As Alzheimer’s Awareness Month winds to a close, I’ve naturally spent a lot of time thinking about my dad. In 2002, a stroke left him physically disabled; in the years that followed, his memory and speech started to deteriorate. We tried not to let his cane, and later his wheelchair, affect the rhythm and quality of his life. We traveled and took vacations, went to the movies and out to eat. My unstoppable mother kept our family on course, insisting that we conduct business as usual and not deprive ourselves or our dad of a normal family life.
It was not easy. Any person with a loved one with Alzheimer’s knows the helpless frustration and constant anxiety of navigating a world designed for the physically and cognitively able. Will there be an accessible bathroom? Will the wheelchair lift be out of order? Will people stare or comment and will the staff know what to do with us? Eventually, there was only one place outside our home where I felt completely confident taking our dad: my own restaurant.
In the years since he passed away, I’ve come to realize that dining without anxiety about accessibility is a privilege that many of us aren’t even aware of. That’s how privilege works — it’s imperceptible, unless you don’t have it. Restaurants could help level the playing field when it comes to going out to eat, but in many cases, we just make things worse.
Unfortunately, many restaurant spaces are the “opposite of hospitality” for diners with disabilities. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), a civil rights law passed in 1990, sets basic standards for accessibility in public spaces. But without monitoring or enforcement by any government agency or third party, reports of violations are relatively common in restaurants: narrow pathways through packed dining rooms, lack of low-top tables, and bathrooms labeled as accessible that clearly cannot accommodate a wheelchair. Regular inspections could help enforce the law, but as it stands, the onus is on diners to file complaints or suits.
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