Red, green, blue? Every store wants one

By Louise Kinross

When Luke Anderson graduated as a civil engineer in 2002 he moved from Ontario to British Columbia to pursue his passion: mountain biking. “I was in Rossland, the most coveted mountain-biking area of Canada,” Luke says. “It was a dream come true to live there among like-minded people and be part of that scene.”

But in the fall of that year Luke's life changed forever when he rode off a platform to jump a 25-foot gap and came up short. “I crashed hard, flew over the handlebars, landed head first, broke two vertebrae in my upper spine, and left my life as I knew it,” he says. He was able to talk his friend—who'd been filming his jump—through a 911 call and was airlifted to Vancouver General Hospital. After an eight-hour surgery, five weeks in intensive care and five months in rehab, “I was introduced to a world that's not well suited for a wheelchair user.”

Today, Luke's on leave from his job as a structural engineer to mastermind StopGap—a project that aims to dot Toronto's single-step storefronts with red, yellow, green and blue ramps.

“It's an effort to get the conversation started about barriers in communities that prevent people from accessing spaces,” he says. “The single-step storefront exists all across Canada so we thought why don't we paint simple plywood ramps in bright colours and offer them to businesses for free? We get volunteers to build the ramps and hardware stores donate the materials.”

Luke says the stepped storefronts are a relic from a time when streets weren't paved and customers used the step to knock the dirt and mud off their boots.

“The ramps aren't perfect, that's why we call it StopGap,” Luke says. “They provide a springboard to thinking about really great permanent solutions.”

StopGap has placed almost 400 ramps in Toronto and its how-to manual is sparking similar movements in other cities in Canada and the U.S.

Luke rates Toronto a 4 out of 10 for accessibility. Stockholm, on the other hand, is an 8 or 9. ”The Scandinavians are really progressive and think about everyone when they design stuff.” Vancouver is a 7.5.

Moving from a life filled with extreme outdoor sports to one where he had just enough movement in his arms to feed himself was tough, Luke says.

“I went from being a back-country skier and someone who loved climbing rock faces and ice climbing, to being someone who can't get into a restaurant. My world was now an inaccessible space.”

Luke recalls arriving at a Toronto concert venue he'd been assured was accessible to find 15 steps up. “The bouncer met me and said 'Okay, just hang out here for a second' and I figured he'd be back to show me the back entrance. But he came back with four of his bigger bouncer buddies and their idea of access was to lift me up those 15 steps. I'm wondering if I should put my life in the hands of these complete strangers or do I disappoint all of my friends and pull the cord on going to the show. I chose to get lifted up, but it was a situation that shouldn't have happened. I kept coming across situations like that and realized something needs to be done.”

StopGap began in 2011 when Luke enlisted friends to help build ramps on weekends. So far the group has targeted 12 Toronto neighbourhoods. “We knock on doors and talk to business owners, educating them about the need for a ramped storefront,” Luke says. “You'd be amazed that most people don't quite get it until we shine a light on the problem. Unless you've been touched by disability, it's not something you'd ever think of.”

Ontario's government has committed to making the province “barrier free” by 2025, but with 10 years to go, “we're not even halfway there yet,” Luke says. Municipal bylaws aren't helping. “If you want a permanent ramp you have to apply for a variance that would allow you to encroach on city property,” Luke says. “No mom and pop café can afford that.” Still, “the city is recognizing there's an issue,” he says, “and we've had meetings with bylaw enforcement and right-of-way committees.”

StopGap is organizing a silent auction May 29 and a crowd-funding campaign to support a summer tour that will bring ramps to 12 more communities across Ontario.

Since the province hasn't reached out to partner in any way, Luke hopes the project will appeal to private donors.

“It needs to be on people's radar that we're all going to need barrier-free amenities at some point in our lives,” he says.

Luke admits he never gave a moment of thought to accessibility before his accident. “In the early days it was a really tough mental battle coming to realize that this was a completely different way of life. I had heard stories about people walking out of rehab, but I knew that wasn't going to happen for me. For me, independence meant learning how to have others be a part of my daily routine—brushing my teeth, showering. I've got a stream of helpers that come and go and some are great and super helpful and others not so much.”

A painful part of his recovery was watching friends retreat when he couldn't return to his physically active lifestyle.

“I've grown apart from a group of buddies I considered my best friends. That was hard. I still have a hard time with it. When I go to bed at night I don't think of myself as someone with a disability. In my dreams I'm not disabled, I race my bike. But I don't live for the chance to be physically able again. That's not a useful way to go about life. There are many different ways to lead a fulfilling life and I feel I've been given a gift and a real opportunity to see a larger piece of the pie. I try to recognize difficult situations as an opportunity and embrace change.”

