Living in London, public transport is less of a privilege and more of a fundamental part of life. With such busy roads it is nearly impossible to drive a car around the city – much less so to learn how to – and so most people will take advantage of the well-developed transport system.
However, when a city houses the greatest metropolitan population in the European Union (at least 13 million people), there is an issue of seating; there is simply not enough. Of course, we have priority seating clearly labeled for those pregnant, elderly, with young children or otherwise visibly less able to stand and it is common courtesy to offer your seat to them, but what do we do for those with invisible disabilities?
Personally, I need access to sit, even on short journeys. Being 17 and already arthritic may be uncommon, but it happens. I can feel my legs and back flaring up in pain, but no one else can. Taking into account my social anxiety, my stutter, my short temper and the unfair stereotype that, as a teenager, I am inherently lazy and rude, you can imagine how stressful travel is for me. No, I can’t offer that pregnant woman my seat because if the bus stops abruptly I risk buckling and landing myself in A&E. No, I can’t ask that man for his seat because talking to strangers leaves me in a state of panic, or if he starts an argument I’ll ruin everybody’s day.
No, I’m not selfish, I’m disabled. You just can’t tell.
On top of all things, I can still call myself lucky; I know countless people with invisible disabilities that hinder their daily lives even more so than mine does. I know people who have had surgery to fix scoliosis who can’t stay outside in winter too long in case the cold air affects the metal in their back. I have a friend who suffers from heart arrhythmia leaving her liable to visual blackouts and fainting. I know someone with postural tachycardia syndrome (you can learn more about that here) who sometimes can hardly stand due to her body being unable to account for the gravitational change. There are so many reasons as to why someone may have an “invisidisability” that I would be here all day if I tried to list them.
In September, Transport for London announced they would trial a badge in order to help those who do not directly appear to need a seat. Sadly, only 1,000 of these trial badges could be applied for; if you recall the 13 million people who are likely to use the transport system, this is less than 0.01%. Moreover, whilst some of the friends mentioned earlier were successful in applying, has any single one of them actually received this badge? Short of wearing a shirt which demands, “I’m disabled, give me your f*cking seat,” we simply have to pluck up the courage to ask for one or suffer in silence. The ‘baby on board’ badge is a huge hit with pregnant commuters across the city, so why can’t we have one, too?
It’s these subtle and therefore overlooked hints of ableism when living in a city that make the difference between a metropolitan dream and an obstacle course nightmare. Just because you can’t see that someone is struggling, it doesn’t mean they aren’t. So, the next time you see a seemingly able teen in the priority seat on the tube – do what the Brits do best. Keep calm, and carry on.
