Birth Pains of Inclusion
by
Nicolai Ordahl
The house I grew up
in stands five blocks from a notorious state institution in Cambridge,
Minnesota. Riding my Huffy through that place was like entering
a strange cartoon land—grand buildings
forming rows into the distance, rolling expanses of green grass,
a curious stillness in the air. Occasionally, I would see someone
walking around, looking lost. I always wondered what went on inside
those buildings. Thankfully, I didn’t hear the story until
years later.
One day a man came out
of nowhere as I rode through. “Hey!” He
said. “Hey, I’m looking for a friend!” I didn’t
know what to think—words like “retarded” and “dangerous” had
been put into my mind by the well-meaning townsfolk. So when this
man yelled at me, I turned up the heat and left a streak of fire
in my wake. I felt sad looking back, watching him give up and turn
away. I realized that he wasn’t looking for a particular friend.
The guy was looking for anybody.
Serendipity brought
me to Life Pages, a community inclusion project funded by Administration
on Developmental Disabilities (ADD) fifteen years later. The point
of my position at Life Pages, was to facilitate a greater diversity
of life experiences for people with disabilities. As the Life Pages’ Web site matured into a megalith of accessible
community happenings, I ventured out into the Twin Cities to promote
the work: standing at exhibits, presenting at conferences, and meeting
the people for whom I had been toiling. It became clear to me that
to some, I was the rookie reporter whistling through an office full
of disenchanted veterans—they were dying to see me trip.
Forging ahead, we developed
interactive Web site features that addressed vulnerability concerns,
while creating personal connections between users. But it became
clear that in the real world, improving community inclusion was
no cakewalk. Many bright-eyed exchanges of business cards resulted
in silence, unreturned messages, even dropped telephones and mysterious
disconnections. I could have sworn a man from Houston, panicked
by the prospect of being solicited by a community inclusion project,
used his voice to imitate a dial tone. Other talks with disability
professionals yielded clearer results; the phrase “no
way in hell” was indeed spoken.
Of course it was a good
idea! A network of localized, yet connected Web sites where people
could march under the banner of community inclusion while finding
local information and connecting with each other—clearly a progressive way to approach the problem. People
with disabilities needed more diversity in their leisure experiences,
more self-direction, more opportunities to connect with each other
and the community—everybody was high five-ing over that one.
But did I, a starry-eyed tenderfoot with a college education burning
a hole in my pocket, have any idea of the kinds of things these professionals
were up against? There was red tape. There were incidents. There
were dismal finance meetings in which heads sunk into hands, burned
coffee was glumly sipped, and the mere mention of investing real
money in a community inclusion network was met with a prompt discussion
of American Idol.
Hope dwindled. The data
seemed to indicate that while institutions were out, self-direction
had not exactly seized the tiller. The federal government thought
Life Pages was a solid concept, but everyone has their own impression
of Uncle Sam’s slugging percentage. We
did enjoy brief courtships with a handful of organizations, but in
the end we were always disapproved of by the parents—the people
in charge of the money, or vice versa. Disability advocates from
New York to California sang the praises of this original idea, but
nobody was willing to ante up. This isn’t anybody’s fault —it
takes a lot of faith and momentum to put resources into an instrument
of systems change. Everybody knows that the disability world is not
characterized by people lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills.
In the meantime, the project marches on and waits, much like those
individuals with few connections to the community around them.
Drawing the curtains on the state institution in Cambridge was a
laudable step for the State of Minnesota. The next step, not only
for Minnesota but for the country, is drawing the curtains on monotony,
one individual at a time. Using fast, user-friendly technology to
explore the community, facilitate friendships, and nurture the interests
of individuals is a reasonable place to start.
Partners in Community
Supports (PICS) was founded by some of Minnesota’s
most respected non-profits to promote inter-agency cooperation, improve
legislation, develop best practices and change the system to put
people first. Our Partner Agencies:
Life Pages - www.LifePages.org This site was developed to help you find information about recreation
and leisure activities, services, advocacy, and other useful things
about life in Minnesota. Life Pages offers information for Minnesotans
of all ages and abilities who want to enrich their leisure lifestyle
as well as their connections to the greater community.
The Administration on
Developmental Disabilities (ADD) is the U.S. Government organization
responsible for implementation of the Developmental Disabilities
Assistance and Bill of Rights Act of 2000, known as the DD Act.
