In September 2022, my father didn’t come home for a long time. I was told that he went on a unusually long business trip; it was so long that I became suspicious. Seeing I began to imagine all kinds things that might happen to my father, mom finally revealed to me that dad had been living in a hospital, taking care of my grandfather who had lost his leg in a car accident, and he didn’t want me to worry or go to the hospital, especially during the pandemic. As a bystander, I watched my father rushing between hospitals and courts, arranging amputations and rehabilitation, and demanding compensation. Although I didn’t get to meet my grandfather for a long time due to the pandemic, I was heartbroken imagining this happened to my dearest grandfather. 

I still remember the day when I first met my grandfather in person after the pandemic. I remember when his leg was in good condition, and he was carrying me around with his rusty old bicycle to my favorite shallow river, catching fishes and dragonflies. But now, he could never ride the bike again. Where there used to be a thin but muscular leg was only scars, covered by an empty, wind-shaken pant-leg. He could not walk, go to the bathroom by himself, or even get out of the miserable bed without the help of a cane. Feeling depressed, he always wondered about going outside, feeling the touch of wind and sunshine, and going around the town again by himself. My grandfather enjoyed playing Taichi and going to bathhouses, but now he could only dream about going out with his wheelchair. Yet, our family could do nothing but watch him and let the wounds heal little by little.

When he finally agreed to go out with us on wheelchair, I began to notice a special group of people—people with disabilities. I also began to pay attention to the barrier-free access around me, and soon realized that it was far more difficult for my grandfather to travel freely—even inside the residential community I’d been living in for years. The place was peaceful, slow-paced, filled with parks, and heavily populated by the elderly, many of whom were on wheelchairs. Every afternoon in summer, when the sun was blocked by the residential building, there were many wheelchairs, lined up side by side in the middle of the community square, chatting energetically. However, it wasn't until they were ready to depart that I noticed the problem: it actually took them tremendous effort to go home, for the accessible pathways were always blocked. Cars and motorcycles crowded inside the small community, blocking the way for the wheelchairs coming home. In addition, many wheelchair ramps had become difficult to use due to the attack of time: unreasonable turns and broken cement made it difficult for wheelchairs to pass properly. I once witnessed a couple who were unable to push their wheelchair up a ramp, forcing them to visit the community, seeking help in order to come home.

Walking in the park near the community, I talked to several elderly people and discovered that most of them held similar views to me, especially the caregivers: it was very inconvenient to travel as many places that should have barrier-free ramps but were not set up with corresponding facilities, and sometimes there was a small curb at the roadside, making it difficult for wheelchairs to pass. Not to mention that cars would often honk in the narrow alley, urging the wheelchair to go faster. It was totally inconvenient for people with disabilities to travel through the city, especially by themselves.

What was surprising to me, however, was that with so many people aware of the issues with accessibility pathways, few actually did anything to address these issues. But in retrospect, I was also affected by the attentional bias: just like pregnant women tended to notice other pregnant women more, I paid more attention to the disabled only after they became a relevant part of my life. I had walked through the ramps thousands of times and surely had noticed their being blocked, but it wasn’t until it affected my family member that I started to take it seriously—it wouldn’t be fair to blame others for inaction. Being affected by attentional bias, I thought, was not necessarily a bad thing: if I could increase local residents exposure to this issue, there could also be a positive effect of having this attentional bias. Therefore, I initiated a community service project to raise people’s awareness of barrier-free facilities.

Three activities during the summer vacation fully proved my point: many people, including community workers, did not care about the smooth accessibility of barrier-free access, and some car owners and delivery persons parked their vehicles in places that were not convenient for wheelchairs. What’s more, it really shocked me that even some of the elders who were using a wheelchair didn’t care about it either. They considered my efforts as “useless” and “wasting time.” I found it very difficult to get my ideas across to others: even the stakeholders didn’t care about their own interests, and a lot of residents showed up to our presentations in communities only to take our free tote bags we designed as a promotional gift and then left as fast as they could.

Despite the community and residents were not very concerned about this activity, it still had some subtle effects: some residents began to take part in my activity. A local community server, Mr. Wang, spent time helping me distribute our tote bags, and he frequently asked my father about the progress we had made. There was also a visible difference in terms of the frequencies of which barrier-free access are blocked. I might have contributed something after all! Furthermore, recently the community rearranged the parking plot, providing a more spacious place for residents, including wheelchairs, to travel across. Things definitely slowly got better.

I gradually came to realize that every little effort definitely made a difference. Supposing that 99% of the residents had no interest in the barrier-free facilities, but still, there were 1% whom I could actually work with. It made me realize that what I was doing was meaningful: after all, I really could influence a small number of people. With this sense of commitment, I decided to continue working on the project. I tried to submit my activity records to some public welfare organizations, intending to raise some funds for the renovation of some facilities in our community. In addition, I also started to write articles, recording the day in the life of wheelchair-bound people and the difficulties they encounter daily due to problematic accessibility facilities, so that more people would know and care about them.

From my experience, I got to know a group of people, witnessed their struggles, and started contributing to cause that was important to me. But the success (despite minor) of my initiative is less important than a new-found realization: in helping the disabled and fighting against ableism, every small effort counts.