This story would probably be classified as an everyday micro aggression, but micro aggressions can be huge, blatant, discriminatory and very, very public.
I’m an artist by trade and have been since my late teens (I’m 34 now), I’ve lived in Vancouver since 2007 and I’ve been to the Vancouver Art Gallery more times than I can actually count (also, I have memory problems so that’s probably a major reason). I’ve been physically disabled for years, but due to internalized ableism among many other things I wasn’t able to admit it to myself until I had a stroke in late 2013.
That’s enough backstory. Today. Today, I use a wheelchair. I haven’t been to the Vancouver Art Gallery since I started using a wheelchair (although I have been many times with my walking cane and knew a wheelchair was probably inevitable due to the fact that I suffer from progressive conditions and so I’ve been mentally making notes of their wheelchair accessibility for a long time). I’ve seen several other visibly disabled people visiting the gallery in the past, and a number of wheelchair users. The gallery has fully accessible entrances, shop, floors, lifts - even a street-level dedicated 2 hour disabled spot next to the drop off zone right outside their doors.
There are some things that are less accessible - in order to gain access to the café you have to ask a member of staff to take you to the service elevator and once you get up there you better be ready for a fuss because someone will need to move tables AND chairs around to accommodate your wheelchair. The disabled bathroom (on the ground floor) also requires that you physically go around the corner to the security office and ask them to open the door for you (it is automatic - YAY - but locked). Some art plinths are too high to really see what’s on them from a wheelchair.
Still, it’s a ‘very old’ building (for Vancouver, mind) - it used to be the courthouse and the main building was completed in 1905. This was obviously long before it was believed disabled people should ever be seen outside of institutions, so they’re doing very well considering we also have no Canadians with Disabilities Act.
I’ve made mental notes of all of these things, so I thought I was well prepared to zip along in my tiny manual wheelchair and enjoy some fine art.
First of all, let me tell you. I’ve been used to having art gallery security follow my every move with their sharp little eyes and turny little heads, having walked around with a mobile phone in my hand or my camera around my neck; clearly worried I’m going to break that archaic rule of no photographs in some exhibitions. Today, both of those things were tucked away. From the moment I wheeled past the (very friendly) doorman into the galleries the security staff’s eyes were on me. They followed my every move, even stood watching me while I sat still and read some of the large texts on the walls. Obviously they were terrified I was suddenly going to lose control of my little manual wheelchair and go zooming around crashing into rare paintings sculptures all willy-nilly.
“Whatever” I thought “I’m used to this attention”. (I’ve somehow always made security staff suspicious of me - whether in an art gallery or simply at the drug store, it’s the same story; followed everywhere). I have to laugh because at this point I probably sound a wee bit paranoid, but believe me. This is my life.
Having consumed and enjoyed many classic Canadian paintings I make my way to the lifts up to the second floor to see Korean artist, Lee Bul’s exhibit. I am most excited about this, having seen some of her drawings and models online before. A giant room of her drawings spin around me, I take them in with glee, thoroughly enjoying them, and zip round the corner into the room with her latest work; large interactive sculptures made of mirrored shards and a mirrored floor. Several of these sculptures you pass through and experience the shapes and reflections, giving the viewer a chance to gain their own highly personalized experience of the piece. I patiently wait my turn by the first sculpture as I’m excited that it is clearly more than large enough for me and my tiny wheelchair. (I’m very petite and so a manual wheelchair fitted to dimensions I need is luckily very compact - I take up little more room than a person sitting in a compact office chair).
The sculpture clears of the couple of people in front of me (I’d rather wait a turn than cram in there with them, and thus just see my own reflections and in turn ‘reflect’ on my solitary existence and narcissism!). I take a couple of photos (photos are allowed on this floor, as they often are with these kinds of artists and exhibits - the large room has four large sculptures and is filled with people taking selfies).
Suddenly, out of nowhere a member of the security staff has appeared in front of me, bending down with hands on knees (wheelchair using friends, you know the shudderingly condescending stance I refer to; as if I were a small child that needs to learn a lesson). I sweat a little, as is my usual response to the sudden appearance of security staff. I’m fully expecting a ‘no photos please’, even though I know that photos are allowed - I always check. But what comes out of her mouth is this, “Wheelchairs can’t come through here.” No politeness, no niceties, no pleases, no addressing me as a person. I am object. She says it very loudly, likely because I’m obviously physically disabled and either I won’t understand her or I won’t hear her - maybe both!
