A Book I Wish I Had Written

I just read an astonishing book! I downloaded it to my Kindle without knowing exactly what to expect. Gail Collins, the author of When Everything Changed, is my new hero. The book is a history of the women’s movement in the U.S. from the first suffragette to Michelle Obama and Sarah Palin. But it’s so much more than that.

All the way through the book are stories of ordinary women, feminist luminaries, and political leaders. The interviews bring them to life as only a seasoned journalist can do. Then, at the end of the book, Collins brings us up to date on where each of the women she interviewed was at the time of publication. Her acknowledgments include the names of the hundreds of women she interviewed for this book. At the end, are marvelous photographs of women whose contributions made such a difference to the women's movement.

This is the kind of book I would love to have written. I couldn’t put it down. As one piece of history followed another I found I was learning things I never knew, meeting women I wish I’d known, and reliving my own life through other people’s stories. There were so many events and was so heroism that were revelations, including the role women played in the Civil Rights Movement.

But what made this an extraordinary reading experience was Gail Collins’s writing. I have a short list of nonfiction writers I admire—Gail Sheehy, Gloria Steinem, Jane Howard, Joan Borysenko—and would be thrilled to write as well as they do. Gail Collins has just made the list.

I'll take the elevator

I was at Borders yesterday, looking for a particular book. Instead of rambling all over the place, like most Borders stores, my Borders is a narrow, two-story affair. The book I wanted, of course, turned out to be on the second floor. “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.” the salesperson offered and began bounding up the stairs. “Um, I’ll have to take the elevator,” I said. She joined me, graciously insisting I was saving her a trip.

The reason I balked at the sight of the steps is not important. What is important was my embarrassment at having to admit to someone that those stairs were going to be a problem. I’m sure that dozens of people take the elevator every day. That’s why they have one. Since the passage of The Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA), every place of business must be “handicapped accessible.” That law has made it possible for people with disabilities to go places and do things they had never been able to in the past.

I know a lot about disabilities and ADA. I learned from disability agencies, advocates, and activists. I wrote training programs and books on the subject. I was educated and enlightened … in a distant sort of way. The law was passed in 1990—twenty years ago. I was in pretty good shape in 1990, running and swimming and engaged in lots of physical activities. I guess I thought I would always be able to do those things.

I remember when I was learning about disabilities, I became friends with people I would never even have met under other circumstances. These experiences opened up my eyes to a world I hadn’t known existed. I was fortunate to be introduced to the disability community in the way I was, but I knew that for many people the sudden appearance of people with disabilities was disconcerting. They didn’t know how to act. They were uncomfortable. It took me a while to understand why.

While some people are born with disabilities, many are not. Accidents, illnesses, war, and age create them—sometimes suddenly, sometimes gradually. But we all know we are vulnerable. Anyone, no matter how healthy and strong, can become disabled. It’s a scary thought and one most of us try to avoid.

Here I am twenty years older than when I began writing about a subject that touched me intellectually and emotionally, but not empathetically. I didn’t really understand then, but I do now. I haven’t had an accident or a degenerative illness; I have just aged. And with age have come some limitations. One of them is the inability to negotiate stairs without becoming short of breath and feeling my knees pop with every step.

So, I take the elevator. But as I’m writing this, I’m finding myself asking, so what? What’s the big deal? Why was I embarrassed.? Why is that tiny event still on my mind?

I’m not sure I know the answers, but I do know this: If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to me, I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life that I can get where I need to go by simply stepping on an elevator.