When I was 11, a woman at the hospital asked me what school I was starting in September. I still remember her surprise when I told her I would be going to the local girls grammar, as the hoist pulled my wet limbs out of the physio pool. I was a child but already familiar with those few seconds: the time between a person seeing my wheelchair and the flash across their face as they tried to recalibrate their expectations.
That was the summer of 1996, five years before the law required schools to make “reasonable provisions” for disabled pupils, and only two or three decades after it was the norm to segregate us in “special schools” with rudimentary curriculums, away from “normal” children.
