The Triumph of Attending the Paralympics as a Disabled Fan

My eyes snapped open as the fervor of anticipation swept over my semi-conscious mind: Paris. Today was the day. Just last year, if you had told me that I would be flying overseas to watch the Paralympic Games, I would’ve enjoyed a prolonged cackle. I’m in the farthest galaxy away from athleticism you could fathom. My spastic cerebral palsy means that every sentence that I speak feels like a marathon. A one-hour Zoom meeting counts as my daily cardio. And because of a lack of adapted physical education, my childhood gym classes consisted of my being relegated to “referee,” or worse, assigned some hapless soul to listlessly bat around a balloon or a hockey puck with.

However, cultivating a serendipitous connection with Nike shifted my perspective. When their team invited me to witness the Paralympics firsthand in Paris, I pledged to pedal my atrophied little legs over that pesky Atlantic ocean tout de suite. I was invited alongside other media outlets and disability-focused groups to cover Nike’s latest efforts to promote sports for athletes of all abilities. The company recently announced their GameOn initiative, a concerted effort to hire more employees with disabilities (applications go live on Sept. 12 and are open until Oct. 7). In light of the substantial barriers that we face in obtaining and maintaining a career, I was uplifted by news of the program — and, of course, incredibly excited to be able to go to Paris.

A sizable initial hurdle was, of course, the dreaded plane ride. Wheelchair users know that airlines pose an imminent threat to our crucial mobility aids. With the first wheelchair securement spaces on aircrafts still years away, all you can do is cross your fingers and shrug. If your chair gets maimed, your trip is ruined before you leave the terminal.

With trepidation, I boarded the redeye flight from Philadelphia. Unfortunately, I cannot sleep on planes. Despite countless cushions, my body detests sitting in the seat and insists on vindictively reminding me of every orthopedic struggle I’ve ever had. My twisted tailbone, a relic of adolescent scoliosis, throbbed beneath me. Without the laterals of my wheelchair, I could not hold myself upright properly, so I was constantly tilting into the aisle. After some fitful dozing and a sore six hours, I emerged into the Parisian streets ready to tackle a new adventure. Just kidding! That would be far too easy.

Arriving in France gave me the opportunity to dust off my high school French. Upon the arrival of an airport employee to assist with transferring me from the airport-issued wheelchair to my (remarkably undamaged) personal one, my helper advised her, “Elle est très rigide,” which I recognized immediately as, “She is very rigid.” My stomach sank in shame. With all the talking, I was failing to adequately regulate my spasticity. When my muscles contract, my whole body stiffens, making it impossible to readjust or reposition. Without the specialized restraints of my own wheelchair, I kept sliding out of the seat, and noamount of deep breathing helped me deal with the chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport.

After covering considerable ground walking (not literally, mind you) to the designated Uber pick up point, I checked the endlessly buffering app in vain. I realized that there weren’t actually any Ubers available able to accommodate electric wheelchairs, and that I would have to wait in another area for a wheelchair accessible cab. By the time my mom (my designated attendant for the trip) and I arrived at our hotel and checked in, I had a mere 10 minutes before the start of programming. Time crunch aside, there were some crucial silver linings. Our hotel was stunning and probably one of the most accessible rooms I’ve ever stayed in. Most importantly, there was a roll-in shower. Hygiene and the ability to access bathing regularly and safely, especially during travel, is a luxury to a sizable section of those with disabilities, myself included. Nike had also arranged for continuous accessible cab rides between venues, eliminating the stress and uncertainty of hunting for vehicles.

I’m accustomed to entering a room and being the only visibly disabled person in it, with incidental exceptions. That was thankfully not the case here. Throughout my time in Paris, I was surrounded by an extraordinary patchwork of our population. Folks with limb differences, stoma bags, and mobility aids mingled freely. The sense of belonging was such that it was as if sunlight touched my cheeks for the first time in months.

Those next few days buzzed with enthusiasm. There were panels and spirited discussion about just how to best navigate achieving an inclusive future. For our entire itinerary, Nike had ensured that every building that we entered had an accessible entrance. In a city as old as Paris, that’s no easy feat! I was much less impressed by French elevators. My wheelchair could barely fit, to say nothing of trying to cram in my companions.

But overall, my experience was remarkably seamless. The staff I encountered were patient and eager to answer any accommodation questions that I had. Bathrooms were spacious enough to maneuver wheelchairs around. The majority of people reacted to me with delight, which isn’t always the case when you could be perceived as making a situation more logistically complicated.

One moment will forever glow in my memory: we were ushered into the Stade de France to watch the evening’s Track & Field events. Once again, the crowd was teeming with ability differences. I sat in the accessible section, content to be in a sea of several rows of wheelchairs. It’s been over a decade since I’ve been in the company of so many people with disabilities. Dozens of flags were patriotically draped over wheelchairs as everyone rooted for their respective countries.

And watching the athletes, I had another thought: the word “inspirational” has been contorted and corrupted by patronizing nondisabled perspectives. But what these athletes are accomplishing is nothing less than phenomenal. I’m still in the perpetual process of unraveling my own internalized ableism, and my relationship to and perception of my body remains complicated. As the runners on prosthetic blades dashed towards the finish line, I felt nothing but pulsating pride. We are an incredibly badass coalition of people. I am so lucky to be counted among them. No diagnosis has the power to dilute or dictate our potential.

The revolution is achieved in inches. These athletes aren’t just moving the needle, they’re busting through the brick wall. Whether or not they return with a medal, their contributions shine brighter than any hardware. Legacy leads to liberation.

Enveloped by cheers of excitement, I closed my eyes with a smile. Thousands of miles away from everything familiar, I finally felt at home.

Erin Tatum is an entertainment and lifestyle journalist with 11 years of experience in the field. As a queer disabled woman, she is dedicated to elevating marginalized voices and communities. Through authenticity, she seeks to empower and educate with playful humor.