DAY 32: Disabled Parking

As a child, my mother would often associate luck with parking.  An empty parking space, spotted within the first five minutes of our visit to the store, would determine her spending mood.  And if that parking space happened to be within twenty paces to the store’s entrance, our shopping trolley would also include an early Christmas present.

Most of our visits to the local shopping centre in Johannesburg would unfortunately bring us to a parking space on the opposite ends of the earth.  My sister and I would plead persistently to be excused from my mother’s shopping addiction, oblivious to her thinking that someone could steal the car and drive off with both of us in it.

Our rehearsed ritual included my sister happily complying with pushing the shopping cart into the store – me dangling on the edge of the trolley, ignoring my mother’s cries (warning me from a possible injury), and spending the next hour looking for items written on an extensive list. 

I would often suggest that my mother ignore the illegal parking sign, posted on the pavement – adjacent to the disabled parking, and reserve her VIP spot, five metres from the entrance.

“These are kept for people with special needs,” my mother would insist.

“Aren’t we special?” I would naively ask.

Of course, my mother would brush me off, indicating that her time was limited for a useless, childish debate.

After an excruciating six months of hospitalisation, I was finally given the green light to drive.  My unfortunate car accident in 2008 left me with a partial disability on my left leg, making me unable to tackle long distances.  I adopted a disabled parking sticker on the front window of my car, allowing me access to the parking bay which my mother referred to as “special.”

The reality that Cyprus was not really a disabled-friendly island concerned me, particularly the attitude that a ‘special’ parking bay was reserved on a first-come-first-served basis.  In fact, I even witnessed a police officer absorbing two disabled parking bays while stopping off for a quick bite at the local tavern.

When questioning his motive, the ‘officer of the law’ reversed the conversation and began to focus on my weight as a disability, and even questioned my “penguin walk,” as he mildly referred to it.

“No, you idiot, I’m walking this way by choice!”

I often feel that disabled people are victims of neglect.  It pains me to think that society dwells on the ‘majority rules’ theory.  In the same light, are overweight people considered unacceptable, and should be treated as such?

I’m pleased to observe that Cyprus has finally adopted a conscience, making room for a new channel of thought.  The only challenge is trying to convert the masses to believing that ‘special’ people have a voice, and they need to be heard.

 

Weight for me tomorrow. Paul

Paul Lambis is the author of “Where is Home?” – A journey of hilarious contrasts.  For more information on Paul Lambis, and to order his book online,
visit www.paul-lambis.com