I was a neuroscience major in college, and the neuroscience building on my college campus had two cement stairs leading up to the front door. There was no railing. 

As I went about my day-to-day life, I watched in silent awe as people skipped up those death trap stairs as if they were nothing. How is it that the average college student can do that without breaking their stride, without even glancing at their feet, and without falling flat on their face? It truly is an incredible enigma to me.

Anyway, because I was not endowed with the superhuman ability to skip up stairs, I adapted by circling around these steps so that I could lean against the side of the building for balance. Then, I stepped up as I leaned, praying that nobody walking out would swing open the door in my face. I won’t lie—it was awkward, especially because I had to walk through mulch and bushes to get to the side of the building.

One afternoon, I was walking to class with one of my professors. We were having a casual conversation about something too trivial to recall, and then she proceeded to glide up those steps, while I circled around awkwardly and proceeded with my business-as-usual bush-climbing protocol.

I could feel her eyes on me as I clambered through the bushes, and I wondered for a moment if she was upset with me for trampling the college’s decorative vegetation.

Then: “I’m sorry about that,” she said, her voice quiet, and I stopped clambering for a minute to stare at her in surprise.

“It’s fine,” I said automatically, still self-conscious about the fact that I was climbing through the bushes and, worse, that my professor was watching me climb through the bushes.

She met my eyes with a faint, kind smile on her face, but her voice was firm when she replied. “No, it really isn’t fine. I’ve been working with the head of our department to make this building more accessible, and it really needs to be a priority.”

The very next day, railings were installed along those front steps.

And even though there is still important accessibility progress to be made—that little strip of iron spoke volumes.

It spared me the daily indignity of climbing through the bushes, but even more than that, it made me feel that I was part of my college community.

That little strip of iron may have gone unnoticed by every other person who used those steps, but to me, it meant everything.

That little strip of iron said,
“You are welcome in this building too.
You matter.”

I wrote above that there is still important accessibility progress to be made (both in society as a whole and on my college campus)—and I wanted to take a moment to expand on that.

I will always be grateful to my professor for speaking up for me and my college for taking action.

At the same time, I hope for a world in which buildings can be made accessible for every person who wishes to enter them—because I am painfully aware that while these handrails transformed access for me, they wouldn’t help a wheelchair user, for example.

Shortly after the events in this blog post transpired, I recall that my college received a sizable amount of money to spend at their discretion, and they sent a survey out to the student body, asking us to vote on where the funds should go. I immediately thought of accessibility—there were quite a few buildings on campus that were either partially or fully inaccessible to people with physical disabilities. But that wasn’t even an option in the (very extensive) survey dropdown menu. So I wrote in my own answer. I shared something similar to what I’d written here, and I asked them to consider setting aside some of those funds for access needs—because when students (or prospective students) encounter building after building that they cannot enter, what message does that send them?

Maybe it was coincidence, but a few months after that survey, my college did fund some more renovations to improve accessibility. Again I was grateful, but I hope for more. I hope for a campus where every student feels that they belong, a campus where a wheelchair user can live in the substance-free dorm or language-learning dorm if they wish, or access the neuroscience labs, which are on a second floor with no elevator. I hope there comes a day where every student can access every building, regardless of their disability status—where every student can feel what I felt that day: You are welcome in this building too. You matter. ♥

[Image description: A photo of the building entrance after the addition of the railing that meant so much to me. Also pictured (on right) is the the bush I no longer had to climb through.]