I’ve been out of college since May 2009. I’ve been trying to find work ever since. I know I am a good web designer. I know I have a lot to learn. But I know I can succeed if given the chance. I want to contribute. I need to contribute. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on disability.

I’m an avid learner when it comes to web design. I read constantly. I keep up with best practices and technology. I study principles of design and apply them to my work. All this has managed to keep me satisfied. I justified not having a job to myself by saying that I have been using the time productively, getting better and better at my craft. My good friend Jeff Horton, president of Stop SMA, put me to work on Stop SMA’s websites, and that has really helped me keep going during these last two years.

Earlier this year, I worked briefly as a Happiness Engineer for Automattic on a trial basis. In short: it was awesome. I could work from home just like everyone else in the company. I got to interact with great people. And I got to help people with their WordPress.com blogs. A win-win-win. But I’ve always told myself that I wouldn’t go for a position if my disability kept me from doing a good job. The primary function of the job was replying to email. And one of the things I am slowest at is writing email. Code is easier. I have tools that make me much more proficient at writing code. But good old-fashioned English language I can only output at the mind-blowing rate of about 18 words per minute, thanks to HippoRemote and KeyStrokes. Otherwise it would be a lot slower. Let me be clear. Automattic did everything right. My team leader said she was looking at quality over quantity. They gave me honest feedback and they offered to help however they could. I will forever be grateful for that. But in the end, support requests were flooding in and I didn’t feel like my output was going to help the Happiness team much. In the interest of the company and the users, I ended my trial with Automattic on good terms. It was back to square one.

About three weeks ago, things looked like they might turn around for me. I applied for a web-related position with a Mississippi-based company (of which I won’t name). I completed a questionnairre that was reserved for only the “serious” candidates. I did a one-hour phone interview. The next day, I did an in-person interview. I talked to three people and the entire interview was nearly two and a half hours. Few candidates made it that far, possibly me and one other person. I was told I would here from them, regardless of whether I was hired or not, in a couple of days.

It’s been three weeks. I’ve yet to receive any contact whatsoever. I may have to eat my words (in fact, I hope I’ll have to) but it seems that they hired the other candidate and the courtesy of calling me to let me know just fell through the cracks. I’m not making any accusations, but after a while, I start to wonder why I am able to make it to in-person interviews but never get an offer. How much does my disability affect my chances? I don’t want to think it affects them at all because that would be a tough pill to swallow.

So here I sat. At the very desk on which I am writing this post. And somehow, I stumbled upon the September 1 episode of The Big Web Show with Jeffrey Zeldman and Dan Benjamin. Let me set the stage. This podcast is big, as the title suggests. Jeffrey Zeldman is like the Godfather of web design. His circle of influence hit me early in my quest to be a web designer. And Dan Benjamin is this mad genius with a perfect radio voice who, I’m convinced, can carry on a conversation on any topic with any person and look like a seasoned expert in that area.

So there I was. And I they were covering a topic dear to my heart. Disability. And not just the usual screen reader angle. They interviewed this amazing woman, Marissa, who in many ways is going through the same thing that I’ve been going through for the last two years. And they were just chatting about her disability. And she wants to be a web designer. And she needs to work from home. And Jeffrey and Dan were taking to heart her struggle and sharing it with the world. And it was amazing.

Back in 2008, I managed to attend the awesome conference for people who make websites, An Event Apart (co-owned by Zeldman). It was one of the best learning experiences I’ve had. And I want to go to another one. But traveling is extremely difficult. And accessible hotel rooms are expensive. And the conference ticket price is expensive. So I haven’t gone back. I don’t have any web designer friends in my area. I’m isolated from that world. And it’s hard to get in when you’re isolated.

But here was Marissa. She made it to The Big Web Show and she was sharing with Jeffrey and Dan my exact frustrations, as well as my aspirations. While listening to the podcast, I get a phone call from my Mom. She felt bad about the whole job thing and wanted to take me to eat and see a movie (don’t hate, Moms are awesome!). It was in that moment that I realized something.

We still have our dreams.

Regardless of whether this company hires me or that company hires me, I am going to continue making websites. And with each one I will get better and better. Hearing Marissa’s story made me remember when I was in that same predicament. Well, not exactly the same. But close. I was just getting started in web design. It was scary. I didn’t have the means (physically or financially) to go to a design school. But I knew I wanted to make websites. I lucked out and had what may very well be the best course I ever took: Advanced Languages I with Dr. Rodney Pearson. In it, I learned JavaScript and HTML basics. I began picking up CSS and design principles on my own. I started making websites. Starting is at least half the battle. Regardless of what obstacles came in my way, I pushed forward in stubborn ignorance, determined to do what I wanted.

