Ein Ausländer und ein Behinderter

It was a Saturday, 15:23, when I stood in front of the S-Bahn elevator, sweaty from an unexpected summer relapse, resisting with all my might the urge to pee my pants—even though I’d had only a sip of water. My disobedient claws clung tightly to the handles of the wheelchair.
She sat in it, partially disoriented, sweating herself to some degree, tired of the hard backrest pressing against the huge hump she was born with—a hump that will not allow her to live long. Both her thumbs were in her mouth.

It took me some time to understand that a technical problem had occurred in this elevator and that we were surrounded by railway tracks and stairs, unable to leave the platform. We had a bit more than 30 minutes to reach her house. Then, I would leave—because that’s when my carework clock ticks off, leaving space for another body to be taken care of. Mine.

We rode backward on another train, searching for a train platform with working elevators. When we finally found one, we were joined by two older Germans with a bike. Sporty, sweaty, muscled. Mobile. They didn’t hesitate to point out that we had pulled the elevator down when they actually needed to go up. I said nothing but pressed harder on the wheelchair handles to keep my balance.

On the second floor, the older pair exited and were immediately replaced by younger ones, who were 14 or 15. They laughed. They laughed from the beginning. They giggled in their nonexistent beards with their thin, boy’s voices. They laughed sweetly because it was forbidden by the god of morality, their parents, or something they once heard in school. They laughed secretly, but we saw it. We felt it in the 3m2  box.

Our two bodies were in pain—visibly and invisibly. Our urges and cramps collided. Our hands were going numb. We sweated and tried our best not to collapse just to survive the elevator ride and make it home.

I asked them what was so funny–in a language that remains broken, in a voice that came out frightened and shaky, without me intending it to. They looked at me, then at her, sucking her thumbs and bending over the handles while screaming out.
When she stopped, they answered my question with another question: “Where are you from, anyway?” (original. Woher kommst du eigentlich?)

The elevator, now feeling like a sauna, opened—almost as if it responded to their question. They ran outside, still laughing, and as their teenage bodies receded in the distance, we heard them saying through their laughter, “Ein Ausländer und ein Behinderter!”(A migrant and a disabled person!)

In masculine singular.
Even though we are both female.
Even though we are both disabled.

Remember me.
You will remember her thumbs pierced in her big tongue. You will remember her hump that bends over her lungs. You will remember the numb legs followed by the occasional, uncontrollable, loud cries. You must not forget my cramped body holding onto hers in order not to fall. We will remain a sculpture surrounded by the glass doors of the metal, moving box that provides us with our mobility, but exposes us to those like you.

You will remember all of us.

Because we, the mutants, migrants, weirdos, sickos - with our disabling, deteriorating, painful, immigrant, female, trans, and queer bodies, once, will come for you.

And one day or another, you will all be disabled—
If you aren’t already.

Aren’t we all?