I am so utterly stunned I just say “WOW OKAY”, turn myself around so that I’m facing away from her and wheel myself out; past the crowd of people that were behind me waiting for their turn. I wheel around the sculpture (which I will note had no more room than inside the sculpture), proclaim loudly to my significant other (‘M’) “Apparently I’m not allowed through there.”, in my best (but shaky) Cross British Voice. He just asks “What? Why?”, so I point over my shoulder and state “SHE SAYS SO”.
At this moment the utter humiliation of the situation sets in completely and I have no choice but to wheel myself away as fast as I can into a corner, behind all of the sculptures and hide. I have no idea if I want to burst into Loud Ugly Tears or spontaneously combust with the very rage of the entire thing. I should state here that I have a number of social and sensory processing issues that all feed into some terrible anxieties; the worst of which is probably Confrontation with Strangers. As a disabled person I’m faced with this reality almost every time I leave my house, even if it’s imperceptible to others.
I stare at the sculpture that’s in front of me with its flashing lights and its surreally appropriate words and blink back hot tears. I grip so tightly on the grip bars of my wheels that I dislocate a knuckle. The bile that regularly burns my stomach and esophagus has turned itself up to 11 and I just want to pop out of existence with a little ‘pffft’ and cartoon dashes in my absence. I wait what seems an impossibly long time, watching the sign on this sculpture flash on and off, off and on. I can’t get any coherent words to line up with my Secondary Voice in my head, just the pictures that my thoughts often exist in are left behind, reeling and spinning and floating around. I’m dizzier than usual. I am outraged, I am deeply hurt, I am horrifically humiliated. I am a young disabled person who appears even younger than she actually is. I wear Doc Martens, biker jeans and have tattoos and extremely short hair. Who the fuck cares.
I stare at every single interactive sculpture in this giant cave of a room, I look down at the mirrored floor, scratched from thousands of feet marks, and hopefully a few wheel marks too. I see my wavy, wobbly, swaying face. I mouth the words ‘None of this is for me.”
M finally rounds the corner of the big, black mountain of an interactive sculpture I chose to hide behind. He tells me he’s spoken to the security manager, because the lady who told me I couldn’t wheel through the sculpture didn’t know anything about official policy. The manager has gone away to check whether this is ‘in writing’ or not, but he generally thinks it’s probably a ‘common sense’ rule. I ramble, perhaps incoherently about why this is such an outrage and why it was handled in exactly the wrong way, and why I just wanted the proverbial ground to swallow me until the manager returns to the floor.
The manager was good. Clearly all about customer service and smoothing things over. He introduces himself, states that no, this isn’t a written policy and that the security staff clearly have a difficult job of making sure everyone enjoys the art safely and respectfully and that yes this clearly wasn’t handled in the best way. Miraculously (I don’t know how) I take a deep breath, pull myself together, and words start eloquently flowing from my mouth of their own accord. “Yes”, I say, “but I just want you to know that the way I was spoken to today was rude and utterly humiliating. It is absolutely discrimination.” He agrees, apologizes and says that yes, he took a look at all of the interactive sculptures and he agrees, I would have no problem fitting in any of them and I should feel free to enjoy them as anyone else. M tells him how he hopes he can spread the word and educate his staff on how to handle this situation in the future and again, somehow eloquently my mouth opens and I state “My wheelchair is a part of my body, I know its boundaries just as anyone does, and have control over it just as much as any other person in here”. He didn’t once crouch down to talk to me, didn’t once raise his voice, he shook my hand, he spoke directly to me, made promises and apologized. We will still be writing in to follow up.
Was the situation rectified before I left? Mostly, yes. Was the security manager good at his job and the ultimate smooth talker? Absolutely. Did he understand how to address a disabled person and speak to them as he would anyone else. Definitely.
I have a number of other things I need to have you listen to before I stick these aching, swollen fingers into a heat pack and give them a rest.
This should never have happened. First off, there was so much room for me in there, remember that I was able to turn myself around, with ease, and leave. Yes yes, I understand that I could have crashed and damaged the art. I am not ignorant (something the security staffer clearly assumed I was). But here’s the thing, so could have any ambulatory person that walked through there. Anyone could trip, stumble, turn around too fast, be too wrapped up in taking selfies with friends, run through in a wild manner - I could go on. Me using a wheelchair does not make me any more likely to damage the art than any of the other hundreds of people that will go through it while it’s on display. This is a risk that both the artist and gallery take into consideration when creating an interactive sculpture. Had I in fact been too large to fit through there (as could have any ambulatory person), she could have easily said, in a quiet professional and friendly tone, something along the lines of “I don’t think you’ll fit through this next bit, would you like me to guide you out of here?” Yes these people have pretty crappy jobs of telling people NO all day, but I wasn’t breaking any rules or doing anything other than using wheels to move around instead of legs.