Sitting at my computer the other day, I realized that I had, indeed, become a web designer. I make websites. And not having a job right now isn’t going to take that away from me. I still have my dreams. One day, something big is going to happen. I’ll land my dream job. Or I’ll become a successful freelancer. And even if neither of those things happen, I’ll at least keep volunteering for charity, working on personal projects, and contributing some of my creations to the world (WordPress theme is in the works!).

We still have our dreams. We have them when we are frozen with fear. We have them when people think it silly to reach for them. We have them when it seems everything is working against us. Sometimes life can appear a bit hopeless. But when we don’t quit believing in ourselves, when we have friends and family behind us, and when we take a leap of faith, who or what is going to stop us?

I’m stuck between sadness and anger. Sadness because people who acquire a disability or terminal illness sometimes (or perhaps often) seriously consider committing suicide; anger because there is a growing number of folks encouraging them to do so.

It is certainly a trend. Spanish director Alejandro Amenábar’s 2004 film “The Sea Inside,” which I admit I’ve never seen, tells the true story of a ship mechanic turned quadriplegic who campaigns for the legalization of assisted suicide and when he doesn’t succeed, kills himself with cyanide. You know, because who would want to be quadriplegic and still live? That same year, the Oscar’s Best Picture, Million Dollar Baby, seemed to tell us that when a person is faced with paralysis, society’s aversion to suicide should become null. If quadriplegia is terrible, who could reasonably imagine living with paralysis?

If you get a chance to watch Pratchett’s documentary, don’t let the pro-assisted suicide language fool you. They’ll use words like “choice.” They make it look like they are not arguing life is worthless with a severe disability or illness. They say it can be worth it, that it’s all about the individual’s choice, all about whether life is worth it to that individual. But to let an individual make that choice instead of stopping them or trying to stop them is to agree that the choice is a valid one. And they, the pro-assisted suicide advocates, only consider it valid in the case of disability or illness. Indeed, that’s why they attempt to legitimize legalization of assisted suicide by assuring there would have to be some sort of “safeguards” to protect against rampant, non-justified suicides, as opposed to suicides that are justified, that is, the suicides committed by cripples.

Another word is “dignified,” indicated by the very name (Dignitas) of the Swiss institution that legally helps people commit suicide. “To live with dignity – to die with dignity” is the slogan of this non-profit suicide clinic. It may sound good, brave even. But it’s obvious to nearly all disabled people (at least those who blog) that the slogan implies you cannot live with dignity with a disability or illness. Simple as that; don’t let them explain it away as if it’s not clearly implied.

Another aspect of the documentary that struck me was the quite normal quality of the featured Dignitas’ clients’ disabilities. As I’ve noted before, normal doesn’t mean good or healthy, so I don’t mean to say the Dignitas clients were being wimpy. However, they suffer from maladies like motor neurone disease and MS. Those are some of the worst illnesses, and I don’t blame the clients for wanting to die. But many people have these diseases and keep on living with the emotional and physical support of their families. You would think assisted suicide, if it were morally acceptable, would only be acceptable in the most severe cases of excruciating pain.  Peter Smedley, the man in the documentary with MND, was arguably healthier at the moment right before his death than I am, even though the progression of his disease would eventually have taken an uglier course. Stephen Hawking’s MND has taken that course for 50 long years. Should he have considered killing himself a long time ago? Pro-assisted suicide advocates would have said, “Yes, as long as it is his decision,” never expecting him to have lived this long or better yet to have continued so well in his work.

Let’s think about the “safeguards” mentioned earlier. Certainly, not all should have access to assisted suicide, so the death advocates say. If a man with MS or MND can legitimately commit suicide, can a man with spinal muscular atrophy or muscular dystrophy do the same? If Terry Pratchett can commit suicide because he’s losing his mental capacity to Alzheimer’s disease, what other types of mental illness onset should be acceptable reasons for killing yourself?

In making those decisions, we would be officially passing judgment on the worthiness of all disabled people’s lives. We would be saying that, if you have SMA, feel free to kill yourself; you have good reason to. If you will soon suffer from mental retardation, feel free to hurry up and end your life while you can still give informed consent. You don’t have to, but you can.

