But those early trips with my mom made obvious for me something I’d always known implicitly: that both skateboarding and navigating daily life with a disability involve surprisingly similar ways of engaging with the built environment.
Spaces that are inaccessible are indicative of failures in design rather than the human body, and those failures require creative solutions. It is an idea that is expressed daily by people like my parents.
In an interview in Psychology Today, Ms. Hendren explained that her goal was to create “a weird Venn diagram” between the skateboarding and wheelchair use “because people never think of those two things together.” The skaters, she explained, were seen as executing “this rebellious, athletically virtuosic thing,” while wheelchair users were seen as engaging in “a kind of sad version of not walking.”
You could look at a staircase and say, ‘I can do this one,’ ” she said, “in the same way that I can look at something and tell you exactly whether I’m going to have trouble with it.” In time, navigating the world with my parents helped me grow as a thinker and problem-solver: I learned that sometimes the best solution is an imperfect one, and that few things matter more than the ability to think in the moment, to improvise.
The first curb cuts — friends to users of all wheels — were created in Kalamazoo, Mich., in response to an influx of disabled veterans returning from World War II.
The list goes on: In myriad ways in the past 50 years, disabled citizens and activists have “hacked” the built environment — and the political system — to effect change, including the 1990 passage of the A.D.A., a law that The Times’s Michael Kimmelman wrote “<a class="css-yywogo" href="https://www.curbed.com/2015/7/23/9937976/how-the-americans-with-disabilities-act-transformed-architecture" title="" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">has reshaped American architecture</a> and the way designers and the public have come to think about civil rights and the built world.” That’s radical.