For those who may not know what a devotee is, it is someone who desires to be with a disabled partner. That is the simple definition. Opinions about this topic vary. While some people recoil in disgust upon the mere mention of the word, others have come to accept what devotees are.

The first time I had ever heard of a devotee, I was in high school. I was about fifteen at the time and I had entered into my first chat room for people with disabilities. I believe I was the youngest person there, and I was warned by the others to be careful of what information I gave out in the chat.

I was told there were devotee lurkers in the room who might use my personal information to contact and harass me.

Believe me, I was freaked out by that idea! I promptly left that chat room in favor of ones that provided a bit more security and anonymity, and never thought about returning. I do not think I again heard the word “devotee,” until years later.

My encounters with devotees, or devs for short, has been somewhat limited. As I have gotten older and my web presence has grown, more devotees have approached me. My most recent incident was different from the rest. While most of the devs I have met have been nothing short of respectful, there are others out there who are not.

I am not entirely surprised this most recent even occurred.

I have a MySpace and a Facebook with photo albums, and my pictures are not always set to private. I do not feel I have anything to hide so I usually do not see the need to privatize my photo albums.

I knew that someday, an image of mine could be stolen and reposted somewhere so I was aware of the risk.

A MySpace message was sent to me a few weeks ago by an individual who informed me there were pictures of me posted in a devotee message forum. If I wanted them removed I should contact the site administrator.

The sender included the URL and I decided to check it out. Sure enough, there I was amongst photos of other young women in wheelchairs. Following the initial post were comments talking about a few of us and how “heartbreakingly lovely” we are, or how “you just have to admire someone like that, coping with such a severe disability.”

Ugh. The fact my photo was plastered there was irritating enough, but it is how they were discussing us that bothered me more. Heartbreakingly lovely? Please. Save it for a flowery romance novel.

Coping with such a severe disability? I might cope with the occasional cold symptoms or below zero temperatures, but when one has a disability I do not think of it in terms of something to be coped with. I live with mine. I might deal with it sometimes, but more often than not I live. The language they used was so tragic sounding.

My life is no tragedy, and I hope these other young women would say the same about their own.

I debated about the action I should take and even how I should feel about the situation. Let me state now, I have nothing against devs. Everyone has different preferences as to what characteristics attract them to another human being.

Who are we to judge anyone for that? If their attraction breaks some kind of law or hurts someone, then it is most certainly wrong.

I do not think that it is a bad thing when someone has an attraction for a person with a disability, but it has to be for the right reasons. I never want to be viewed as someone who is weak, dependent, or fragile.

The general impression I have gotten from a few devotees is just that. They see us as being needy. They do not really see past the disability, but rather make it a central focus. In my mind, this would be called more of a fetish than an attraction. Personally, I do not feel like discussing my disability in every conversation let alone hearing how attractive my bent arms are in the middle of a totally unrelated topic.

I know I am different; I am the last person who needs to be reminded of that fact.

The message forum my picture was posted at became subjected to my secret desire to be an investigator. First of all, I wanted to find out who stole my photo and how he decided he had permission to play show-and-tell with it.

Second, I wanted to search his collections to see if he had stolen any more pictures of me or anyone I knew. Third, I wanted to know if he was selling them.

I politely emailed the administrator and asked him to remove my photo from the forum. I explained that I do not care if people from the devotee community view my pictures, but I think it is wrong for someone to steal my image without my permission and knowledge.

A response was received from the administrator that evening, and he very nicely apologized and removed my photo. He assured me he had not seen any more of me posted there. I hope he was telling the truth!

My investigation of the poster was not exactly successful. I created a fake profile on the site and sent him a private message asking about his own devotee group and the alleged photo collections housed there.

I can be a creative writer; I was trying to sound like a dev. Unfortunately, I never received an answer to my query. Maybe he figured out my profile was a fake.

The first reaction that goes through the minds of most when they learn about devotees is massive shock. That is the same thing I felt ten years ago when I learned what they were. It is quite a controversial topic, but what we should all do is learn more about things before we decide they are weird or creepy.

It wasn’t until about two years ago that I began to look more in depth at this issue. As an adult, I see things differently. I am someone who likes answers and I wanted to know when devoteeism came about, how, why, everything.

I cannot write the complete information I have discovered about devotees in this article, but if more information is sought, point your browsers to Wikipedia.org. Search for the term “attraction to disability.”

It covers everything from a brief history to the psychology. It is something I found to be interesting and the information helped me to better understand their subculture.

Many of the devotees I have chatted with do not know why they developed this attraction. Sometimes it is something or someone from childhood that triggers it. There are also as many kinds of different devotees as there are disabilities. Some hide who they are for fear they will be rejected by family, friends, or society in general.