Other than the chubby Mississippian, I also fit into another category: the fat kid in the wheelchair. You see, crippled folks usually come in two sizes: really big or really small. I was naturally never able to exercise much, but I ate like every other kid. Other wheelchair users sometimes have medical complications that make it hard to eat and cause severe weight loss. As one who fell on the overweight side of the divide, I listened to specialists for years beseeching me to “stop eating.”

I didn’t obey them, but my sweet tooth may be related to my eventual weight loss. In the fall of 2010, I finally became diabetic, something I suspected might happen since diabetes runs in my family anyway. Some initial high blood sugars and a strict decrease in my carb intake has turned me into skin and bones (by Southern standards).

Pros

This situation has turned out to be a double-edged sword. First, the good part.

I enjoy a little more upper-body mobility now that I’m skinnier. Doctors told me for years that losing weight would make it easier on my atrophied muscles.

I’m pretty sure losing weight takes away a couple of statistical health risks. This reduction in health risks often feels inconsequential, being that I’m a diabetic with SMA and all the side afflictions that arise from those two, but I might as well mention it.

I get compliments on my weight loss, which is nice considering I used never to think I would ever be on the receiving end of those compliments. Let’s face it. I’m sexy. OK, OK, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

Cons

I’m seriously turning in to skin and bones, as I only ever had SMA-style muscles under my protective blubber.

I say protective, because another downside is that my disjointed joints and osteoporotic bones are no longer guarded from surfaces only as firm as my air mattress. My fanny hurts these days. I no longer fail to appreciate the shielding quality of cellulite.

Finally, the seat in my chair barely fits me anymore. I woke up one morning, and I swear out of nowhere my chair grew a couple sizes too big, along with most of my clothes. While it’s kind of nice to be able to say that, I really, really don’t feel like going through the arduous process of getting fitted for a new wheelchair. So instead I choose to sit here and be in a little pain.

Before becoming diabetic and more seriously dieting, I tried my hand at loosing weight on various occasions, always with the idea that I would lose weight and feel great and look manfully sexy (by Mississippi standards). Eh. Whatever.

I’m not saying I’m not satisfied at all with my success. It’s just that loosing weight is not all it’s cracked up to be, at least when you’re disabled. It’s like getting all excited about watching a soccer game for the first time only for it to end in a tie. Fun, but still lame.

This past Saturday night, I spent what was most likely the last time I will ever spend the night in that apartment, or even on campus. Although I am going back Wednesday to see Congressman Ron Paul speak, my time spent on the campus of Mississippi State University is about to come to an end.

Coming home in 2009 was refreshing at first. No classes. No homework. No exams. But soon, a host of harsh realities began setting in.

My disability was worse. I wasn’t finding employment. I was spending more time in the house. I had people that I had to consider when making decisions. Simply put, I had less freedom.

On campus, I was free. I could leave my apartment nearly at will and travel on the excellent sidewalk system to various places of interest on campus. Coffee at the student union? Done. Spontaneous trip to the book store? Done. Walk around the Drill Field? Well, you know… roll. Done. Go to bed early? Done. Stay up late? Done. Go to a club meeting without needing to arrange transportation? Done. I could do what I wanted. Thanks to all the supports in place, there was a time in my life when I could focus on things that everyone else focused on. It wasn’t all about survival.

I matured so much in my six years in college. In high school, I had few friends my age. I didn’t fit in. At Mississippi State, I met so many people. I found out that I had things in common with people and that my disability wasn’t necessarily a dealbreaker for friendships. For the first time in my life, I was also surrounded by other people with disabilities on a day to day basis. I became great friends with many of them. We did things. And we didn’t worry so much about the logistics.

Two years later, I’m at home. I have no friends here my age. I can’t go and come as I please without significant logistical planning. I haven’t found a job. I’m no longer surrounded by single ladies my age (also see previous sentence). And while my life is actually pretty great considering that everyone in America has a pretty sweet life, I realize that some of the best years of my life are over. And it’s a bit sad.

Mississippi State University, I miss you.

We’re headed to the door of a shiny new restaurant in town. I enter first, as the people I am with hold the door open for me. The host(ess) makes eye contact with me momentarily before looking past me to ask the (non-disabled) “adult” how many people are in our party. I answer, “Four,” trying to show that I am perfectly competent enough to answer his/her simple questions. My brother, also using a wheelchair, enters behind me.

