Let’s face it: owning a car is an economic necessity for many Americans living in rural areas and medium sized cities that lack quality public transportation. For most of my adult life, that was me.

Owning a car was also a privilege (in my case). After college, I lived in small towns and spent my 20s road-tripping across the U.S. for new jobs, outdoor adventures, family and friends. My little hatchback was part gear closet, part actual closet (hello PT belts), and a semi-comfortable place to curl up for a few hours of sleep. I felt more strongly about my car than I ever did about the series of nondescript apartments that I never decorated or made my own—they weren’t.

When I got sick six years ago, I was taking evening flight lessons at a local airport. I’d arrive around dusk, get in an hour or two of flying before attending another few hours of ground school in a classroom above the hangar. Afterward, I’d walk to my car where I increasingly found myself sitting in a deserted parking lot, long after midnight, trying to find the strength to make the 45-min drive home. My legs felt funny. I was exhausted and weak. That was the beginning of my disabled journey. It’s also how I learned to love my car as a disabled person.

Becoming chronically ill and then permanently disabled transformed my relationship with my car from casual to absolute dependence. 

If you live in the South, you know the value of a privately owned vehicle. We don’t have walkable cities—what are these sidewalks coastal elites keep going on and on about? We don’t have dependable public transportation. We don’t have mixed-used zoning or high density anything, which means you’re traveling pretty far to get to work, the grocery store, and the doctor’s office etc.

As far as our roadways, well, think about the frantic footage aired on national tv every few years when a few inches of snow accumulate anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line. All hell breaks loose. No, our cities haven’t budgeted for snowplows or road salt. We haven’t budgeted for roads, period—or sidewalks, or safe intersections, either. At least not outside of major metropolitan areas.

And it’s not just the roads that are left to fend for themselves. 

We don’t have transit-accessible trailheads or miles of bike-friendly greenway. Of course, this depends on where you live. Some towns do have rails-to-trails and mountain biking single track. But some of us rely on muddy fields, deer stands, cricks and fishing lines cast off bridges along winding country roads for outdoor infrastructure and entertainment.  

But back to cars. They’re a way of life. If you don’t have one, you can’t work—whether your job is in an office or at the chicken plant. It’s just the way things are for people who live in sprawling counties and rural areas. But rural folks aren’t the only people dependent on car ownership. 

Disabled people like myself often rely on vehicles just to get by—regardless of where we live. I depend on my vehicle even though I now live in Washington DC—a city with great public transportation—sort of.

The thing is my disability lives in the city with me and my car greatly improves my quality of life as a disabled person. Ay there’s the rub. 

So when I hear non-disabled people talk about how we should all be advocating for walkable cities (and parks) that limit vehicle traffic, it gives me pause. I mean, walkable cities sound wonderful…for people who don’t have difficulty walking. As Imani Barbarin and many other disability justice activists have pointed out, they also sound like an ableist fantasy that just isn’t possible for everyone. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t invest in safe, accessible mass transit and walkable cities. We absolutely should. Just don’t forget about the disabled people for whom this isn’t an option. I’m one of them. 

My Car Is a Mobility Aid

Like many disabled people who drive, my car is an extension of myself. It’s my most expensive mobility aid, in that it allows me to go farther and accomplish more than I would be able to on foot or with public transportation. While I appreciate mass transit—because it’s good for the environment and it makes the outdoors more accessible for people who don’t have a car, my disabled body will always be arriving by vehicle, if possible. That includes running errands around my neighborhood, where most people walk or Metro to shops, restaurants, and the grocery store.

My car allows me to do curbside or in-store pickup for groceries, go through bank and pharmacy drive-thrus, and get to work while retaining enough energy to do other activities of daily living that are required for me to live independently. Owning a car also allows me to travel the four hours home to visit family without worrying about my crutches or wheelchair being lost and/or damaged by the airlines—an unfortunate common occurrence that can be life altering for a disabled person who depends on mobility aids for daily living.

