Another One Bites The Dust

            I received another rejection email from a job I interviewed for.  That’s a total of over 100 jobs I have applied for since December.  It’s only the second request for an interview though.  I’m not sure if that makes it better, or worse.  I don’t think anything can make being rejected feel much better in the moment it happens.  It sucks.  I’m being passed up once again, because I have all this knowledge and no practical application of it.  No real experience of any kind where employment is concerned.  It seems impossible to get any, if no one will allow me the opportunity to gain some.

            Another company called me last week to schedule an interview.  I go tomorrow.  Not sure if I really want the job.  It does not require a Master’s degree or any real experience, theoretical or otherwise, so I doubt it will push me and allow me to grow as a professional.  I’ll most likely spend my days answering as many phone calls as is humanly possible in a 9 to 5.  But it’s a paycheck.  It means I’m one step closer to a down payment on a van.  A chance to have my own place again.  Independence.  I have to get the job first, so I refuse to hold too much hope just yet.

            We’ll see.

The Ties That Bind

            I believe in the power of words. Generally speaking, I can understand both the argument for, and against, taking words used negatively and reclaiming them in a more positive light. But there are some words and phrases that I simply cannot, and will not own. I was confronted with one such phrase recently, and it is a testament to the pride I now feel towards being a person with a disability that I found it disgusting.

Wheelchair bound.

            Now, I would be lying if I said I always hated this term. In fact, as a freshman in college, I frequently used it to describe myself and other wheelchair users in research papers and personal essays. It was, after all, impossible to get around without my wheelchair. A close friend confronted me on my use of the phrase once. I remember replying that referring to myself, and others, as wheelchair bound did not bother me. I simply used the term to acknowledge the very visible fact that I could not walk. The negative connotation had never occurred to me at that point.

            The following year, a course called Psychology of Disability was offered as an elective. I jumped at the chance to learn more about a culture I was struggling to find my place in. I learned a great deal that semester; but I think the most important and impactful thing I learned was my ability to move past my perceived limitations. I was not, nor could I ever be, bound to my wheelchair. My necessary method of moving from point A to point B could never dissuade me from an achievement or goal. I went skydiving. I studied abroad. I lived on my own. I think it would be more correct to say that my wheelchair is bound to me, and I am bound only to my passions; to my desire to experience the fullness of my life and change the ever-present perception of what using a wheelchair means to society.