We sit and wait in a highly cramped space as we try to make enough room for patrons to enter and exit. Finally, our party is called and we head back to a table. Naturally, the table is in the very back of the restaurant, requiring my brother and I to carefully navigate the dangerous waters of old people (who are getting up to leave), tiny screaming kids in booster seats, and a steady current of waiters and waitresses who are overloaded with heavy dishes.

Upon arriving to the table, we realize that two large power wheelchairs are not going to fit at this table without some serious rearrangements. The employees try to help, but eventually the folks we are with take over the operation and shift the table around until we are able to fit.

Our waiter comes to the table, takes our drink orders and gives us some menus. Actually, just two menus. Matt and I don’t get one because obviously, being disabled, we are unable to read and comprehend such a complex document. I think about sharing menus with someone in the name of being peaceful. “Could I get a menu,” I say instead before I have time to stop myself.

We eventually figure out what we all want to eat, and our waiter comes to take our orders. “What does he want?” the waiter says gesturing toward me. “I’ll take the number 23 please,” I say, once again trying to show that I am competent enough to order my food.

We enjoy a meal with friends and family. Our waiter is particularly nice and helpful. But then it comes time to pay. “Is this going to be on one or two tickets?” our waiter asks. Of course, the cripples are surely being paid for by the walking man. I mean, isn’t that why our taxes are so high?!¹  ”We’re on separate tickets,” we tell our waiter.

It’s about respect

So I would be lying if I said that any of this keeps me up at night. But I think it’s a matter of principle. People with disabilities just want to be treated like everyone else. Hey, we enjoy getting sweet parking and all, but we don’t want too much special treatment. Carl Thompson of Working at Perfect had the following to say regarding preferential treatment.

In theory, this is a good thing. It definitely made it easy to get a good position at the venue. But if you think about it more, it is preferential treatment. I really don’t want preferential treatment, just as I don’t want to be treated in a traditionally negative discriminatory way.²

At the end of the day, people with disabilities want what everyone wants. Just a little mutual respect and admiration.

“It’s like the only sport I can do half of,” he joked.

“More than half, actually, because you spend most of your time sitting and waiting, which we’re really good at,” I replied.

We often make fun of our disability. We have an open policy with each other when it comes to disability matters. Even though we were joking, I understood Matt’s desire.

“There’s a certain beauty about just sitting there and holding the rod,” he continued.

Right, indeed. I think the beauty of it comes from just holding the rod, feeling it in your hand. It’s the physical connection. Increasingly, I lose my ability to physically connect with the world around me. Many of my connections are psychological. My world is in the mind. My computer has become an extension of myself.

“But you can’t live only in the mind,” Matt said as our conversation continued.

“You can. It just sucks,” I laughingly retorted.

He was right, though. Being able to reach out and grab something is an empowering feeling. There is a certain joy in the tangibility of things. Physical connections are part of our human nature. When fishing, it’s the grip of the rod and the pull of the fish. When shooting hoops, it’s the feeling of the ball’s momentum as you control it. When playing piano, it’s the rhythm underneath your fingers. When dating, it’s a touch on the arm or a spontaneous hug.

These are the world of the tangible. When we were babies, we explored this brave new world. Many people, I think, grow up to take this tangibility for granted. While I would never trade my mind for physical ability, I realize that there is a part of the world in which my participation is waning. Even with its capacity for thought, ideas, and emotion, the world of the mind can still be a cold, dark, and lonely place.

John Elway, screenshot of Tecmo Super Bowl

I use to be near the forefront of video gaming technology. When I was a kid I usually had a better video game setup than my friends. My first system was the NES. One of my first games, if not the first, was Super Mario Bros. Since my father was a big football fan, he taught me football basics when I was young. Our game was Tecmo Super Bowl on the NES. Perhaps you could say that was our way of playing football in the back yard.

Video games often filled a void in my young life. I loved sports and competition. And I especially loved winning. In 1998, I bought Madden NFL 99 for the N64. That marked the beginning of a long tradition. I have either bought or been given the annual edition of the Madden series for 11 straight years before this year. I loved it. The more the game evolved into an accurate simulation of football, the more I loved it.