My Car Is a Multi-Purpose Tool

My car is a multi-purpose tool that allows me to effectively manage my illness.

• It’s a mini clinic where I frequently stage essentials like medication, blood thinners, a first aid kit, disposable cold packs, chloraprep, iodine, and sterile dressing kits. 

• It’s a mobility aid storage closet. Depending on the day, it houses my stripped wheelchair, a rollator, replacement handles and tips for my elbow crutches, and a collection of shoes, AFOs, and soft braces. That gives me options to select the right mobility aid for the job.

• It’s a pantry that’s usually stocked with reusable straws, water, Gatorade, Ensure and apple sauce (I have a swallowing disorder) and plenty of other food items that I can’t exactly carry on my back. Despite having grocery stores within walking distance, my car enables me to shop in a way that works for my body. It’s also where my non-perishable groceries stay until I have the strength to take them inside – sometimes several days later. 

• Because I live in a cozy basement apartment, my car is my office. I routinely drive to nearby parks and with a hotspot on the days I telecommute so I can enjoy the natural lighting! And yes, being able to telecommute a few days a week is an absolute privilege!

My Car Helps Me Manage My Symptoms

• My car helps me manage my most disabling symptoms: fatigue, pain and weakness. And most importantly it’s where my disabled body often rests before I return home because, while I love hiking, it takes a lot out of me. It’s also a semi-private oasis that I can return each time my legs give out that allows me to try and press the reset button. My car is where I can recover enough energy to make the short trip from the driveway to my front door. My neighbors are used to the sight of me resting in my car, sometimes for hours, until my legs feel strong enough to handle the steps to my apartment.

• My car is a do not disturb sign. It is a boundary that limits the rude behavior of strangers who just don’t know how to interact around disabled people. I appreciate being able to escape the constant gaze that comes from having a visible disability in public. This can be especially distressing on mass transit. People often overstep–even well meaning people. It’s the “you’re too young to need that [mobility aid]”; it’s the “Let me pray for you” comments; and it’s the stranger on the Metro who once ordered me to stand up from my wheelchair and walk because God had ‘healed me.’  This was a few days after ankle surgery.

• My car is the biggest reason I’m still able to do many of the things I thought I’d have to give up after becoming disabled. My weakness is on the right side of my body. I am a confident left foot driver and have been for years thanks to drivers rehabilitation through the VA. My car allows me to escape the city and access Nature in a way that makes sense for my body. That includes leaving early, canceling plans last minute and occasionally driving to a nearby national park and staring at trees through the window before driving home, without ever having left the vehicle.

Public transportation is not enough

Do disabled people need better public transportation options? Yes.

Do we also need access to privately owned vehicles? Also yes. 

I live in a city with really good public transportation. Yes, I complain that my Metro line is constantly single-tracking, or worse, on fire (again), and I’m not wrong!—but it’s still pretty damn good. It’s so good that I will most likely never return to small town life in the South. I’ve grown accustomed to having public transportation as an option even though my preference is still to drive and pay for parking.

At the same time, I live in a city where the Metro’s frequent unscheduled elevator and escalator outages, due to unplanned maintenance, have previously left me stranded, unable to get to the correct platform to travel home. Or worse, minutes away from home but unable to make it up hundreds of steps to street-level and forced to back-track a few stops in order to find a working escalator. In my wheelchair, I’ve had to rely on the kindness of strangers to manage gaps between the platform height and metro car. A few years ago, when the elevator at my metro stop was out of order for over a month, I grew accustomed to getting off at the wrong stop and paying for rideshares to get home (instead of waiting for the on-demand shuttle to become available).

And while I’m grateful for my Metro Access card which allows me to schedule and travel via the city’s fleet of vans, buses and cars designated for disabled people, it’s not a perfect system. Booking through Metro Access can add hours to your travel. It's similar to a rideshare in that there are multiple riders traveling to multiple destinations so travel takes a lot longer and is less comfortable than using a privately owned vehicle. It’s also not practical for commuting, if you don’t know in advance your exact pick-up or drop-off time. 

