Julie A. McGinnity
15 Charles
Plaza, Apt. 1203, Baltimore, MD 21201 ● (314) 610-7740
●jm6693a@student.american.edu
Before I stepped on stage to sing, I was excited to perform
at the Columbia Celebrates Diversity Breakfast. I loved the new home I had
found at the University of Missouri in Columbia, Missouri, and despite the
early hour, I looked forward to meeting leaders in the community and sharing my
talent with everyone. At the time, I studied vocal performance as a master's
Student, so I believed singing the National Anthem would be easy and seamless.
I waited through the opening remarks off stage with Sarah,
the woman from the planning committee who had oriented me to the stage area
during the rehearsal. The night before at the casual run-through held by the
committee, I had instructed Sarah politely: "Please don't grab me or my
white cane. I would like to follow you up to where the microphone is, and then
I will be fine. I'll meet you off stage when I'm done." She seemed
agreeable then, but a moment later, I realized she did not listen to my
requests for bodily autonomy. As I moved across the stage to take my place to
sing, Sarah took my upper right arm and steered me towards the microphone.
Reflexively, I pulled out of her grasp, and my pulse quickened a bit as it
always does when someone grabs ahold of me without warning. As I neared the
microphone, Sarah took my long white cane, as though I was a video game
character she wanted to control with a joystick. When I felt the pressure on my
cane, I stopped immediately and turned to her. Before I could convey my extreme
discomfort, she indicated that I was at the microphone, and I gave up with a
sigh. I had to focus and get through the performance.
As I made my way through the National Anthem, I attempted to
block the trip on stage from my memory. I needed to stay calm. Forgetting the
words to the National Anthem stands as one of the greatest fears of
professional singers everywhere. But as I sang, Sarah hovered at my right
shoulder, lingering like a parent waiting to cross the street with an unruly
child in toe. Finally, I finished, rushing off stage before Sarah could catch
me. Although I tried to enjoy the breakfast after I sang, I felt small and
ashamed. The committee did not feature another disability-related item on the
program, so I knew my performance was the example. I wondered if the flaws in
that example would ever become apparent to the members of the audience and if
they and the members of the planning committee would admit that they still have
a lot to learn until they could really claim they celebrate disability as
diversity.
Over the next seven years, I have attempted to raise my voice
and educate when disability was left out or disrespected in diversity and
inclusion efforts. Two years later, I was asked to sing at the same diversity
breakfast, and I clearly explained to a different set of committee members what
had happened last time and how I would like to be treated respectfully as a
blind person. They were receptive, and I had a positive experience singing in
2016. At a community meeting in 2018, I spoke up and asked how a housing
organization that worked with underprivileged individuals in diverse
populations would serve people with disabilities, and I was met with silence.
Most recently, I took part in my university's implicit bias training during our
1L orientation week. Although the training included a few mentions of
disability, the PowerPoints were full of images my screen reader could not
read, and I was not provided with the files ahead of time so that I could
convert them into an accessible format and follow them during the presentation.
I raised this issue on chat over Zoom, where hundreds of my future classmates
could see. Many of them joined in my call for greater accessibility of the
training, and when the presenter failed to heed my request and describe the
images on screen, they provided the necessary descriptions over chat. I was
grateful for their support and intervention, but I wondered how an implicit
bias training could be so explicitly inaccessible to a blind participant.
I chose to pursue a law degree so I could advocate for
children and others who cannot speak for themselves. Before I started at the
American University Washington College of Law, I worked at the National
Federation of the Blind, an advocacy and civil rights organization led by the
blind. I met numerous children whose schools overlooked them rather than giving
them the tools they needed to succeed. Likewise, I assisted a number of adults
and seniors who had recently lost their eyesight and needed mentors to help
them acquire skills for living as blind people and advocating for themselves in
their communities. In my work, I met so many blind and disabled people of all
ages who were excluded from some of the most basic experiences of life:
reading, employment, and even parenting children, all because someone in power
would not raise their expectations of people with disabilities and do their
research.
Diversity and inclusion is a process, not a product. We can
celebrate diversity like the city of Columbia, Missouri, with breakfasts and
events, but the true progress occurs when we embrace diversity by learning
inclusion. I have been in positions to educate employers, professors, and
university administrations on disability inclusion firsthand, and the process
works for me when those in power listen with an open mind and respect me as a
colleague or student. As I finish my second semester of law school, I continue
to speak out against accessibility barriers at my university and dispel
misconceptions about people with disabilities in class.