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Blogger tracks Toronto's disability-friendly spots

By Louise Kinross

Silvia Guido blogs about Toronto restaurants, bars and music venues that meet her 30-item checklist for accessibility.

The physiotherapist, who launched AccessTO in April 2013, just posted her 122^nd review. She's supported by a team of volunteers.

The blog grew out of complaints Silvia heard from patients about the limited number of places they could visit in Toronto.

"I'd talk about going to a new restaurant and my clients would say 'Good for you, but I probably couldn't get in there.' A number of my patients have moved out of Toronto because we have such a long way to go." 

Silvia only writes about Toronto spots that meet her criteria, she says. "It's either accessible to me or it's not. If it's not, I don't want to write about it. I want to keep the blog positive."

Silvia measures entrance ways, table heights and door widths; checks floor surfaces, turning spaces and how easy the place is to navigate in a chair, scooter or walker; and looks for automatic door, hand-dryer, sink and toilet features in washrooms.

"Individual washrooms, rather than stalls, are best," she says. "They need to have grab bars, a floating sink and automatic features." She writes about whether they have a fold-out table for changing children, but hasn't yet seen any washrooms equipped with a change table for an adult.

Silvia also writes about nearby accessible subway stations, parking spots or street parking.

The most common barrier she finds is lack of a level entrance way. "We've had restaurants that think they're accessible but they have a six-inch curb in front of the door."

Silvia follows up on recommendations from AccessTO readers and also does walkabouts in neighbourhoods to scout new places. "Right now I can't find anything in St. Clair Ave. W. and it's frustrating," she says. Her blog has categories for 26 Toronto neighbourhoods.

Silvia's volunteers include a friend who uses a wheelchair and some former University of Toronto occupational therapy students. "I'd love to find more volunteers with a variety of disabilities, to make it more personal," she says. You can contact her at info@accessTO.ca.

Silvia generally posts once or twice a week. She'd love to hear about your favourite family-friendly restaurants.

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The 'unwelcome' mat

By Steve Kean

I love Toronto, I really do. But sometimes I just don’t feel the love in return.

A few weeks ago was one of them. I was at St. Lawrence Market getting supplies for dinner with my wife and a friend when my favourite cheese guy told us that he was leaving to manage a new restaurant in the neighbourhood. But the new hot-spot-in-the-making—in a historic building—won't be wheelchair accessible, he said, so I won't be able to check it out.

I have spina bifida and use a wheelchair.

I've been inside 400-year-old buildings in the U.S. that have been retrofitted, so I don’t buy the “well, it’s a historic building” argument anymore.

In 1967 my parents were supposed to be rejoicing in the birth of their first child. Instead, they watched helplessly as concerned doctors and nurses rushed to save my new life. Since that fateful day I've had over 15 surgeries and probably consumed more than $100,000 in health-care dollars. A system of people, most who've never met me, has expended substantial resources to keep me alive.

So why then is it that the system that valued me so highly when I was born doesn’t deem me worthy of having an accessible environment? Access means I can contribute and live a full life.

Too often, our health-care, businesses and city attractions and amenities seem to work against people with disabilities and their families.

Is it because we're not cute little babies anymore? Do I not matter because I'm a grown up—sometimes smelly, sometimes scruffy? Does the government believe that I should take care of all my needs just like any other adult?

Well, I can take care of most of them. I do a job, two in fact. I help to pay a mortgage and even clean the place. And, I cook. In my own home, designed from the floor plans to meet my needs and those of my wife, everything works. Our little box in the sky is my sanctuary. There I feel welcome. But life is lived outside too, and that’s the problem.

Sometimes as I wheel around Toronto I notice every barrier that society has put up to make me and other people with disabilities feel unwelcome.

I count every step. Every staircase. Every door without an automatic opener. Then there's the insensitive jerk who luxuriates in the comfort of the oversized, accessible public bathroom stall as I wait, trying not to piss my pants.

Usually I am 'grace under pressure.' But occasionally I come apart. I just snap. By the time I get home I'm raw. I need a hug. I need to vent.

There, in my soft place to land, I feel the warmth and love of my wife's hug. She listens quietly and intently as I recount my day. Sometimes I scare her: “Why did they bother to keep me alive and healthy only to throw me out into a world that doesn't appear to want me?” I'll say.

Businesses see accessibility as an added expense and don’t see the value. Many employers see a wheelchair or some other difference and don’t see the skills and abilities of a person. They have to be shamed or worse, forced by the law, into making people with disabilities part of the equation.

