What’s My Name Again?

A few years back, I was fortunate to attend a study abroad trip to the South Pacific.  A small group of 30 or so students and staff from the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, traveled to Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, and Hawaii to observe the physical, cultural, and attitudinal access for people with disabilities in other parts of the world.  Best trip of my life.  All of us were so welcomed and the experience was beyond what I could have imagined.  Until we reached Hawaii.  In three foreign countries, people approached me as they would any other person in our group.  On the bus tour in Hawaii, however, I was routinely referred to as “the chair”.  “The chair” gets tied down in the back of the bus.  “The chair” will get off first.  “The chair” will go to the front of the line.  You get the idea.  Where was I in all this?  He didn’t even attempt to learn my name.  The moment my wheelchair registered in his vision, that is what I became and who I was.  “The chair.”

Shakespeare once wrote, “What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”  We’ve all read Romeo and Juliet in high school, and if you’re one of the few who didn’t, then you’ve probably at least seen the movie or know the general plot.  If it wasn’t already obvious, Juliet loved Romeo for the person he was, not the name he carried.  Society has dictated for thousands of years that names are significant.  The right names bring with them honor, prestige, and even fortune.  Some, like Juliet, would argue that your name doesn’t really matter in the end.  Who you are is defined by so much more than what you’re called.  To these individuals, I would say that my name does matter a great deal.  Not for the riches and reputation it brings (or rather, doesn’t bring), but for the identification.

This cartoon has been floating around Google and Facebook, and I’m sure it can be found on other search engines and websites as well. 

I love this cartoon for its simplicity, and the cartoonist’s ability to apply humor to a situation that many people with disabilities face.  It reminds me of the all too frequent encounters I have had with people who want so desperately to place me in a certain category, they disregard my personhood.  They perpetuate the idea that having a disability (or whatever term you choose to use) makes me less of a person… less of Jean-Marie.

            I have a bookmark that defines the meaning of my name.  Perhaps the next time someone asks me what they should call me, I will reply with “God is gracious”.  This is the Hebrew translation of the first part of my name, which is what I most often go by.  In all the quick searches I have done on my name, disabled, crippled, handicapped... none of these words ever came up.  Having Muscular Dystrophy helps make me who I am, but it does not define me.  I am so much more.  True, my name does little to define who I am either, but it does identify me as a person, not a thing.  I’m not “the chair”.  I’m a human being with human flaws and traits, good and bad… I’m Jean-Marie.  What’s your name?