You know how everyone in high school has at least one clique they belong to? One that shapes their adolescent identity? (Think of that iconic lunchroom scene from Mean Girls.) I had a few, for sure, but one of my primary groups was the Kids Who Go To Shows. We were like pre-hipsters and our identity, as you might guess, was based around going to concerts. I took pride in discovering a band before anyone heard about them, going to see shows in small bars in and around San Francisco, and — if I was lucky — hanging out with the musicians after a concert. I went to more concerts in high school than I can count and saw hundreds of bands live. To this day, some of my favourite groups are the ones I had never heard of before I saw them open for someone bigger.
Flash forward to my twenties. Music was still a deep part of my soul and I could ride the high of seeing live music for weeks, but going to shows had started to become more and more difficult due to chronic pain in my back and legs. At age 23, I was finally diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a degenerative genetic disability that manifests in my joints and ligaments, making standing or walking for long periods of time extraordinarily painful or even impossible.
I kept going to concerts, but I had to find shows where I could sit down. Most of the time, I couldn’t see the stage — people would spend the show on their feet, even if we were in a seated theatre. Or I would park myself by the bar (assuming I could get a seat) and see 1/3 of the stage from an awkward angle. Reserved seats for disabled attendees were poorly placed, poorly managed, or nonexistent. It got to a point where I figured that my concert-going days were over; lack of awareness and accessibility was shutting me out of my own identity. I figured I’d had a good run and I stopped going to shows.
Until this year.
My sister and I were thrilled when Fastball, one of my top three favourite bands of all time, released their first album in over eight years. We figured a tour couldn’t be far behind and we were right — they would be playing a small list of intimate venues across the country, one of which was practically in our backyard. There was no way I was missing this show, even if it meant weeks of pain and physical therapy to follow.
We didn’t have high expectations for accessibility, but we figured we should call the venue anyway, because it never hurts to ask. Jenny at Cornerstone Berkeley simply asked what we needed without asking insulting questions. She told us to ask for Cory at the box office, promising us that the staff would take care of us and ensure that we would have seating with a clear view of the stage. Now, I know that “clear view of the stage” can sometimes mean “clear, as long as the bar is totally deserted, otherwise tough luck” so I wasn’t getting my hopes up too much, but once we arrived, everything worked out better than we could have imagined.
Seats were lined up along the side of the venue, so I figured we’d grab two and just watch the show from an angle, at a distance distance. I jokingly wondered aloud if I could drag one of them to the stage and create my own “front row” — and when my sister decided to go ask T.J., the bouncer, he not only encouraged us to do so, but promised that he would personally deal with anyone who gave me trouble for it or got in my way. I was floored.
The staff at Cornerstone went above and beyond my expectations for accessibility, above and beyond the norm. But it’s important to note that this really wasn’t difficult for them. It cost them nothing to let me sit at the foot of the stage and watch the show in comfort. It cost them nothing to smile and high five me at the end of the night and ask if I enjoyed myself. It cost them nothing to treat me like a person and tell me (and show me) that their priority was making sure I had a great time.
The way I was treated by the Cornerstone staff should be the norm, not an exception. I celebrated this night and wanted to share the details because the experience was so unusual for me, but it really shouldn’t be that way.
Earlier this year, Congress introduced H.R. 620, a bill that would change the way businesses are required to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). The bill proposes that after a disabled person is denied access in some way, they must notify the business owner and then wait six months to see if the business makes ‘substantial progress’ toward access before taking the complaint to court. It would put the burden squarely on the shoulders of those who are already burdened with chronic pain, societal misunderstanding, and ableism.
Today, most businesses barely meet the minimum legal requirements, and many use the legal loophole of finding accessibility incorporation an “undue hardship” to avoid making any changes. Historic buildings refuse to add elevators or widen doorways. Small shops claim they can’t shoulder the costs of removing entrance steps or adding a ramp. Department stores crowd their sales floors with tiny display tables that wheelchair users can’t navigate around. And they all get away with it — compliance with the ADA is not strictly or uniformly enforced.
The ADA is far from perfect — anyone with working knowledge of the act or direct experience can see that — but it is a starting point. Abolishing it completely is not the answer, but neither is leaving it as is.
Accessibility is more than ramps and parking spots; accessibility is also about basic human decency that goes beyond law — the kind that the staff at Cornerstone showed to me, and then kind that allowed me to have one of the greatest concert-going experiences of my life. Accessibility is about people. And guess what? I’m a person. I vote, I go to shows, I exist in the world, and I matter. I’m glad my experience at Cornerstone allowed me to feel respected in public as a disabled person, but I wish it wasn’t such an uncommon experience.
