Having a disability means I see other people’s privilege. It’s not loud or aggressive. It sits in the background of everyday life, unnoticed by the people who benefit from it, have no idea they do it, and pretend they don’t when they do something wrong. It is often an invisible barrier.
When I was younger, my consultant told me I was going against predicted outcomes. They couldn’t understand how I was still managing certain tasks. I laughed and said I “Martyn the shit out of it,” because that was how I coped. I pushed through, adapted, found ways around things. All I was doing was creating my own opportunities in an inaccessible world that wasn’t built for me. I made it my burden to adapt. I see how wrong that is now.
People aren’t usually malicious or ableist. They simply don’t see the barriers because they’ve never had to. That’s privilege. It’s the ability to move through the world without thinking about disabilities, accessibility or usability, presence or participation, pain, fatigue, whether a doorway is wide enough for a wheelchair, whether a step is too steep, explaining why you’re not the obstacle, and how privilege decides these things. Some people lean in. Some step back. Some never see the problem at all.
If this happened to another group, people would be upset. If someone was refused entry to a shop because of their race, sexuality, or gender, people would call it discrimination. Yet disabled people are left outside shops every day like a dog waiting for its owner because the entrance is inaccessible, and no one notices. Not out of cruelty. Out of comfortable privilege and ignorance.
A few weeks back I mentioned an incident at Arty’s school and how a teacher acted towards me. The privilege and ableism were blatant. I also mentioned how my ramp blocked the communion table one Sunday. The warden didn’t place it out at first. He thought I could lead on the ground level. He wasn’t malicious. He simply didn’t understand the barriers either I or others faced. The difference between equality and equity. People don’t see what doesn’t affect them.
That ramp, which should be a celebration of my independence, participation, and equity, has become something that regularly upsets me. Except Hannah, no one knows. They don’t see the problem. It’s large, chunky, and “gets in the way.” So it’s easier to remove it. Despite the fact that removing it means removing me.
Even today, when writing this, I have experienced several moments. I queued at an accessible checkout, was next in line, but the assistant served five able-bodied customers first before giving me a “Sorry about that, buddy.” Buddy always makes everything sound patronising. He didn’t think it was a problem that I waited while those behind me got served.
I had to wait for an Uber Eats driver to move his bike that he’d parked diagonally across the pavement that only able-bodied people could walk around. He didn’t bat an eyelid when he saw me waiting. As if I often sit next to bikes for the sheer fun of it.
Then someone at the train station, who should be working as part of the accessible team, wasn’t sure whether I was allowed to get off at an earlier stop than what my ticket had. I wanted to shout “Are able-bodied people allowed?”
None of this is malicious. They just don’t see the problem. People can be really naive. I often hear, “Can you not go up and down steps?” They look at the chair and see a “wheelchair,” not the person in it or the limitations behind it. All wheelchairs are the same in their eyes. They’ve seen manual chairs tilted and angled around barriers and assume all chairs can do that. Like this is my problem, not their barrier. Disabled people are not all the same. If racial groups were discussed as looking “all the same,” we’d recognise that as prejudice. Yet when it happens to disabled people, no one reacts. That’s interpersonal ableism, and it’s everywhere.
When we interviewed people as part of our accessibility challenge, every able-bodied person said they never saw the barriers we face. They never thought about it. They never needed to. That’s privilege, cloaking structural ableism built quietly into the world around us.
Back when we had problems with “Simon,” issues with him were dismissed because he was “a really decent person.” I’m sure they are, for you. Privilege means you can experience someone’s kindness while never seeing the harm they cause to others. For me, they were excusing discrimination. They didn’t even realise it. That’s how institutional harm works. I was, of course, being “problematic” for challenging him.
Privilege isn’t always intentional or cruel. It’s ignorance wrapped in comfort. People defend racism, sexism, homophobia, and transphobia. Fight for justice. Yet disability sits quietly in the corner or outside a shop, waiting for someone to notice.
It needs to change. Disability should be part of the same equality conversations about dignity and human rights. People need to see the barriers that have always been there and let privilege become awareness and action.
Until then, I’ll keep shining a light where I can, advocating, writing, and being me.
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