But the day that I feared would come finally did. I lost the ability to use the controller. It did not happen overnight, but sometime between this blog’s origin in the summer of 2008 and now, I crossed the I-just-can’t-do-this-anymore threshold. It happened at about the same time that I lost the ability to type. I had sort of given up on playing Madden this year, so I didn’t buy the game. And I had yet to make the switch to the next generation of consoles. That changed this year when I got a Playstation 3 for Christmas along with Madden ’10. I had not played at all for months, and I knew that my left hand in particular was significantly weaker than it was last time I picked up a controller. To my dismay, I just couldn’t do it. And it really bothered me. I had a Playstation 3 and Madden ’10 right in front of me and I couldn’t play it. It’s not just another ability in a long line of abilities that I have lost because of my SMA. Okay, it is, but it’s more than that.

Losing my gross motor skills didn’t affect my general outlook on life because I had other abilities to fall back on. So even though I didn’t have the ability to shoot hoops on the basketball court, I could do other things. I enjoyed creative writing. I watched movies. And I could play Madden. And that was something I could do to have some competition with my friends.

But SMA took football from me. And it took writing (by making it slow and tedious). It keeps taking and taking. Its hunger is never filled nor its thirst quenched. I feel like I am going into the fourth quarter and SMA is up by two touchdowns.

Coincidentally, my favorite NFL player of all time is John Elway. I’m too young to fully appreciate him as he retired just after I began keeping up with sports in 1999. Nonetheless, I was interested in him in when I was young. In high school, I wrote a paper about his career.

As a rookie, he was ambitious, perhaps cocky. He boasted that he would win five Super Bowls during his career, earning a ring for each finger. You could call John Elway a comeback king. It’s debated as to weather he is the comeback king, but he led his team to victory in the final quarter of many games. One of those comebacks relied on Elway to lead the offense on a breathtaking 98-yard march known as “The Drive.”

I continue to adapt to worsening situations. The pages of this blog exhibit the various techniques I have used and considered for typing. I plan to experiment with some alternative game controllers, though many are out of my price range. Video games might seem an unimportant hobby to be so concerned about, but for me, it is a gateway into another world.

It’s time for my comeback.

Me receiving over-sized gift card from Best Buy.

Now that we’ve covered all of the important stuff, I’m going to take this opportunity to talk about the making of the video.

Making a video without a camera

When I talk about the making of “Meet Sue,” I always end up mentioning the fact that I can not even begin to lift and hold a camera. It’s true. Although I wanted to enter the contest, I struggled with the idea of how I would actually create the video. But then I remembered something. Something I saw on YouTube months before I knew of this contest. It was a rather nerdy video, but what I remembered about it was its emphasis on text. Mind you, this is the first time that I have revealed where exactly the inspiration for the format of the video came from. It came from this:

Although my text effects are nowhere near as cool as the ones in this video, you should be able understand where the format of the “Meet Sue” video came from. Using text and music was going to be my alternative. All I needed to do was to tell the story. And that’s when it got fun.

Having a disability without “having a disability”

If you tell a story about a fictional character, you create the character. The reader (or listener) of the story comes to know the character as you reveal the character’s, well, characteristics. So the goal of the story became to tell people about the Sue that they would see if they were not distracted with the fact that she has a disability. In other words, I told many things about Sue before mentioning that she has a disability.

It is a personal issue in many ways. Sue is me. And “Meet Sue” is a fantasy scenario where people get to know me before knowing that I have a disability. Maybe it is some unknown need to peel away my disability to see what people think. I don’t know. At this point, I’m just speculating. All I know is that you can tell when people don’t take you seriously, and sometimes it happens. Not because people are bad or want to suppress people with disabilities before they infiltrate society at all levels in a massive attempt to take over human civilization. It’s just a matter of feeling uncomfortable and unsure around people who are different than you. I sometimes feel uncomfortable around people who have different disabilities than I do. It happens.

So the moral of the story is that we all need to understand the similarities that connect us and appreciate the differences that make us unique. So all that being said, I leave you with…

Meet Sue

And here is a transcript:

Meet Sue.
Sue is an employee.
Sue is an employer.
Sue is a manager.
Sue is a mentor.
Sue is a teacher.
Sue is a writer.
Sue is a speaker.
Sue is smart.
Sue is funny :-)
Sue is exciting!
Sue is engaging.
Sue is a wife.
Sue is a mother.
Sue is a person with dreams.
Sue is a person with aspirations.
Sue is a person with a disability.
Sue is a person.

(at 60 seconds, video fades to credits)

Created by:

Blake Watson
www.blakewatson.com

Thanks to everyone who made this incredible experience possible.