For the most part, I do use public transportation to get to work downtown. Thankfully, my job has a hybrid schedule. So, on the days I have to go in, I wear sensible shoes and do my best. I look for handicapped seating which is rarely available and frequently occupied by young white male professionals who are not using mobility aids and who don’t make eye contact with those of us who are, or who are elderly, or visibly pregnant. I use elevators and escalators when they’re available. They frequently aren’t. So, sometimes I find myself walking up an out-of-order escalator while a large crowd builds behind me or walking an additional mile to a different Metro so I can use the elevator. Those are the days I call my sister crying or I sit on a bench for an hour until I have enough energy to finish the walk home.

Commuting takes everything I have. In the evenings, I go home, shower and go to bed. I don’t cook, eat, tidy, watch tv or do anything else in the evenings because of how physically exhausting it is to navigate mass transit in a disabled body. Then, the next day, I put a smile on my face and show up at the office. Yeah, public transportation! So environmentally friendly! Just not as friendly for disabled people.

The solution isn’t to stop investing in safe, accessible transit and walkable cities. It isn’t to ignore the needs of disabled people either. And while I have mobility challenges, my experience isn’t necessarily representative of someone who is Deaf/Hard of Hearing or Blind/Low Vision. Neither is it representative of people who may have cognitive disabilities or a different type of physical disability.

Universal Design

Universal design is the concept that built environments and technology should be accessible to everyone. After all, disabled people make up 26% of the population (1 in 4) in the U.S. The truth is, we live in cities (and small towns) which were purposefully designed to only be accessible to a percentage of the population—the people who count. That blatant disregard for the rest of us includes cities making bridges low enough to prevent low-income families from having bus access to public beaches; rich white families lobbying public officials to purposefully limit public transportation options in their neighborhoods; rail/subway that is slow to address frequent elevator and escalator outages; discarded electric scooters which become hazards for Low Vision pedestrians and for mobility-aid users who are just trying to get to work.

Universal design isn’t limited to improving the lives of disabled people. It intersects with class, race and many other marginalized identities. Consider the problem of unsafe roadways and intersections that have led to unnecessary pedestrian deaths. According to 2010-2019 data compiled by urban planning nonprofit, Smart Growth America, Black people were struck and killed at a rate 82% higher than that of White non-Hispanic Americans. During the same period, Native American and Alaska Natives were struck and killed at a rate 221% higher than that of White non-Hispanic Americans.

Researchers in Nevada also found that drivers were 7x less likely to yield to a Black pedestrian in the crosswalk than to a white pedestrian. Driver bias coupled with poor road design, unsafe speed limits and a lack of “push-button activated stop lights” can make the concept of “walkable cities” unsafe for some and safer for others. Now imagine being a Black pedestrian in a wheelchair in a city where your life is already valued less than the lives of white pedestrians.

One way to move closer to a more sustainable, more equitable vision of future cities is to prioritize access for everyone—starting with historically marginalized groups. That means including low income, disabled people of color in the design process from the very beginning. That is how you build a better future. That doesn’t mean waiting until neighborhoods gentrify to suddenly be concerned with road safety issues that low-income Black residents had been voicing for decades—as if only white families deserve to live in safe communities. It also doesn’t mean that white, middle-class neighborhoods should benefit from high density crosswalk distribution, bus shelters with seats, lighting and proper signage while low-income Black and Brown neighborhoods go without. Safe, accessible mass transit is a disability justice issue. It’s also a racial justice issue.

I won’t stop driving anytime soon, but I will continue to advocate for safe, affordable, public transportation. And perhaps in a future where mass transit incorporates principles of universal design, where it is accessible to all, including disabled people, I won’t need to.