Should we reject a subculture that regards our subculture as attractive? I do not believe so. If devotees can see us for who we are and not focus on the disability aspect of our lives, why not just accept them for who they are as well?

*I want to hear about your thoughts, opinions, and experiences with the devotee community! Head on over to the [forums] and post your input!
Email is available to at nathasha@audacitymagazine.com .

I’ve recently taken up a new hobby – wheelchair basketball. One day not long ago I was down at the gym with a few friends, shooting some hoops for fun.

“Damn,” I said after Rick had missed his seventh consecutive shot. “You can’t put that in the bucket to save your life. Somethin on your mind, bud?”

Chagrined, he rolled over to the bench to grab his water bottle.

“I guess so,” he said, taking a drink. “You heard about the Army activating all those reservists recently?”

I nodded.

“Three years ago I was regular army,” Rick said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Got out when my time was up, and they made me reserve. If I hadn’t been in that accident last year, they’d be activating me too.”

“So, that’s good, right? You can thank this chair of yours for keeping you home this time.”

He grimaced. I guessed wrong, apparently hitting a nerve.

“No man. You don’t get it. I got buddies going to Iraq now, and I’m not with them.”

A light went on in my head. He was so loyal to the men he served with that he would rather be with them than in this chair.

“You know Cole, there’s guys that are missing legs and are in chairs because they were wounded on the field. I never got wounded. I was in, did my time in the Army, and never even saw any action. And here I’m not going back because of some drunk idiot in a ski boat.”

“Rick, a purple heart is just a medal. You may not have been shot at, but you’ve done your time. You deserve as much respect as any other serviceman who has put their life on the line.”

Rick looked at me with hollow eyes. I knew he was inconsolable. He really didn’t want to feel better.

“You know some people say everything happens for a reason,” I continued, plowing on. “Maybe if you hadn’t been blindsided by that boat you’d be getting shot in Iraq right now. Maybe there’s something else you’re meant to do that this accident kept you here, kept you from getting shot.”

“Yeah. But maybe, just maybe, if I was healthy, I’d save a 19-year-old from getting shot.”

I turned around and rolled back on the court.

Someone tossed me the ball and I took a shot.

“That’s someone else’s job now, Rick. Now get over here and rebound for us.”

***

Later, after the game, Rick still seemed down, despite the fact that his shooting improved a little.

“Dude, you need to get out more,” I said to him. He just looked at me, too tired to respond. “I tell you what. I was thinking about calling up a girlfriend of mine and hitting some clubs tonight. Want to join us?”

“I’d just be a third wheel,” he said. “You go without me.”

“She’s got a roommate.”

“Is she cute?”

I grinned and popped a wheelie. “We’ll pick you up at eight, ok?”

***

As I went home I mentally went through the names in my rolodex. I had told Rick a small lie – there were no such plans – but I could make them! I had a few hours to come up with two women who weren’t busy. But that, my friends, is a whole new story. Buy me a drink, and maybe I’ll share it.
Catch Cole W. at the Online Forum.

I love to watch a movie or read a book. My extensive collection of videotapes and DVDs is an escape from reality for a couple of hours. Whether it’s watching Sean Connery in one of his famous Bond movies or Halle Berry strutting her stuff, there’s nothing like a mindless flick for me.

Books are another thing entirely. It’s like a movie in my head when I read a book. I can make a book last for weeks, or I can zip right through it in a couple days if I can’t put it down. Reading is like meeting a group of whole new friends. But part of me knows that for every movie there’s a camera crew just outside of the len’s range. Part of me imagines the computer artists removing the wires on the people doing dangerous air stunts. Part of me sees the author writing his novel and realizing he’s got the whole thing planned out, and maybe the next novel too.

Then sometimes I wish that it would be so neat if my life was a movie, a fiction. That at some point the director would call “Cut!” and I would stand up, the actor pretending to be a hack writer in a wheelchair.

I’d walk to my trailer for a cup of coffee or flirt with a cute extra. The makeup artist would come over and touch up my face or scold me about getting coffee on my shirt, requiring a wardrobe change. Maybe I’d have a stunt double for the scene where I fall out of my wheelchair.

Sadly, life isn’t a movie, we don’t have stunt doubles.

Life isn’t fiction. Art mirrors life and without life, we would have no art. Movies may have happy endings – but unfortunately we can’t just rewrite our lives. We take what we are given by the great screenwriter in the sky. And we can’t hold out for better pay, either.

Unlike “Star Trek”, our lives don’t improve with syndication. We get one shot at it. No second takes at scenes we screwed up. So no matter how long your movie is, whether it’s long or short, an epic series or a cartoon, make the most of it while you can. Your life won’t be in reruns.

Here’s a riddle. What is something that will happen to everyone, is fought tooth and nail by some, but to many it is a relief? It’s death, the only thing in life that is a certainty. But to those left behind it can be more upsetting than an audit.