Matt, here. Like my brother Blake who runs this blog, I have some trouble typing, although the word “trouble” may be kind of stretching it. I can use a regular laptop-sized keyboard, but it takes a little work to get my left arm on the table to be able to operate the keyboard. And after a while of holding my arm on the table, my hand starts going to sleep. Therefore, when I’m at home relaxing from a hard day’s work, or when I’m being lazy, I just use the mouse and an onscreen keyboard to type unless I’m writing a lengthy e-mail message or a treatise on things like … well, onscreen keyboards.

This is where the problem begins. Short story: Apple computers’ “Keyboard Viewer” sucks primordial fluid. Long story: After reading countless news articles on how Twitter will change our lives forever, I’m sitting at home making def tweets and checkin’ the latest on Facebook, when suddenly I have to type a capital letter (because I’m proper like that and haven’t yet fallen into the habit of typing everything lowercase). And not only do I need to type a capital letter, but I also have to type @sexxybbaby4x92. However, the modifier keys (e.g. caps lock, shift, control, command, etc.) on Mac’s Keyboard Viewer do not stick when they are clicked. That means you can’t click on “shift” then on “2″ to write the @ symbol or “A” to write a capital A. What I usually end up doing is holding down the shift button with my righthand index finger while I aim the cursor and click the mouse with my middle finger, a stunt that has taken me months to master.

But yesterday, I got sick and tired of it all, and I asked Blake where on the Internet I could download Keystrokes, which is what he uses. He was like, “Just google it, but it costs like 300 bucks. Get Voc Rehab to pay for it.” “Screw that,” I said. I’m not going to pay $300 just to be able to push the dang shift key. Windows comes with a free Onscreen Keyboard that works perfectly. Surely Mac wouldn’t let themselves get beat out on something so simple as an onscreen keyboard with a functioning shift key. Surely there was a way to make the infamous Keyboard viewer work. Aha! Sticky keys. Just turn sticky keys on and it will work.

Nope. OK let’s see. Aha! Just hack the system. Well, two problems here: 1) I don’t know how to hack the system even with good directions, and 2) it still doesn’t work that well for people who have tried it. For instance, on the Apple discussion page, one disgruntled customer “even tried trashing ~/Library/Preferences/com.apple.KeyboardViewerServer.plist and ~/Library/Preferences/com.apple.universalaccess.plist, but these were also no help at all.” Whatever that means, but you get the point.

OK, I’m starting to get tired at this point. I begin to slowly accept defeat. As one blog commentor said on The Apple Blog, “Apple just informed me that I’m the proud owner of a useless Macbook–there is no fi[x] for the shift problem on the onscreen keyboard.” So many others got the same response from Apple, with one person even claiming Apple told her they would fix it on the next version but never did.

So then I’m like, “Well that sucks. Looks like I’m going to have to search for some kind of freeware point-and-click keyboard program.” Nope, they all cost money, and I’m not paying money when it is my Windows-given right to be able to operate the onscreen keyboard shift key for free, dadgumit.

In a conversation with my brother, I found out the key difference between the Windows Onscreen Keyboard and the Apple Keyboard Viewer. Windows means for its keyboard to function as an accessibility feature. That is, it is meant specifically for people with disabilities who have trouble typing. It is even listed under “Accessibiity.” However, the Keyboard Viewer’s primary funtion is to be able to find the hidden keys. In other words, if I hold down shift, I can bring up the Keyboard Viewer and see that shift+2 would be @ or that option+N would be the ˜ sign or that shift+option+? would be the backwards question mark (¿) that comes in so handy when I’m typing my Spanish essays. So, the Keyboard Viewer is not really meant as an onscreen keyboard, and indeed it’s not even listed under the computer’s “Universal Access” section. There is another section where you find it (“International”).

“That’s stupid,” I said. And for good reason. Apple has lied to me! I say this because in the “Accessibility” section of their Web site under “Physical & Motor Skills,” it says the following:

Onscreen Keyboard

If you find it easier to use a pointing device than a keyboard, you can use the Keyboard Viewer to enter text. You’ll find this onscreen keyboard in the International pane of System Preferences. Keyboard Viewer floats above other applications (so you can’t misplace it). It can be displayed small or big, and, though you “type” with a mouse or other pointing device, it otherwise works just like a physical keyboard.

LIES!!! It is not a real onscreen keyboard and it does not work just like a physical keyboard.