So, I wasn’t actually able to go back and enjoy the sculptures I’d been kicked out of. How could I? That experience was thoroughly ruined. I was still reeling from the whole thing, hot coals burning in my guts, tears burning in my eyes and the memory of how the group of people behind me backed away and averted their eyes as I stalked out of there (yes you can stalk in a wheelchair, believe me). I am very awful at shrugging things off and moving on. Really it’s one of the biggest things I struggle with mentally, but I am trying my absolute hardest to practice this whenever I can. Today, I actually did manage it to some degree. I turned my back on the shiny interactive sculptures, and slowly and deeply took in Lee Bul’s smaller, darker, intenser models. I am a dark intense person anyway, so this probably suited me. I sought out the quiet corners of the gallery and revelled in the distant sounds, the beautiful art that nourishes my brain meat and tried my damnedest to reset my sensory systems so that I could continue on and enjoy my day without even a meltdown.
Here’s the crux though. Why, above anything else these things shouldn’t happen. I will never be able to go back to the Vancouver Art Gallery, or any art gallery, for that matter, without this incident burned into my highly detailed visual memory. Every time I visit a gallery this will be on my mind: Am I allowed to be here? Is this art for me?
I am a person. Disabled people are people. I am an adult; disabled adults are still adults. Talk to me like a person and an adult. Include me in your decision over whether my body and my mobility aids are suitable for something. Stop watching me like a hawk while neglecting to watch other patrons. Do not exclude me because you think you know better about my ability to control myself or my mobility aids than I do.
Have some bloody compassion. Disabled people are people.
All aggressions are harm. Many actions have lasting consequences long past your part in it.
In January of 2013, I was promoted from a part-time weekend job as a technology sales representative for Lenovo to the Marketing Development Manager for Lenovo in charge of half of my entire city of Houston. For a while, I felt like I was on top of the world. I loved my job and traveling through my city. I loved meeting all the people in the 50 plus stores I had to visit and started to memorize a lot of them and what we talked about.
I even made my route have me end up near Chinatown on some days so I could stop by and eat lunch there (and get some things from my favorite bakery.) But just as Kandace and I were planning on using this newfound position to get an apartment together, something terrible happened. In October of that year, we got on our weekly conference call as we always did, but the mood seemed somber and no one was talking or laughing like they used to.
When our boss came on, she also seemed upset and had trouble getting her words out. I could tell that everyone on the call, all 20 plus of us from across the United States just wanted her to say what was happening so we could rip the bandaid off. After a minute of praise that felt hollow given the tone of the call, someone finally asked if she could get to the news we were told to expect.
She said “sorry” and continued to tell us that the parent company we work for had lost the contract with Lenovo after failed negotiations and our positions were being terminated immediately. The call somehow fell more silent. Everyone had questions. Myself included. But in the end, we found out most of what we wanted to know. The Lenovo branded cars we drove were to be returned, (I had let my vehicle stay broken down as I didn’t need it and it would be expensive to fix.)
The laptop we were provided was to be returned as well along with the phone, and hotspot device. But the most important bit of info came when someone asked if we would be allowed to apply for unemployment. “Of course we would be able to. We paid into it, we worked, we should be able to get that back.” but to our surprise, the boss said something along the lines of “no don’t do that! We could get in trouble! We haven’t paid into that!” All of us were stunned. Someone asked how that was even possible.
It turns out the loophole in the law they had found was that because the company was in Akron Ohio, and we all worked and paid taxes in our various other cities somehow they managed to not pay into it. We didn’t get bogged down into the why or how, but all that meant to us was suddenly we were without cars and a paycheck and would be denied unemployment. I was devastated. I really thought I had found a place to grow and could see myself making a career out of it.
We were about to sign papers on an apartment and suddenly I’m without a job, without a working car, and without any kind of financial assistance. Some issues happened around my family and after a short time, I got my car somewhat fixed and I moved out of the house into Dadaw’s (grandmother’s) house. I tried frantically to get another job. After all, I had just been in charge if half of Houston for a big company. Surely I would be offered another position somewhere soon.
