By:  Ed Smith
CBC News Analysis & Viewpoint
Disability Matters

This story is from CBC News, Disability Matters, a monthly column that deals with the rights of people with disabilities, eliminating inequality and discrimination, and issues of self-help and consumer advocacy.

Some time ago in an interview I was asked if people treated me any differently after I had become quadriplegic. A little, I said.

My wife and I went into one of your better-class restaurants to have dinner. A maître d' appeared, said "Good evening" to Marion and placed a menu in front of her. Me she ignored. Marion looked up at her and nodded in my direction. "He eats too."

The woman hesitated a moment, probably trying to recover from the ice in Marion's glare, and put a menu on my side of the table. Her look said clearly, "I don't know what he's going to do with that." I was in a wheelchair, you see, which suggested to her that I was two or three pickets shy of a full fence, and probably illiterate as well.

A few minutes later a pleasant young woman appeared to take our order. "What would you like, Ma'am?" she asked Marion. Marion told her. The maître d' must have warned her inside that I might be somewhat functional. So instead of asking Marion what I wanted, as often happens, she turned to me.

"AND WHAT WILL YOU BE HAVING, SIR?"

A low-flying fighter jet about to hit Mach 3 might have drowned out her voice but I doubt it. My hair is grey, you see, which suggested to her that I was well advanced in years (I'm not) and therefore deaf (which I'm not, either).

I decided to give this young lady a lesson in manners, and to give it in such a way that she wouldn't forget it. There comes a time when one has no choice but to fight the good fight on behalf of everyone with disabilities.

"I'LL HAVE THE STEAK, MEDIUM RARE."

My voice may have been a decibel or two louder than hers. I waited for the inevitable blush of embarrassment and accompanying apology. The waitress didn't so much as blink.

"VERY GOOD, SIR. IT WON'T BE LONG."

She may have escalated the decibel level even further. By this time everyone else in the restaurant had likewise decided that I was aged and decrepit so I slunk down in my chair and said a rather meek, "Thank you."

As Kenny Rogers so eloquently put it, "You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em." So much for the good fight.

I was scheduled to give an early morning presentation to a high school assembly. It had snowed heavily overnight and when we made our way to the motel parking lot we discovered that a large, black, four-wheel drive, off-road Ram pickup truck was parked immediately behind us in the handicap parking space (love that term!). The snow prevented us from getting out any other way.

Someone inside spotted our dilemma and in short order had found the truck owner in the coffee shop and asked him to come outside. He was a husky fellow in a black T-shirt and black leather jacket, and none too happy about being disturbed. He wasn't quite as unhappy as we were and I guess our faces showed it. He stopped in front of Marion, again ignoring me.

"You're not very pleased with me, are you," he said, not at all pleasantly.

"My husband has an appointment at the high school," she replied, "and if you don't move quickly he'll be late. Besides, you shouldn't be parked there at all. You're cutting off the handicap parking space."

Our friend the Johnny Cash wannabe wasn't about to be told anything by a mere woman. "Well," he said with an exaggerated sneer, "the longer you talk, the longer it'll be before I move the truck, so keep on talking."

Time to fight the good fight again. I wheeled around until I was directly in front of him. "You need a change of attitude, friend," I said without raising my voice.

That really set him off. He raved about people in wheelchairs wanting pity and special privileges, and how it was "the disabled" who needed the attitude change and on and on. As he walked ahead of me to get to his truck I quite accidentally ran into him from behind with my chair. I'm convinced to this day that it was accidental.

It didn't help matters at all and for a few moments I thought he was going to hit me. I could only sit there and regret that I was no longer six foot two and 200 pounds. He grabbed the chair and stared hard at me, then walked toward his truck with a final farewell comment to my wife.

"Get a life, motherf--r."

At the assembly Marion was telling another speaker, an RCMP officer, about the incident.

"Too bad," the officer said, "you didn't get his licence plate number."

"Well," Marion replied reaching into her pocket, "now that you mention it..."

We had a call from the police several days later to say they had made some attitude adjusting of their own on this fellow.

Do I get treated differently from when I was healthy and upright?

You could say that.