Wednesday Wonderings: Five Years Ago Today, the World Shut Down

Today marks five years since the first Covid-19 lockdown in Ireland was announced by An Taoiseach, Mr Leo Varadkar, on 12 March 2020. Five years on, I’ve been reflecting on the surreal events that unfolded afterwards. Although everything is now back to normal, and many things are “as they were” before restrictions were announced, part of me cannot help but wonder whether as a society, we have collectively dealt with the psychological, emotional and economical impact of that uncertain period, which was followed swiftly by events that continue to unfold in Ukraine and Russia.

It was my good friend Shelly and late friend Leigh who first alerted me into thinking that this emerging virus in China was something to be worried about. I read back some of our group chats from late January/February 2020, and shake my head as I am reminded how the three of us tried to pre-empt what would happen next. I predicted that they might have to shut the schools for a few weeks, while efforts would be made to contain the virus. No-one could imagine the chaos that unfolded during the following weeks and months.

On the morning of 12 March 2020, while everyone around me was stocking up on tinned goods or toilet roll, I remember walking around Dunnes Stores looking for a nice Easter Egg for Alison.  I remember that I bought a few groceries as well, but I didn’t know what to buy. I just bought two bags of pasta and some noodles, along with four bars of soap (the pumped bottles were already sold out), while looking at people’s heaped trollies around me. The Easter egg was my priority. I could sense that Alison was going to lose so much in the coming weeks; she didn’t need to lose the Easter bunny as well.

Afterwards, I came home, feeling sick to my stomach. Despite being an avid reader of dystopian fiction, I didn’t know how I was going to deal with this uncertainty, nor how I was going to guide my eight-year-old daughter through it. That day, in an effort to distract myself more than being worried about my child’s education, I printed off a large number of worksheets from an educational website, thinking that if the world was about to be thrown into chaos and unpredictability, that it would be best to try and create some semblance of routine for the sprog.

That afternoon, when Alison came home from school, she’d just been informed that school was to be closed for two weeks, but even at the age of eight, she was clever enough to know that it would likely be longer. She asked so many questions, and for the first time in our lives, we had no answers. We sat watching the news as Leo Varadkar announced the lockdowns. John Paul had just started a career break, and I remember the relief that he would not be working and exposing himself to the virus. I became institutionalised very quickly, accepting isolation as the way things had to be. Like millions of us, I threw myself into work and homeschooling in to keep busy, trying to suppress my nervousness at the uncertainty around me. (What are the psychological effects of this now, I wonder?)

The world was thrown into autopilot, and slight lunacy. It became an offence to meet up with others, to take a drive into the mountains or to the beach, or to travel further than a 2km range from your home. Only one person could go shopping from a family at any given time. We had to mask up and keep our distance from those we loved, not only for two weeks, but for the guts of eighteen months. Hugging a friend was seen to be first degree murder. The message was, do you want your granny to die, all because you couldn’t resist giving your loved one a quick cuddle in the supermarket? What long-term effect is this messaging still having on people, especially children? 

In July 2020, Alison attended a socially-distanced drama summer camp in the local youth centre. I was apprehensive, but more concerned about my only child becoming too isolated from other children. After the second day, her drama facilitator messaged me to say that my eight-year-old daughter had told her that she had predicted the coronavirus pandemic, that she’d had a dream the week before restrictions announced that told her that something bad was going to happen in the world, and because she hadn’t told anyone she believed, essentially, that she was to blame for the entire pandemic. My heart turned to ribbons as I thought of the psychological burden that my little girl was carrying This is the unspoken impact of the OTT messaging behind the pandemic. We, her parents, were stunned as we explained, repeatedly, the scientific reasoning behind it. It took a long time to convince her, and even now, I see the damage that carrying that awful “secret” did to her.

Nobody in their right minds would ever want to return to those dark days of lockdown, although I will admit that it took me a long time to regain the confidence to put myself back out there and claim my life back. I became institutionalised in the safety of my home, going from somebody who went to Dublin at least twice a month, just because, to someone who didn’t go anywhere, until last year. 

We’ve had a rough few years that we simply have not been allowed to collectively recover from: COVID, the Ukraine-Russian conflict, economic instability, and now fecken Trump, so as we reflect on five years since the lockdowns were announced, we must remember that we have been through a great deal of collective trauma, and to give ourselves a break. And to congratulate ourselves, too, for doing our best in such unprecedented circumstances. 