But as time went by, nobody had called. I had very little money left, and very little outside help if any. Hope was dwindling, relationships were strained. I had spoken to at least 20 job placement agencies. After my mom informed me that I had been diagnosed as Autistic as a child, I had reconnected with D.A.R.S. (Department of Rehabilitative Services) who help people with disabilities get help with work and other things.
But they refuse to help me based on my other medical issues because they closed my case before, and they refused to help me as an Autistic until I got rediagnosed. They paid for me to be rediagnosed, I did so with no sleep, having skipped dinner and breakfast, and with a ridiculous amount of stress on my shoulders.
I aced their IQ test minus the memory portion, and after a while of convincing the doctor I was Autistic through old stories and experiences and the fact that I had been diagnosed, he agreed. That day, I went home with my heart sunk in my chest. I felt like a failure for needing this kind of help. I felt like a broken or incomplete person because I couldn’t do it on my own.
And after months of their “help,” working with a bunch of disability-based job agencies, the “help” of 20 plus other job placement agencies I had saught out, and filling out applications online myself, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get a job anywhere. I couldn’t afford to eat, and I didn’t want Dadaw to pay for me as she often couldn’t afford much. A few people in my life suggested I get food stamps. Several people in my life told me I should apply food stamps. But the idea of that in itself was terrifying.
But after a while, between eating very little, my friends taking me out from time to time, and constant pestering from my family I felt I was left with no choice. I went to the food stamp office with my head down, the people around me had the same downtrodden demeanor. When they called me back, I felt a rush of emotions. Guilt, remorse, sorrow, anger that it came to this.
But most of all, I felt embarrassed. Growing up, food stamps had been used as an insult toward the people around me, I knew at one point my family had needed them and used them and I felt like as someone who had been constantly bullied growing up, I was opening myself up for more. I played through a million scenarios in my head as I walked back. Someone I know seeing me at the checkout counter, the cashier silently judging me, the people around me, me dropping the white card with the unmistakable logo in front of someone.
I snapped out of it and sat down in the interview room to answer questions to determine my eligibility. But it felt like a police interrogation to me. I felt like I was cheating the system. Like it wasn’t for me, but someone else who deserved it. Someone else who needed it. I felt the eyes of the interviewer boring into me as if to say “why are you even here?” I spoke up about to break. “I…I don’t even want to do this.” Her face changed from accusatory and annoyed, to shock.
I let her know that I felt like I had no other choice, that I felt embarrassed. I explained my situation, and she looked at me almost begrudgingly endearing. “Son, if you need help, you need help.” she said. “That’s what it’s here for.” I felt somewhat relieved or at least a little better about not actually cheating the system. They accepted my application, and I was approved.
When I got the card, I was once again filled with dread. Replaying the simulations over and over in my head a million times. Finding a way to cheat the system in a way to avoid being bullied, I realized I could use the self-check-out. Then quickly realized if I get one of those “please remove items from cart” messages or something else regarding my card, someone would have to come up and help me anyway.
Still, I figured it was my best hope for avoiding confrontations, and I parked outside the grocery store. I checked my balance on the card and made sure everything was working, went in and got a basket, and started shopping while feeling like a spy. Like somehow I would get caught and it would be the end of the road for me. I’m honestly surprised nobody thought I was shoplifting as nervous as I was.
When I was done, I walked over to the self-check-out area doubling down on my earlier decision when a woman stopped me and said they were all closed for repairs. Panic set in. I didn’t say anything. I just sort of smiled and walked away with my basket.
The 15 items or less line was almost empty but I had too many items. The next line had too many people. The next few lines had the same amount of people and items, and I started doing the math on which cashier was scanning and bagging faster vs how judgmental they look trying to get myself into the best possible situation.
Eventually, I found a line sandwiched between two closed lines with only one woman and her 2 kids in the basket with a few items. The cashier didn’t seem to care much about anything and didn’t seem like a gatekeeper or any other kind of threat. And the woman in front of me seemed sad and aloof as well so I felt like things were going to be ok. The woman smiled at me and apologized for having so many items. “It’s not that much. It’s fine.” I responded with a smile.
But suddenly from behind me, I felt a high strung angry presence. Like a monster who’s in a hurry and I’m in his path. As each item was scanned, he started saying “Oh God….” “Of course…” and “Just great…” in a demeaning and monstrous tone. The woman continued to hide her face with her back to him and sulked further into herself as he continued. “Cash or credit?” The cashier asked in a monotone voice. “I…uh…Here…” The woman said quietly and she tried to hand her…“A food stamp card…” I thought to myself.
