The best $1.75 I ever spent: Hand sanitizer that allows me to exist in public

I grew up in Los Angeles. As the city is famous for welcoming idealists from other hometowns, this fact can surprise those who came from elsewhere. I never put this place on a sundrenched pedestal, or viewed it as a one-note Hollywood stereotype. My siblings and I were raised in a suburban house in a close community of largely 9-to-5 routines.

But the serendipity of growing up in this city, where my parents needed to drive my siblings and I around, insulated me from truly acknowledging the limitations of my body throughout my childhood. I was born with mild cerebral palsy, a physical disability that affects my legs. My knees point inward as I walk, and my joints are often stiff, making for limbs that radiate pain if I move too much or too little.

I had a few surgeries as a kid, but considered them as either easy material for “What I Did During My Summer Vacation” essays or as an excuse to get really good at Mario Kart 64 (my siblings would dispute this). I went to school with the same understanding children until college, so the outlier bully was silenced by teachers or shunned by peers. My dad brought my backpack into school every day, friends cleared paths in the halls, and missing gym class felt like an honor. I knew I was different, but it didn’t always feel acute. I got lucky.

So when I signed up to study abroad in Prague during my senior year of college (yet another advantage), I still lacked a clear frame of reference for how physical the world could be. My university was mostly contained to a city block. I was rarely, if ever, alone. And I remember exactly when I realized that I had stepped far outside my well-tended security bubble.

It was after dusk on a fall night in Prague, and I agreed to meet a friend in Wenceslas Square by myself. I stumbled on cobblestones, got lost in the subway, and then emerged from its tunnel on to the base of rain-slicked stairs. Strangers walked around me as I slowly climbed the steps, possibly sensing that I was tired. And when I looked at my right hand upon reaching the top, it was bright pink and stained black with grime.

Before I left for the semester, my mom had given me a small bottle of hand sanitizer to use, “just in case.” I had packed it alongside the rest of my toiletries without much thought.

I was stubborn (we both knew that), and this quality also benefited me as a child. When doctors said I likely wouldn’t walk, I proved them wrong — apparently seeing my little brother do it before me was taken as a challenge. I moved until the braces on my legs cut into my shins and calves, pushing myself to exhaustion. Over the years, I shed a walker for crutches and then a cane. I didn’t want to go to college with any aids, and I made it clear to my mom and to doctors that I wouldn’t use them even if they were helpful. As with most teenagers, I didn’t want to be singled out for my difference.

My mom probably knew that this security bubble was bound to burst at some point during my time in Prague, but didn’t know how or when. She likely also didn’t know that a measly bottle of hand sanitizer would help with this shift. I found the bottle, and placed it in my purse. One has been there ever since.

The sense I rely on most is touch. I grip handrails and metal bars. I hold on to moving escalators and push elevator buttons. I glide my fingers along walls and push off from the sides of cars. In rare cases, I clutch tree branches stretched over curbs. When a loved one or a kind stranger isn’t beside me to intertwine my arm in theirs, touch is how I get around.

My few months in Prague was an awakening to this habit, a realization that the world is casually dirty to those with disabilities. I had the same human need to be among others. But if I wanted to be a part of society, if I dared to be out alone among non-disabled people who didn’t have to constantly watch their step or mind their balance, I needed to bring hand sanitizer.

My favorite is the “French Lavender” scent from Bath and Body Works. (I know, Bath and Body Works.) After years of buying whatever was available at the nearest drugstore, I discovered this mall staple’s version a couple of years ago. It doesn’t have a harsh chemical smell, so it relaxes me when I accidentally touch something gross. A bottle fits into any bag, and can last me about three months. Better yet, one costs just $1.75 without tax.

Historically, people with disabilities were not expected to be a part of the public. Infrastructures were built for the non-disabled, where legs could easily bend and straighten over curbs and stairs to underscore normative agility. Disabled bodies, on the other hand, were to be gawked at, shut in, institutionalized, or killed (practices that still continue today).

The Americans With Disabilities Act passed in 1990, and stipulated by law that public life would no longer discriminate against people in this community. Commercial buildings, schools, restaurants, theaters, transportation — the things that give cities energy — would have to be accessible. I also got lucky that the majority of my life has been lived under the ADA. But that’s not to say that a switch was flipped and suddenly all public spaces became accessible.

In a 2017 report published in the Journal of Disability Policy Studies, researchers Jill Bezyak, Scott Sabella, and Robert Gattis found that significant barriers still exist in America’s public transportation system to hinder people with disabilities from riding. These barriers range from physical limitations to inaudible stop announcements to blasé operators. Forty-six percent of the 4,161 survey respondents said that public transportation in their area was inadequate, either because it didn’t get them to their destination at all or nearly on time. So, for the 61 million Americans who have a disability — or one in four people — existing in public life can be a challenge. Perhaps carrying hand sanitizer can be thought of as a small act of defiance.

I now know what it’s like to have a disability when I’m out in the world in a way that I wasn’t totally aware of as a child. Usually, when you give any curious kid an honest answer, they move on. Adults tend to be different. They lock their gaze on my legs for a second longer than they should, and avert their eyes with a quick and deliberate dart. I think they see an example of a body’s fragility in mine, uncomfortable proof that life is random. There’s pity and there’s fear in those stares, and I see them almost daily.

After Prague, I decided that I wanted to do all I could to call my own shots. I would do my best to ignore the stares, whether I saw them in movie theaters, or stores, or restaurants. I would travel throughout the country and the world, moving through streets and public transportation filled with various hurdles. (I’m talking especially to you, New York City.)

Yes, to do this means keeping track of how much I walk, constantly monitoring how my muscles feel, weighing what makes for the “easiest” route, and falling on occasion. But so be it. I have hand sanitizer in my bag, so I can be on my way. This, I learned, is what comes with giving myself permission. I can’t see the beauty of the world without also seeing the dirt under its nails.

In these past few years, I’ve wondered: What’s the best way to define a public space? This seems to be a question with an easy answer. It’s a place for everyone, of course. It’s long stretches of sidewalk, it’s rolling lawns of an open park. It’s streets and reliable transportation filled with people. It’s where strangers show the pace of life on full display.

But what is “public” when so much of this setting is built exclusively for the non-disabled? There are innumerable cracked sidewalks and steep or non-existent curbs. Stairs are everywhere; little and big, wide and short. Cars whip around and zoom by and impatiently honk, and road signs are frequently difficult to decipher. American public transportation with present or working escalators and elevators is spotty, at best. And even if the stations themselves are accessible, sometimes the routes to them are not. On top of all of this, there are still the ever-changing details of a city street: the rushing crowds, the construction zones, the weather.

Sometimes I feel lucky that I’m mostly able to be out on my own — there’s a sense of accomplishment in navigating an unforgiving obstacle course. But luck should have nothing to do with how cities are built. Public spaces are not made to accommodate disability, and so the energy that this community can contribute is often lost. That exclusion is personal. At least with hand sanitizer, I’ve figured out a way to fight my way in.

Kelly Dawson is a writer and editor based in Los Angeles.