Review: Dara O’Briain’s “Recreation” and the StayCity Aparthotel

It’s been a week since John Paul’s birthday, and what better way to celebrate than enjoying his Christmas present? Yes, reader, you’ve read correctly: for Christmas, I got JP tickets to see his all-time favourite comedian, Dara O’Briain, in Vicar Street. It’s been JP’s ambition to see the man himself live since those poverty-filled weekends of 2008, when we couldn’t afford to go out and we sat in watching Dara O’Briain’s comedy DVD on repeat. Almost a fortnight ago, on Friday 28 February, we crossed that from our bucket lists, marking both our first time to see the comedian live, and my first time in Vicar Street.

Now, I’d never been to Vicar Street before, but was delighted to find a limited number of accessible tickets online (If you’re a wheelchair user, I suggest booking early to avoid disappointment). We travelled from Tullamore to Dublin via train, and I prebooked a wheelchair accessible taxi in advance on the FreeNow app, an act that felt like a game of Russian roulette. I will say that although I booked the taxi on the Tuesday, four days beforehand, my driver and vehicle was only confirmed a few minutes before arrival, and as the driver hadn’t specified where to meet, we had a fun impromptu game of Find the Taxi Driver. Nonetheless, he was very helpful and I marvelled at how easy the process was. Booking an accessible taxi in an urban (not city) area can be impossible, even with all the advance notice in the world. And if you use the FreeNow app, the fare can be deducted from your debit/credit card, meaning no fumbling with wallets as you are getting out of the taxi.

When I initially booked the StayCity Aparthotel, I was wary despite the high ratings left by previous guests. The StayCity is located around the corner from Vicar Street, which is crucial if, like me, you happen to be directionally challenged. I was expecting a basic hostel setup, and in many ways, it is basic; there are no frills. However, it was exactly what we needed. The accessible apartment was spacious yet cosy, with a wooden floor in the bedroom-cum-kitchenette and non-slip tiles in the roomy ensuite. The bed was at a comfortable height for a wheelchair user to transfer onto, unlike some other hotel beds that I’ve found to be too high. The bathroom was well equipped with plenty of handrails (blue for contrast of colour), two emergency cords (one beside the toilet, the other in the shower), and a good-sized sink with a long mirror and space for the wheelchair underneath. 

Having freshened up, it was time for the gig itself. Vicar Street is known as the perfect venue for comedy shows. We entered Vicar Street via the back entrance, where the staff were helpful and courteous. The bar area, which is right in front of the theatre entrance, is laid back and intimate also. While I loved this aspect of it, it fell on JP to order drinks as the bar is quite high.  The room itself was slightly bigger than I expected, but tables are quite close together, creating that feel of togetherness and comraderie among the crowd. I should at this point mention that, as far as I could make out, there are only four tables in the entire room suitable for wheelchair users, and each table is located in a corner of the room. This would have an impact on how many wheelchair users could attend any one gig. However, the atmosphere was cosy, with everyone giddy to see the show. 

Finally, when Dara took to the stage, suffice to say he didn’t disappoint. He is a fascinating mix of experienced seanchaí, dramatic actor and that neighbour you’ve said “good morning” to as long as you can remember. He’s quick-witted and razor-sharp, baiting and successfully reeling in front-row audience members into his quirky anecdotes. However, Dara’s set is far from a series of gimmicky stories. Like any great writer/entertainer, he bares his naked soul to the audience as he relates, in an honest and touching way, the whirlwind journey behind his search for his birth parents. We, the audience, experienced that journey with him, the dizzying highs and the crushing blows. Dara allowed us into his heart in the same way that everyone watching that night welcomed him into ours.  

In a turbulent world riddled with uncertainty, comedy is more important than ever before. I wanted to share this piece with you, as a wheelchair user who’d always assumed that attending a Vicar Street gig would be too awkward. I would highly recommend staying in the StayCity Aparthotel and reserving the accessible room (we paid €140 for bed and breakfast, where we would have been stung for €200+ elsewhere). The combination of decent, affordable accommodation, with its location near Vicar Street, made for an enjoyable, relaxing evening.

Remembering the Father and Mother of the Independent Living Movement

Judy Heumann and Ed Roberts are both recognised as prominent figures in the international Independent Living Movement. It is remarkable to think that two complete strangers from opposite ends of the United States would come together to spearhead what would evolve into an International Disability Rights Movement. This month, as we mark the anniversaries of their passings (Judy – 4 March 2022; Ed – 14 March 1995), I find myself reflecting on how the actions of these two individuals led to the formation of an army (in modern terms, a collective), that fought for equal rights for disabled people worldwide.