I realized that I and the woman felt the same at that moment. In need of help, but afraid to seek it out, and even afraid to use it once that help had been provided. I started to piece the scene together realizing the kids had beat up shoes and clothes, and the woman did as well. They were clearly hungry and frightened by this angry rhino of a person and just wanted to get some food. I started to think of all the scenarios that could have put them in that situation. But then I realized it didn’t matter.
Only a moment had passed while I thought through all of these things, the children were terrified of this man already and then he saw it…“OH GREAT! MY TAX DOLLARS AT WORK!” he screamed scaring the kids even more. He began to verbally narrate what he thought her situation was. accusing her of getting “knocked up” to “leech off the system.” He said people like them were a “drain on the economy” all while using language inappropriate to use around her children.
At that moment after the initial shock wore off, I grasped my card in my pocket as anger built up inside of me. I knew what I was afraid of, I had built it up in my head, and this ignorant jerk was making it a reality for a down on their luck mom and her two scared children. I immediately pivoted. “What did you just say?” I told him with a face that said: “I dare you to repeat that.” apparently too blustered to care, he said, “I SAID PEOPLE LIKE HER ARE A DRAIN ON THE ECONOMY!”
I whipped my card out and held it in-between two fingers right in his face. “And what about me?” I spoke out with an angry but in control tone. “I…Uh…” he said as it became clear to me, like most bullies, this one was only doing this because he thought his targets (this mom and her kids) would not be able to defend themselves. I yelled at him more, trying to control my voice so I didn’t frighten the kids anymore “Well, you had all kinds of ignorant crap to say a minute ago!”
He snapped out of his shock bullies go into when someone stands up to them. “Wh…Why don’t you mind your own business?! I WASN’T EVEN TALKING TO YOU! WHY DON’T YOU FIND ANOTHER LINE!” He started to build up steam again making the children huddle in the cart.
Having had enough of his nonsense I moved my card, leaned in with a scowl, got uncomfortably close to his face and angrily whispered: “Why don’t YOU find another line before I find one for you…” a terrified look came across his face as he realized doubling down on his ignorance would not get the job done and after a pained audible gulp in the “big man’s” throat he was frantically on his way spouting off “That’s what I thought” and other face-saving phrases.
I timidly turned back to the family making sure I had dropped my “don’t mess with me” persona (My Autistic folks know this one) so I didn’t scare them. I asked them if they were ok. Her eyes were filled with tears, and so were the kids. She smiled at me and thanked me for stepping in. I told her kids that it was ok because he was gone now and offered to walk them to their car. She said she appreciated it but they would be fine.
The checkout woman handed her a receipt and obviously wanted to stay out of the situation. I saw the woman leave and she smiled at me on the way out. I had enough items that it took a good 5 minutes to check me out. I realized in that time I was no longer afraid of being seen with my card. Maybe it was the adrenaline of standing up to that bully, maybe it was outing myself to protect that family, after all, it would be silly to be afraid now that everyone had clearly seen it.
I paid, went outside, and on my windshield was a note on small lined paper that had been torn out of a planner of some sort that said: “You will be blessed all the days of your life.” I don’t know who left it, or if it was in response to what happened, or even how they found out which car was mine, but it was there.
The message here is two-fold. First, it is easy to get caught up in thinking you don’t need help, or that even if you did it isn’t for you. “It’s for someone more deserving.” sometimes it’s just the fear of being bullied or ridiculed for accepting it. And because of this, a lot of people wait until they hit “the bottom” before they ever consider asking and even then they might not.
In a better world, we would destigmatize the need for help. Therapy, government assistance, shelters, these things are in place to help people, and if people need help, they should be able to get it without being berated to tears over it. The last thing someone who’s questioning if they need help or not needs is some blowhard with their ignorant opinions of why they don’t. Which brings me to the second message.
If you see something like this happening, and you have the power to step in whether you are personally affected or not, do it. This includes all forms of bullying. Bullies are cowards. They may double down, but once these types of people realize that we won’t allow this anymore and there are actually people who will stand against them, they buckle under the pressure. If you see it, shut it down.
This has been another [Growing Up Aspie] Storytime. If you’d like to help me make more content more often, please consider supporting me at Paypal.me/growingupaspie or with a monthly pledge of $1 or more at patreon.com/irishwolfproductions. Thank you for your support.
It’s the last day of what has been my best month ever on bifinmediasres.com! Can my analytics go any higher today? If you’re already caught up, share this so more people see it. Thank you all so much for your support!
