What Can a Body Do? Quotes

“Disability gathers a dimensional we like nothing else, because disability is no more and no less than human needfulness, both personal and political. That's why the we that ties together this book is as tenuous as it is important: the collective that arises in the form of shared bodily vulnerability, the ways our physicality and our thriving are tied.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?: How We Meet the Built World

“In the present day, curb cuts are so common, both ordinary and even mundane, that most people know nothing of this history. But the resistance to their widespread implementation was protracted and fierce. Outside a few small communities like Berkeley, where vocal activists won some local implementation, there was little understanding of the chicken-or-egg problem of accessible design. “When we first talked to legislators about the issue, they told us: ‘Curb cuts, why do you need curb cuts? We never see people with disabilities out on the street. Who is going to use them?’” recalled Roberts. “They didn’t understand that their reasoning was circular.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“In any sizable park or green space, you’ll likely find two kinds of paths: the formal kind, paved with brick or concrete, and the informal kind, the paths made by people walking over and over a stretch of grass, wearing away the green and carving a scruffy emergent line in its place. These are paths made by sheer repetitive use; they’re not anyone’s executive decision but arise one choice at a time, collected in aggregate. Most of us know them as friendly disobedience: they’re shortcuts, maybe, or just the most commonsense pathway from one frequented site to another. Urban planners call these paths “desire lines,” or sometimes “cow paths,” “pirate paths,” or the slightly stuffier “counter-grid trajectories.” They indicate yearning, some planners say—either to have formal paved lines where there are none or to actively carve out a different path where one had been prescribed.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“Instead of defining independence as “self-sufficiency,” the standard for independence in the clinical settings where they’d been treated as patients, they claimed that their independence would be understood instead as “self-determination.” The difference separated the dignity of authority and choice from the action itself. Asking for and receiving help with self-care tasks like buttoning a shirt, for example, was understood as a high degree of dependence in a rehabilitation paradigm. But if a person needed fifteen minutes of assistance with the shirt and with getting out the door to the bus, that person would be less dependent than a person who took two hours to dress on their own and could not leave the house. Uncoupling assistance from dependence—or perhaps bundling assistance together with a richer idea of independence—changed everything for these activists, because now they could press for a whole array of products and services that would support a desirable life. Judith Heumann, one of the instrumental voices for independent living, said in 1978 that “to us, independence does not mean doing things physically alone. It means being able to make independent decisions. It is a mind process not contingent on a normal body.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“It was when Maya showed me the benches at Gallaudet University that I started to glimpse sound—the physical structure of it, the elastic bounce of its travel. My friends who are deaf have always told me that sound also belongs to them—that hearing people are forever getting it wrong to imagine deafness as a “silent world”—but the benches were the thing that made this idea vividly real. They were a feature in the design at the scale of rooms at Gallaudet, alongside a dozen other architectural choices that a hearing person could easily miss. Maya had paused for a moment in our campus tour to point them out, standing in the middle of a big, airy common space lined with windows on three sides, the lobby of a dorm where many students study and socialize, alone or in groups. The benches serve as seating for nearby wood tables, sets that are interspersed with soft fabric chairs arranged 360 degrees around for discussion. “Wood is the best material for this kind of group seating,” she told me, and mimed lightly slapping the wood with her palm. The resonance of wood makes it reverberate when struck. Students sometimes tap or slap nearby surfaces to get one another’s attention or to call a group to order, she said, and materials like concrete or thick plastics tend to absorb the sound rather than scatter it productively.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“This familiar, comparative idea of normal is so common that perhaps it feels timeless and universal, but it wasn’t until around 1840 that the word was even used to describe human qualities in European languages. (Prior to that time, normal referred to being perpendicular or square, a technical term that would have been used, for example, by a carpenter.)”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“Instead of defining independence as 'self-sufficiency,' the standard for independence in the clinical setting where they'd been treated as patients, they claimed that their independence would be understood instead as 'self-determination.' The difference separated the dignity of authority and choice from the action itself.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?: How We Meet the Built World

“In a social model [of disability], the interaction between the conditions of the body and the shapes of the world that makes disability into a lived experience, and therefore a matter not only for individuals but also for societies”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?: How We Meet the Built World

“In a social model [of disability], the interaction between the conditions of the body and the shapes of the world that makes disability into a lived experience, and therefore a matter not only for individuals but also for societies.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?: How We Meet the Built World

“At the “Capitol Crawl,” people using wheelchairs, leg braces, and canes made their way to the hundred steps in front of the U.S. Capitol building in Washington, D.C. Then they began to climb those stairs, leaving behind whatever gear couldn’t come with them, using their arms or whatever body parts they had available for mobility. Children as young as ten participated in what became a very public, strategic spectacle. That protest is considered by historians to have been the tipping point; the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed in 1990, guaranteeing curb cut changes at every city sidewalk corner and ramped entrances at all newly constructed buildings, among other new provisions.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“Ronald Mace, a wheelchair user who became an architect devoted to the theory and practice of accessible architecture, is credited with introducing the term universal design to the public in 1985. In part, the coinage was strategic, recasting features of design that had been considered “special” as simply good design, resulting in products and buildings that were straightforwardly “usable by all people.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“My son doesn't need a gentle and pacifying form of "inclusion." Inclusion is necessary, but it will never be sufficient. He needs a world with a robust countervailing understanding of personhood and contribution and community in it, human values that are alive and operational outside the logic of the market and its insistent clock. He needs it, and so do the rest of us.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?: How We Meet the Built World