The real issue that bothers me is that many people all over the Internet have complained to Apple about this and Apple just won’t fix it. It’s so utterly simple. Just make the modifier keys stick on the Keyboard Viewer. Simple, simple, simple. Yet Apple either makes empty promises about fixing it or refers people to outside software they have to buy. Come on, Mac. You’re gonna let PC be the disabled-friendly computer? The Keyboard Viewer may seem like a small feature no one really cares about, but hundreds of people with disabilities who have trouble typing have found the Windows Onscreen Keyboard extremely helpful, especially when they are at public computers in places like libraries, where they haven’t installed $300 software. Yet, when we go up to a public Mac computer with a physical keyboard that may be too big for us to handle, we have to rely on the Keyboard Viewer as the next best thing to an authentic onscreen keyboard. C’mon.

If you’re dying to know, the only free thing I have found on the Internet is something called Kiiboard that looks like this on my computer screen:

Kiiboard

Yeah, it’s huge, and you can’t resize it either. And don’t make the mistake of calling this an onscreen keyboard. As the site I linked to says, it was “originally designed for use with the Wii Remote IR mouse driver for Mac OS X.”

If you happened to have found any other better free alternatives, please let me know. Thanks.

A big thing for me right now is keeping tabs on my weight. Or at least that’s what they tell me. Apparently, if you can’t move (e.g., you have SMA), you shouldn’t eat as much as other people do. Makes sense, but it is difficult to put into practice, especially considering that I live in the fattest state in America. These were discussion points I knew would come up as I signed in and took my place in the waiting room at the Blair E. Batson Hospital for Children.

It was my annual check-up appointment with Dr. Moll, a specialist out of the handful I visit each year. On this occasion, it turns out Dr. Moll was on vacation. So after sitting in the waiting room for about two hours, I was escorted to a back room to see Dr. Torchinsky, who was seeing Dr. Moll’s patients for the day. A few more minutes of waiting and a soft-spoken, yet animated doctor with a Russian accent came into the room baring my chart. Though the nurse who brought me back kept saying “Dr. T” would be difficult to understand, I found him to be easy to understand, given the accent, and I thought his personality quite delightful.

We began by looking at the results of my blood tests from my last check-up (which I was assuming were fine since they didn’t bother giving them to me earlier). Dr. Torchinsky took me item by item explaining each test and telling me whether I “passed” or “failed.” Fortunately, I passed all the tests. I’m surprisingly healthy for someone living in the South who doesn’t like most veggies and gets minimal physical activity. But the issue of my weight finally reared it’s ugly head. A lecture I have heard so many times before transpired. Keeping my weight down was of utmost importance. Did I drink soft drinks like Coke or my beloved Dr. Pepper? Sometimes. Well I shouldn’t because those drinks contain so much sugar that he considers them comparable to medicine. I should see a nutritionist to learn about all the good foods that exist. Bla bla bla bla.

I know.

But knowing and doing are two different things. When you can’t prepare food for yourself, you rely on others to prepare it for you. Sometimes that means Grandma makes fried chicken, mashed potatoes (with extra butter and milk cooked right in of course), corn, biscuits, and apple pie. Sometimes it means Mom is tired and Sonic will prepare our food tonight. Sometimes it means an attendant will microwave something for me. Rarely does it involve eating a planned, healthy, and nutritious meal. Not to mention the foods that are easy for me to eat are finger-foods, which are usually fried or otherwise unhealthy. Oh, and I’m a picky eater. And to top it all off, many of the vegetables that I taught myself to like (e.g., green beans) are on the avoid list for people with calcium oxalate kidney stones, such as myself.

So, yes, Dr. Torchinsky and all the doctors before him are right. I should follow his recommendations, as should the other 68% of Mississippians. But I’m going to have to do it in baby steps, especially as I smell the coconut rice pudding that my grandma is concocting in the kitchen as I write this. So I’m limiting myself to two 12oz. Dr. Peppers a week, not counting any occasions in which we go out to eat. That’s an issue I’ll deal with separately (but you can’t just blindly drink tap water in Jackson). And I’m going to begin the preliminary stages of scheduling a visit with a nutritionist, which means I’ll tell my mom that I should see a nutrionist. Come to think of it, I’ve already mentioned it once, but it won’t be taken seriously until I mention it a few more times. Not because my mom doesn’t want me to be healthy, but because she won’t think I’m serious unless I keep talking about it.

So, anyone know of some tasty, healthy foods?