This Co-op supermarket in Powys (Mid-Wales, UK) originally closed the front door in favour of using only the back door (by the car park) at the start of the pandemic, so that they could control the number of people coming into the store more easily and prevent overcrowding, which does make sense.
I have recently learned that they have decided to keep the front door closed permanently. The reason the staff gave me is that it helps to… prevent shoplifting??? (I’m not sure that this is a good solution to the problem.)
Here’s the Co-op layout:
Before they closed the front door, going to the shops was easy peasy as a pedestrian, it was like this:
But now the front door and the front till are permanently (but not irreversibly) closed, like so:
Which means you have to walk/roll all the way around the outside of the supermarket TWICE:
As a part-time wheelchair user with mobility issues and no car, this SUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKS. I can imagine that elderly people and parents pushing prams are also having a worse time. I am so upset that they are prioritising drivers over disabled people and parents.
Additionally, and if you’re a wheelchair user you know how alarming this is, the corner at the front of the Co-op has a pavement that slopes alarmingly in two directions, including towards the road where cars are turning to get into the car park, and there is no pavement. (There are lanes for pedestrians but, again, there is no pavement.) That corner is also scattered with BOLLARDS, which are horrible to navigate on a weirdly sloped pavement next to a road:
It’s a little bit dangerous as a wheelchair user, and it’s tricky for people on mobility scooters, which are a bit less manoeuverable.
As you can see, they’ve even put planters in front of the doors to show how closed those front doors are. /
I feel that it’s worth noting that a petition aimed at a very small-scale issue like this is a lot more likely to be successful, but if you know anyone who lives in Wales and especially who lives in the top end of Powys, sharing this petition link with them could be particularly influential: https://www.change.org/MachCoopFrontDoor
This Co-op supermarket in Powys (Mid-Wales, UK) originally closed the front door in favour of using only the back door (by the car park) at the start of the pandemic, so that they could control the number of people coming into the store more easily and prevent overcrowding, which does make sense.
I have recently learned that they have decided to keep the front door closed permanently. The reason the staff gave me is that it helps to… prevent shoplifting??? (I’m not sure that this is a good solution to the problem.)
Here’s the Co-op layout:
Before they closed the front door, going to the shops was easy peasy as a pedestrian, it was like this:
But now the front door and the front till are permanently (but not irreversibly) closed, like so:
Which means you have to walk/roll all the way around the outside of the supermarket TWICE:
As a part-time wheelchair user with mobility issues and no car, this SUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKS. I can imagine that elderly people and parents pushing prams are also having a worse time. I am so upset that they are prioritising drivers over disabled people and parents.
Additionally, and if you’re a wheelchair user you know how alarming this is, the corner at the front of the Co-op has a pavement that slopes alarmingly in two directions, including towards the road where cars are turning to get into the car park, and there is no pavement. (There are lanes for pedestrians but, again, there is no pavement.) That corner is also scattered with BOLLARDS, which are horrible to navigate on a weirdly sloped pavement next to a road:
It’s a little bit dangerous as a wheelchair user, and it’s tricky for people on mobility scooters, which are a bit less manoeuverable.
As you can see, they’ve even put planters in front of the doors to show how closed those front doors are. /
I feel that it’s worth noting that a petition aimed at a very small-scale issue like this is a lot more likely to be successful, but if you know anyone who lives in Wales and especially who lives in the top end of Powys, sharing this petition link with them could be particularly influential: https://www.change.org/MachCoopFrontDoor
Every painting in The Barkana is based off a real dog and their story, making this a powerful intuitive deck…and a beautiful collector’s item too! With vibrant watercolor illustrations, these pups truly come to life.
The Barkana raises awareness and fundraises for service dogs! Following the Kickstarter, 10% or more of profits will be donated to service dog organizations and handlers. And, each deck shipped in the US contains two service dog fact cards!
Disabled people are often left out of activism, and as disabled creators, we wanted to change that. By pledging, you’re also contributing to a wonderful social mission too.
The Biden administration recently announced that it has cancelled $7 billion in federal student loan debt for some 350,000 borrowers with disabilities
This is being done for those with a TPD (total permanent disability) discharge, and will be automatic.
It applies to the following loan and grant programs: William D. Ford Federal Direct Loan (Direct Loan) Program loans, Federal Family Education Loan (FFEL) Program loans, Federal Perkins Loan (Perkins Loan) Program loans, and Teacher Education Assistance for College and Higher Education (TEACH) Grant Program
