For forty years of her life, Beryl Potter navigated the world as a relatively healthy, able-bodied person. She never struggled to find an accessible entrance or washroom. People did not stare at her as she went down the street. No one ever offered unsolicited prayers. She never had to field awkward questions from strangers about her body. She never felt the need to put at ease others who were uncomfortable in her presence. She never had to endure the patronizing tone of those who questioned her comprehension of what was being said to her. It was as if she now encountered the world for the first time, venturing out as a middle-aged triple amputee wheelchair user with a visual impairment.
Previously unseen barriers lurked around every corner. Sidewalks without curb cuts, doors without automatic buttons, inaccessible washrooms, and a lack of elevators. Access to restaurants, cafes, grocery stores, offices, and other public amenities each came with their own set of complications that needed to be navigated. Most buses and subways were out of reach, and paratransit services were virtually nonexistent in early 1970s Toronto. Then there were the social attitudes. Some people tried to be helpful, others would cross the street as if she were contagious. Those who did not know what to think would simply gawk, studying her as if she were an unusual art installation sprung to life.