I've thought a lot about how I can cope better in a city that makes me feel like a burdensome afterthought, instead of an integral part. Maybe some of my ideas can help youth with disabilities and their families.

First, seek out that hug. Family and friends are on your side and we all need allies when we leave our sanctuaries and go after what life has to offer. Once your spirit is bolstered and a little less raw and raging, look carefully at the particular barriers that are getting in your—or your child's—way.

Who’s directly responsible for a barrier? Who can help you take it down? Try talking to them. It might just get fixed and you’ve helped not only you, but everyone with a disability who comes after you.

Some walls that get thrown up in front of us can’t easily be torn down and so all we can do is try to work the problem. Speak to someone on the ground, maybe the store manager. If that doesn’t do it, work your way up the line.

Toronto hasn’t put out the welcome mat for people with disabilities. Will it ever?

I can’t wait. Time is moving forward and limited. I am squeezing every ounce of life out of my years, to borrow from a cliché. See the golden light first thing in the morning. Take a picture in your mind or with your camera or phone. But see it. Feel it. Notice everything you can.

When the things you can’t access get under your skin, ask for that hug and then fight just a little for change. Other people will notice. The next person with a disability will be able to spend more time here enjoying life, and less time struggling and feeling excluded, thanks to you. Maybe they'll even feel welcome in Toronto, like they belong.

Steve Kean works three days a week as programs and services coordinator at The Spina Bifida and Hydrocephalus Association of Ontario and two days a week as Steve Kean Photographer, doing commercial photography. Visit if you are a foodie!

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They are us

Last year I heard Dr. Paul Browde speak about how marginalized people are often reduced to one story, one stereotype, one dimension.

Browde is a psychiatrist and assistant clinical professor at the New York University. He's also HIV-positive. Decades ago, as a newly qualified psychiatrist on an AIDS hospital unit, he remained silent in a meeting when a doctor referred to patients as SHPOS: "subhuman pieces of shit."

It was a few years before he shared his diagnosis and his story, first at a presentation at the American Psychiatric Association, then with his colleagues, and, when helpful, with his patients.

Browde, speaking at an international conference on the use of storytelling in health care, said a good life is one that can be richly described, one about which many stories can be told.

But, there are people "whose lives are reduced to one story, or a few habitual ways of describing their lives," he said. "I saw this particularly in people with intellectual disabilities who are reduced to the story of a diagnosis or of being disabled."

We don't allow these folks to have many stories.

Case in point. Last Thursday, at a meeting to discuss neighbours' concerns about police and emergency calls to a new Etobicoke group home for teens with autism and learning and emotional problems, including depression and anxiety, Councillor Doug Ford said: "You've ruined the community." 

He asked Griffin Centre, the agency operating the home, to relocate the teens, saying "no one told me they'd be leaving the house." He also asked whether any of the youth were sex offenders (they're not). A neighbour said: "This is not a place for mental patients."

Bingo. That tired old story about kids who have autism, kids who have mental health issues, kids who have disabilities. Kids who are different, kids who Ford says aren't us.

As a medical student, Browde says he was trained to think of physicians as invulnerable. "Until my own diagnosis, I viewed illness as something that happened to others."

Dr. Browde said it was his narrative therapy training that led him to see the clinical value of understanding "what it means to be a patient...You could call this empathy. The ability to imagine being in the shoes of someone else."

Empathy. Yes, that's what was so lacking at Ford's meeting to discuss the group home.

Memo to Councillor Ford: Youth with autism are our brothers and sisters, our family members, our friends. People with depression and anxiety are us. I've had severe clinical depression. I have a son with disabilities. Why, you yourself have a brother with an addiction, which is a mental illness according to the American Psychiatric Association's diagnostic manual. 

We have a few group homes here in my neighbourhood of Riverdale, and our property values are rising, not falling.

Why didn't you go to that meeting and ask the Griffin Centre staff to share stories about the teens who live there? Not their clinical diagnoses, but who they are as people, what they enjoy in life, what their hopes are? 

Why didn't you organize a meeting where the staff could educate the homeowners about autism, mental health issues and developmental disability?

Why didn't you ask the neighbours to work with Griffin Centre and the youth to make the teens feel welcome and worthy rather than feared and despised? 

Why didn't you ask the neighbours to call the Griffin staff directly when they have a concern?

Why didn't you ask the neighbours to be patient as this new home goes through its growing pains, in the same way you expect the citizens of Toronto to have compassion for our mayor?
 
Why didn't you allow those teens to be more than a stereotype?

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