When I first started working with Offaly Centre for Independent Living in 2008, my first assignment was to research and understand the origins of the Independent Living Movement. I knew about Personal Assistance, but nothing about the existence of a civil rights movement for disabled people. I also knew about Rosa Parks’ refusal to give up her seat on the bus, but I’d never heard about the feisty New Yorker, Judy Heumann, who led a demonstration shutting down the streets of New York, before orchestrating what would become known as the “504 sit-in”. Nor had I heard of a young Californian called Ed Roberts who conquered his self-pity and established the first Center for Independent Living, after setting up an informal team of assistants that helped him live independently while he studied at the University of California in Berkeley.

Ed and Judy (I refer to them by their first names as I think of them as comrades or allies, not faraway idols) are often referred to as the Father and Mother of the Independent Living Movement. Both had polio, but Ed had acquired polio later in life, at the age of fourteen, and so he perceived himself differently to how Judy did – his journey to self – acceptance saw him transform from “helpless cripple” into a “star”, whereas Judy says in her autobiography, Being Heumann, that she always believed that she had a right to exist on an equal basis with others. Ed was also more significantly impaired than Judy, and one of the obstacles to his attending university was finding somewhere that could accommodate the 800lb lung he slept in at night. Ed was the first wheelchair user to attend the University of California and eventually, he was offered a wing of Cowell Hospital, the on-campus hospital, which he accepted with the caveat that he could treat it as a dorm, not a medical facility, with the same freedoms that non-disabled students enjoyed.

The establishment of the first Center for Independent Living in 1972, led by Ed and a group of disabled University of California students who dubbed themselves the Rolling Quads, marked the beginning of a battle for disabled people to have their civil rights recognised. By sharing their experiences and witnessing the nitty-gritty of each other’s lives, they formed a strong bond among themselves based on a mutual desire to enjoy a better quality of life, as equal citizens in America. Progress proved slow. In 1973, the Rehabilitation Act was passed, but Section 504 – which rendered it illegal for state-funded services to discriminate against persons on the basis of disability – was vetoed. Age-old excuses of cost of adaptations were trotted out as valid reasons to not sign the regulations, so passing the Act was merely paying lip service to equality for disabled people. 

By 1977, a frustrated Judy had had enough. In her eyes, and the eyes of her supporters and fellow activists, sitting around waiting for something drastic to happen was time wasted. Using her experience of successfully suing the State of New York for denying her a teaching licence as she was perceived to be a fire hazard, Judy and what was referred to at the time as an “army of the handicapped” gained access to and refused to leave the offices of Health, Welfare and Education in San Francisco. Judy was highly organised, and soon various committees had been established to organise food and bedding, as well as entertainment. Nonetheless, the physical impact of sleeping on mattresses on the floor was roughly felt by many protestors, many of whom developed bedsores. Despite this, it seemed that the protestors in San Francisco knew that there was too much at stake to back down.

In the later stages of the sit-in, Evan White, a news reporter, had amassed an impressive amount of footage of the protests. He described his jubilance at having the honour of sitting in during “meetings of strategy” with disabled protestors, as Judy led long meetings with fellow protestors every evening that often lasted into the wee morning hours. Everyone was given a say, and a job to do. By a stroke of luck, a nationwide television strike enabled Evan’s recorded reports to become front and centre of the country’s viewing schedule. This worried Califano more than the sit-ins themselves; it had the potential to damage his public image as a politician. On the twenty-fourth day of the sit-in, Section 504 was signed, a feat that was achieved by the will and determination of a strong collective of disabled people. (If you want to find out more about this sit-in, I recommend watching the award-winning Crip Camp on Netflix). 

Indeed, if we as activists can learn anything from Ed and Judy, it is that disabled people working together is the best way to attain our human rights. Having experienced discrimination and exclusion firsthand, we know best what we need. Although our lives are better than they were fifty years ago, we still battle to hold onto those hard-won rights that activists such as Ed and Judy, and here in Ireland, that Martin Naughton, Michael McCabe, Dermot Walsh, Ursula Hegarty and so many others fought for us to have. We must also come to accept that we work best as a collective. Nothing will change if we wallow in self-pity. Instead, we must use our experiences to make a better, more inclusive future for all of us. We owe it to Judy and Ed, and we owe it to ourselves, to never settle for a lesser life than the one we aspire to.