," he said. "That's all I'll ever be."
After lajyll dropped her off on campus for her first day of class, Shannon Curry, a nontraditional student from Lawrence, stepped off the bus and into an unfamiliar world of dim light and shadows. She attended new student orientation and heard the mobility instructor's directions on how to get to her class in Wescoe.
But actually getting there was another story. She stepped onto Wesco Beach where Jaylift dropped her off and began feeling her way, tapping her cane along the sidewalk toward what she thought was the entrance to Wesco. But Shannon really had no clue where she was.
Shannon worries she'll veer off the wrong path again, only next time down the steep stairs near Wescoe.
"I'm not worried by bumping into something in my apartment," she said. "I know where the obstacles are there."
Shannon, 28, sees only light and shadows. She was born with leber congenital amaurosis, an inherited retinal degenerative disorder that causes severe loss of vision at birth, according to the Foundation Fighting Blindness. Shannon is the only one in her family with the disorder.
Outside her apartment, Shannon uses her cane as a feeler. With her red and white 5-foot cane extended in front of her, Shannon taps along the sidewalk feeling for objects ahead.
Not being able to find her way from one end of campus to the other disappointed her. She is more comfortable, mobile and independent in her cozy apartment, where she and her roommate, who is in a wheelchair, share household responsibilities.
Luckily, a good Samaritan pointed her to the right classroom.
For regular routes, she memorizes the terrain, but that can be complicated by crowds of students on the sidewalks.
She knows the routes to her classes and the location of one bathroom and a vending machine in Wescoe.
She can walk to the Hy-Vee grocery store from her apartment.
Although she occasionally gets lost, Shannon said having people pull her cane or physically point her in the right direction frightens her.
"If someone grabs it, there goes that," she said. "Now I'm relying on you to make sure I don't fall down the stairs or something."
--hearing about Matt's struggles to enter buildings on campus, Carmen's troubles with Jaylift, Shannon's wrong turn and Brian's battle with
Shannon loves to read. She consumes any literature she can cram into her audio device — science fiction, romance and fantasy — anything to escape the drudgery of studying for classes.
Online resources that don't provide full text articles frustrate her, and databases that use only pictures are virtually impossible for Shannon to decipher even with a screen reader.
Her tasks are further complicated because she does not use all of the aids offered to her. She types her papers and projects on her computer from memorization and chooses not to use Braille textbooks, which can take up several volumes. She relishes the opportunity to demonstrate her independence.
She left the watchful eye of her parents to live in an apartment in Lawrence. She even moved to Virginia to seek full-time work, only to be turned away by employers who she says were unwilling to let her show what she can do.
Like Shannon, other students with physical disabilities continue to succeed on a campus not designed for it.
Take Matt, whose scooter can get him to Wescoe on time, only to be thwarted by a door he can't open.
Or take Carmen, whose ride on lajlayt gets her to class, but late and with a closed door still in her way.
Or Brian who relies on a notetaker to give his sore and tired muscles a break and whose legs struggle to conquer a steep hill just to get to class.
While these and other accommodations help provide access to a KU education, the stories of Matt, Carmen, Brian, Shannon and others like them demonstrate that accessibility means more than just removing architectural, landscape and transportation barriers. It means finding ways for these students to be independent, to do things for themselves, to feel abled rather than disabled.
As Shannon puts it, "I don't like to rely on other people if I can do it myself."
- Edited by Lauren Keith
COMMENTARY
I tried it: My day in a wheelchair
Howard Ting/KANSAN
Carnez Williams, a senior from Wichita, uses an old two-door elevator to access the third floor of Lippincott Hall. However, the elevator is not located in Lippincott, and he had to enter a building behind Lippincott to access the elevator. That building is then connected to Lippincott through a skyway.
the terrain challenged me to view accessibility in ways I
previously had not.
Within just a few hours of being in a wheelchair, I notice how much more effort everyday tasks took to accomplish.
As an able-bodied person, I have been privileged to move about without thinking about the physical barriers that stand in the way of the disabled. Being in a wheelchair for a day was a way for me to understand, only in part, the challenges of being physically disabled at this University.
Breakfast is anything but fast.
It takes extra time to reach the fruit baskets, cereal dispensers and juice taps that tower above me in Mrs. E's. Getting food to my table becomes a balancing act: one plate on my lap, one drink between my knees.
After eating, I move toward the wheelchair ramp near the entrance and try to propel myself up. I move a couple feet before I realize the ramp is too steep to climb, but I want the full experience. I want to know what it's like to be disabled.
I try the ramp, again, without success. A friend offers to push me. I do not want him to, but the incline is so steep that I accept his offer. I push the handicap-accessible door opener on the way out. I can do that myself.
He flips a switch and reduces the air pressure in the tires. The ramp kneels in front of me. I push myself up the narrow ramp.
I pull up to the line and wait to catch the bus. I move toward the open bus door and wait for the driver to release the wheelchair ramp. He doesn't see me. I yell up at him, "Hey, I need on!"
The bus driver clears the way for me to roll through the aisle to the wheelchair-accessible seat.
The bus driver gets out of his seat to buckle me in. He fumbles with my belt and chair looking for the overhead buckle. People sigh and look annoyed. The bus is nearly full, and students are still climbing on. Leaving for campus takes longer than usual.
People stare. Heat envelopes my face and hands. I'm embarrassed. People on the bus know I'm able-bodied.
Just hours into my venture on campus my hands begin to cramp, my arms are sore from pushing myself forward, my butt aches from sitting in the chair so long and my feet and legs began start going numb from not being used. The physical strain of rolling myself around campus is made worse by my blistering palms, jammed fingers and stiff wheels. Such inconveniences are surpassed only by my encounters with uneven sidewalks, manual doors I cannot open, having people stare at my struggles and having to ask perfect strangers for help.
Of these, asking for help is the toughest. I can be somewhat proud, and stepping outside my comfort zone to ask others for help is not part of my plan. That is, until I run into Nick Rattliff, who in part inspired this story.
He asks me how it's going. Tougher than I thought, I tell him. I explain how my hands are throbbing, my arms ache and my legs are numb. He shows me his hands. They're bright red with blisters and covered in dirt. He says he's used to it.
I'm rolling across Wescoe toward Budig when I meet Nick, who has spina bifida and is in a wheelchair. I tell him about my attempt to spend a day in a wheelchair.
Before we part ways, I ask him if he has any advice for me. "Ask for help whenever you can," he says. Ironically, I've avoided that all day.
Indeed, Nick's advice helps me get through the day. I begin asking perfect strangers to push me up steep inclines and corroded curb cuts and to open doors I cannot.
Even so, by the end of the day, I was exhausted.
Either so, by the end of the day, I was exhausted.
I catch the bus back to Daisy Hill and brave the stretch of sidewalk leading up to my dorm. My hands are throbbing, sore to the touch, my arms feel like they're going to fall off. My whole body is aching.
The last stretch of sidewalk from the bus stop to my dorm looks more like the last 100 meters of some great marathon than just slabs of concrete. Once in my room I stand up, stretch my legs and walk away from my wheelchair. All I can think about are those students who cannot.
Experience life on the hill through the perspective of a student with a disability at kansan.com/photos