A few weeks ago, U.S. Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer directed the sergeant at arms to no longer enforce the senate dress code. Although not explicitly stated, the move was widely interpreted as a gesture towards Pennsylvania Senator John Fetterman. If you don’t know, Senator Fetterman suffered a stroke near the end of the primary last year. His general election campaign was the target of ableism both from his political opponents who resorted to offensive tropes, as well as from within his own party, who cast doubt on his ability to help them maintain the all-important Senate majority (even though he went on to do exactly that.).

The American Stroke Association recommends loose fitting clothing in order to create a most-accessible dressing routine. Again, while not explicitly stated, many see this effort as a reasonable accommodation, similar to those described within the Americans with Disabilities Act. This perspective once again allowed the senator’s political enemies to expose themselves as ablest. Opinion columnist Stephen L. Miller wrote, “When do we stop accommodating John Fetterman’s lies about the severity of his condition, all the while being told by medical staff that he requires no special treatment?” And just as before, the backlash was not limited to the opposing political tribe, with some criticism coming from Senator Fetterman’s party as well. Senator Dick Durbin, the second highest ranking Democrat behind Schumer, said of the change “I am concerned. The senator in question from Pennsylvania is a personal friend but we need to have standards as to what we wear on the floor of the Senate.”

Unfortunately, words that amount to “why are you getting special treatment?” and even “you’re my friend, but…” are not at all uncommon among able-bodied folks who have very little understanding of the disabled experience. For this reason, some disabled advocates themselves decry “special treatment.” We don’t want to be singled out and isolated.

However, the lines between accommodation and "special treatment" are often blurred. For example, a restaurant owner may complain about building a ramp or creating wider doorways--accommodations necessary for disabled patrons--but does he do this because of the actual ramp-building, or is it the recognition of his own fragility that causes his angst? When we force a shift in personal bias, we force the non-disabled population to put themselves in our shoes, and thereby highlight their own fragility. While this may sound bleak, it also forces them to see our existence, to see us thriving in society.

Even though RISEde is a group by and for people with disabilities (not an educational tool for able-bodied people), I would like to think that groups like ours do challenge these biases in a certain way. Think about it. Just by telling a friend or colleague that you’re going to an upcoming RISEde meeting, you're reminding that person of a shared disabled existence. And this normalization of us in community with one another may encourage people to open up their communities, too, hopefully leading to fewer complaints about “special treatment” and greater levels of understanding, empathy and collaboration.

In solidarity we RISE!