The setting was a small Mexican restaurant in our new neighborhood. It was our first time trying it, because that morning Scarlett said she wanted tacos, and while we draw the line at tacos for breakfast, the idea got into our heads, and neither Rob nor I felt like making dinner later. Actually, part of that was a lie. I don’t draw the line at tacos for breakfast, we just didn’t have any.

The restaurant was decorated in a super fun and kitschy way; collectibles like small dolls, head shots of 1940s film stars, and license plates from different states adorned every surface. Aside from the decor, the place was not at all full when we arrived, and they sat us right away, at a table for four in the front corner. I don’t use a real chair at restaurants these days (or at home, for that matter), so I just wheeled up to the table while Rob and Scarlett went around to the side closest to the window.

The service was ok, and my margarita was a little watery, but we were having a pretty good time. And then, 25 minutes or so after we sat down, a woman came up to the table. She was older, and possibly the owner or a manager. “Can you move to the other side of the table?” she asked me brusquely, gesturing to where Scarlett was sitting across from me.

I was confused. I had wheeled to the empty spot where they had removed a chair. I looked at where Scarlett was sitting and knew there was no chance a wheelchair was going to get back there. “I don’t think so,” I said slowly.

“Well,” she went on, frazzled. “I can’t seat this table behind you with your chair in the way.”

I went straight to pissed off, which for me basically means turning bright red. “This is where you sat me,” I told her. “There’s no room on the other side of this table for a wheelchair.”

We both just kind of looked at each other, and said more of the same things. I was too surprised to be assertive, and instead kept trying to figure out what exactly she was hoping would happen. Finally, Rob offered to push our table all the way back, so that he and Scarlett were truly squeezed between table and window. I was mortified, and as soon as Scarlett was done with her food, she and I left the restaurant.

Rob saw, of course, how upset I was. He stayed to pay the bill and told me later that he let the host know how rudely we had been treated and that we wouldn’t be back. I appreciated him sticking up for me, when all I could do was hightail it out of there.

I’m sure there are people who are thinking, that’s it? That’s what happened? What’s the big deal, so someone asked you to move? 

But the thing is, I go into these situations with a certain apprehension. A new restaurant should be fun, but there are so many more variables than before. Now I have to worry about the wheelchair fitting between tables. Or if there’s a bathroom I could even get to (the answer is no more often than you’d think.) Or if I’m simply in the way.

I thought of this again when I read the Huffington Post article about Kanye West singling out a person in a wheelchair at a recent concert. He stopped the whole show because this person wasn’t standing along with everyone else. Once it was verified that the person could not stand, the show went on, but I wonder how that person felt. Maybe they had a good attitude about it, maybe it made them feel special to be called out by Kanye. Or maybe it made them feel crappy, an inconvenience to all those normal, dancing people who don’t ever hold things up with their working legs and arms. Maybe it made that person feel like less than everyone else.

The Kanye West story is an extreme example. Almost everyone can tell that his behavior was outrageous. But little things happen all the time to make disabled people feel like things would be easier for everyone if they were just…not disabled. It’s been days since my unfortunate restaurant event, and so—as usual—I’m over it. But I share it to highlight the fact that this is sometimes what it’s like to be out in the world with a wheelchair when all you wanted was a taco and a margarita.

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