“In a social model [of disability], the interaction between the conditions of the body and the shapes of the world that makes disability into a lived experience, and therefore a matter not only for individuals but also for societies.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?: How We Meet the Built World

“After a stint at community college, and with the encouragement of professors, Roberts applied to Berkeley and was admitted at age twenty-three. There was no box on the form to check that would indicate he was disabled, so, after his acceptance, he had to figure out how he would live on campus. Students with other disabilities had attended Berkeley and other colleges in the United States, but nearly all of Roberts’s body was paralyzed, so he would need assistance in an acute way, for things like getting from his bed to his wheelchair every day—the kind of help that exceeded dormitory norms. Berkeley administrators initially tried to backtrack and refuse him admission, citing past failed experiments with enrolling disabled students. Roberts went to see Dr. Henry Bruyn at the Cowell Hospital on campus. Bruyn had overseen the care of children in Roberts’s generation who’d contracted polio and lived with the aftermath of the disease. He agreed to work with Roberts to outfit a hospital room for his needs while on campus—as a makeshift, semipermanent approximation of a dorm room. Berkeley agreed, and Roberts arrived on campus, but expectations were low. The headline in Cal’s own newspaper read: “Helpless Cripple Attends UC Classes Here in Wheelchair.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“Alarmed at a high incidence of crashes during routine flight training in the 1940s, U.S. Air Force officials looked for evidence of mechanical flaws in the planes or human error perhaps inadvertently introduced by their curriculum, but the cause of the crashes remained mysterious. At last, officials commissioned a lieutenant trained as a scientist, Gilbert Daniels, to look at the physical structures of the cockpit and the men who used them. Daniels noted that all the cockpit structures—seat and back, pedals, knobs, and so on—had been built to specifications calculated for an average military recruit. Recruits for pilot training were already selected for some degree of averageness, had been the reasoning, so these dimensions should fit most pilots, most of the time. But when Daniels measured 4,063 soldiers, he was astonished to find that not a single one of the men fit all ten of the measurements that had been determined to be average. Instead, every body offered its own variation: One pilot might have a longer-than-average arm length, but a shorter-than-average leg length. Another pilot might have a big chest but small hips. Even more astonishing, Daniels discovered that if you picked just three of the ten dimensions of size—say, neck circumference, thigh circumference, and wrist circumference—less than 3.5 percent of pilots would be average sized on all three dimensions. Daniels’s findings were clear and incontrovertible. There was no such thing as an average pilot. The unyielding fixity of the average cockpit ended up being useful to exactly no one. Thereafter, aeronautical engineers began to make everything from seats and foot pedals to flight suits and helmet straps adjustable, and the Air Force adjusted its cockpit specifications to stipulate movable parts that could be adapted to fit a range of body measurements, from 5 to 95 percent of average, just right.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“Never before in history have grown men sat down and seriously designed electric hairbrushes, rhinestone-covered file boxes, and mink carpeting for bathrooms, and then drawn up elaborate plans to make and sell the gadgets to millions of people,” wrote Victor Papanek in 1971: Today, industrial design has put murder on a mass production basis. By designing criminally unsafe automobiles that kill or maim nearly one million people around the world each year, by creating whole new species of permanent garbage to clutter up the landscape, and by choosing materials and processes that pollute the air we breathe, designers have become a dangerous breed.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“Biology, physiology, and anatomy have less to do with our chairs than pharaohs, kings, and executives,” she writes. One kind of historical chair, called the “klismos” by historians, evolved primarily as an historical expression of status and rank. Setting a body higher than and apart from other people, in an individual structure with rigid, flat planes—a throne, if you will—evolved as a way of recognizing an individual’s power or leadership, with the earliest known models dating to ancient Egypt and southeastern Europe. Their use as an expression of authority continued through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and the endurance of this symbolism lives on as metaphor in many contemporary leadership titles; to chair the committee or the department, or to sit in the designated “director’s chair” on a film set, is still to hold a seat of power.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“World War II, in particular, resulted in a greater number of men returning from the field alive, but with injuries that required amputations and therefore prosthetics and other assistive devices—in the United States, around twenty-seven thousand veterans in all, a number great enough to call for the formation of a new federally funded committee on prosthetic devices. In 1945, the National Academy of Sciences elected to devote significant new support to the research and development of prosthetics for returning veterans, with a noble rationale.”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?

“More than twenty thousand Union amputees returned from the Civil War, and prosthetics were made available to them for free. (To some veterans, that is; African Americans were barred from the veterans’ associations and the postwar benefits that aided their white counterparts.)”
― Sara Hendren, What Can a Body Do?