I'm a disabled woman.Is that my brand?

EVERY TIME I PICKED UP MY SON AT DAY CARE LAST YEAR, our reunion was punctuated by the same questions from the other 3-year-olds: “Why are you in that wheelchair? What happened?” I am used to questions. I’ve answered them all my life with little fanfare. But these interactions started to feel different with my son there to bear witness.

- REBEKAH TAUSSIG

So this fall, as Otto started preschool and we prepared for this fresh start with a new group of people, it felt like a chance to reset the terms with intention. I wanted a better approach, but I struggled to imagine what that might look like. What would it take to shift a dynamic that felt so inevitable? Was it even possible for me to call the shots in a room full of all-consuming curiosity?

I mulled it over with anyone who would listen. Some people thought I should have a class visit where I explained my disability, maybe read a relevant book. To be fair, I am a good candidate for this kind of conversation. I started using a wheelchair when I was 6, and when I discovered disability studies in graduate school, I understood, for the first time in my life, disability as an identity. Suddenly, I was rethinking a part of my life that had remained relatively unexamined. I started creating “mini memoirs” on social media that shared my firsthand experience—the feeling of being stared at as I grip the side of my car and drag my feet across the pavement when I fill my tank with gas, of being prayed over by strangers for my healing.