Accessibility in Canada is broken
The Illusion
Someone places a beautiful present in front of you. The gold wrapping hugs each edge of the box. Perfect seams and creases lay pressed with tape. A red ribbon meets at the top, forming a plush, perfectly centered bow.
You hold the ribbon between your fingers and pull. The sound of tearing wrapping paper fills you with excitement. You open the box, pulling back each fold. It’s not what you wanted. In fact, it couldn’t be further from helpful, useful, or even thoughtful.
You force a smile. “Oh my God,” you say. “I love it!”
My Journey with ALS and Accessibility in Canada
I have lived with ALS for 12 years. My symptoms started in January 2013, and doctors diagnosed me in September 2014. (Learn more about my journey on my About page.)
Since then, I’ve seen firsthand how accessibility in Canada is broken—from inadequate healthcare support to inaccessible public spaces that isolate disabled people.
I remember discussing potential motorized wheelchairs with my occupational therapist for the first time. She listed some examples of what I could receive.
“I was thinking something all-terrain,” I said.
“They make those,” she said, “but they’re not covered, so you would have to find your own funding.”
I can’t go anywhere I want to go? I thought. But this is CANADA.
(Canada has laws about accessibility, but they often fail to meet real needs, source).
My patriotism has slowly deteriorated over the years, with innumerable instances where I was shocked with the normalization of my exclusion or dehumanization. Disability human rights should guarantee full participation in society, yet accessibility remains an afterthought.
The emotion I feel when I now say to myself, This is Canada, has evolved from confusion and wonder to anticipated fury and resentment.
The disappointment embedded into, This is Canada, has become a malicious and bitter, I hate it here.
Navigating Travel as a Disabled Person in Canada
When I was still bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, naive, and optimistic, I traveled often. Usually, I visited my American boyfriend before he became my husband.
The airport had a small transit system for disabled and older travelers. Staff gathered us in an open area to wait our turn for transportation to customs, baggage, or connecting gates.
One dark evening, upon arriving in the motherland, the unfortunately short-staffed airport left some of us waiting for hours.
Several flights had landed at the same time and the hustle of hundreds, if not thousands of people became a congested bustle.
While ableds happily jaunted away, out of eyesight and probably home, I waited.
The Reality of Accessibility Barriers in Canada
With the time that had passed and the accumulation of unprocessed travelers at customs, when it was finally my turn, the woman who was pushing me, Kelly, rolled me past lines and lines of able-bodied people.
People who didn’t know that I had probably landed well before them. People who also didn’t know that everything I do takes exponentially longer.
As we skipped in front of dozens of people to take the elevator, a white, middle-aged woman started screaming at me.
“UM. No,” she trilled. “We were here first. You don’t get to skip in front of us.”
I wasn’t the one pushing my wheelchair. And aside from the fact that I had, more than likely, been at the airport first and had fairly waited my turn… the staff assisting the travelers with accommodations were limited and still had dozens of people to go and help.
Kelly continued to quietly squeeze her way past the woman, hundreds of people watching, with nothing but crickets to come to my defense. Their silence felt like agreement.
The woman continued to posture in front of us, trying to prevent me from continuing my journey and inhibiting Kelly’s ability to do her job.
Kelly quietly maneuvered until we passed her, but my heart was racing. I felt embarrassed and guilty.
When I got to the car, my friend giving me the ride said, “You landed hours ago. What took so long?”
Here are empty wheelchairs in an airport, because by the time people have been accommodated, they’ve probably been cured. Because Accessibility in Canada is broken!
Exclusion in Everyday Life
Canadians are so accustomed to convenience that my experience boils down to accepting that even those who love me won’t socially sacrifice themselves for my inclusion. Accessibility in Canada is broken, and society expects disabled people to accept exclusion as normal.
Due to the lack of parking areas, my caregivers have faced harassment from neighbours for parking on the road outside my house. Many establishments don’t have automatic doors or if they do they are broken. At gatherings, I’m regularly expected to sit alone.
Recently, my kids attended a birthday party in a completely inaccessible building. While everyone celebrated upstairs, I sat alone on the bottom floor. No one hesitated to leave me there.
In the car afterward, my husband said, “It’s not about you.”
“It’s not about you either, but you got to go,” I replied. “When we act like including people is a big deal, we normalize never including them—unless it’s their birthday.”
As a result, people treat the bare minimum for accessibility with indifference. God forbid I ever say something.
The Burden of Gratitude
I’m so lucky to have been welcomed in the first place… To have people to transport me even if it’s going to take hours longer than every other person and cost me by dignity by becoming accustomed to being accosted.
I’m so lucky to be Canadian.
It feels like most people view disability human rights as optional instead of something everyone should have by default. Accessibility in Canada is broken, and society expects disabled people to accept exclusion as normal. I must receive meager inclusion with a forced smile.
It is a gift, not a right.
And you have to be grateful for a gift.
(For more about ALS and accessibility advocacy, visit the ALS Society of Canada.)”