My cousin Wendy called recently to tell me she would be in town for the funeral of a friend. Since another friend of mine also had a recent death in her family and I was unable to attend the service, I decided to attend this viewing with my cousin. It seemed a way of trying to pay my respects to both with one service, I guess.

Big mistake. I should never have gone with her. It seemed like the service was populated with either women that couldn’t get enough Kleenex or people that had that carried around that dumb smile you see on the Jehovah Witnesses that come to your door evangelizing.

One woman cornered me, tears glistening in her eyes, and proceeded to tell me that the dearly departed Marie was with God now.

She then asked me what church I attend, and invited me to visit hers.

I told her I don’t attend church. I wanted to tell her that it was too late for me, God had given up on me years ago. Besides, it always seemed to me that churches were occupied either by the blissfully ignorant or the hopelessly hypocritical. I just couldn’t fit in with that environment. Being at a viewing, of course I didn’t tell her those things.

But this woman wouldn’t take no for an answer. She said she’d pray for me, pray that I would change my mind and come to church. She reminded me of a friendly puppy that won’t go away. Luckily, my cousin rescued me, and having paid our respects to Marie, we headed for the door.

Not far away from the funeral home, we found a bar where we could drown our sorrows and toast our absent friends. It seemed though, as I removed my black tie and ordered a second round, that they weren’t that far away.

Later, Wendy asked me what my own plans were, on the event of my death. I told her I didn’t have any. I didn’t even have a will. She said I should, that I should look into a preplanned funeral or something. Something inside of me supposes she’s right, and it’s foolish of me not to have a will. I guess part of me is in denial – but death is just around the corner for all of us.

Ever since my favorite shows went into reruns, I’ve been spending more time with the telescope. Scored big with it Friday night. I was scanning the windows across the street when I hit on an apartment with lights on and the blinds open just enough.

What’s this, I thought, I think I see movement. So I focus a little closer. Sure enough, the telltale shadow of a female form. As I stare at the unknown woman I realize she’s just come out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her and her hair up like a turban.

This is getting interesting. I imagine her in my mind coming home from work, jumping in the shower, and getting ready to go out for a night on the town. I start imagining what comes next – will she take off the towel? Will she put on a black lace bra? Will she skip the panties under her skirt?
Just as she was starting to unwrap the towel, the phone rang and startled me. My head bumped the telescope, sending it spinning on its tripod. Damn. Lost the window.

I picked up the phone, more than a little irate. “What,” I barked into it.

“Cole!” came a female voice on the other end. “It’s me, Janie! Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Uh, no,” I replied, immediately softening my voice. “You can call me any time, dear. Are you in town?”

“Yes,” she said. “I need to talk to you. Can I come over?”

***

An hour later, I was answering the door.

“I brought a couple six-packs for us,” Janie said as I revealed her smiling face. “Molson, is that ok?”

“Sounds great,” I said, backtracking my chair so she could get in. “You’re looking good. What’s it been, three years since we saw each other? So what brings you to town?”

“Oh, I’m moving to town!”

“Why that’s wonderful. I hope I don’t disappoint you though, I haven’t kept up on the club scene lately.”

“Oh that’s okay,” she said, sipping on a beer. “Cole, I have to tell you something though.”

She looked serious. I raised an eyebrow.
“I have someone else now. He is stationed at the local Naval base, so I’m thrilled to be moving closer to him. But I couldn’t move to town without catching up with my Cole.”

My face fell. I tried to hide it, but I don’t think I was very effective. Mercifully, she looked away.

“That’s just super,” I said, taking another swallow of the beer. “I’m happy for you. What’s his name?”

“Doug.” She replied. “He’s very gentle and kind. You’ll really like him.”

“You’ll have to bring him by sometime.”

Janie nodded and walked over to the window. She looked at the scope.

“You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?” she asked.

I laughed. “It’s fun. And it’s more interesting than watching reality TV.”

She bent over and looked into the eyepiece, slowly panning the scope across the building where the blonde lived.

“Isn’t this illegal?” she asked.

I didn’t answer. She had stopped moving the scope.

“Find something of interest?” I asked.

“You are a sick puppy, Cole,” she said, leaving the scope. “It’s amazing to think anyone could be staring at us right now. Doesn’t that creep you out?”

“I say if they are interested in the antics of a homebody like me, let them look.”

She looked at the computer and the cam sitting next to it.

“That thing isn’t on, is it?”

“Would you like it to be?” I said. She laughed.

“I think I better go,” she said, getting up.

“No, don’t go. You just got here. Why don’t we watch a movie? Pick out a DVD and put it on.”

She walked over to the shelf of movies and perused through them. Every once in a while she would select one and read the back, then put it back on the shelf.

“Want some popcorn?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, reading the back of “Die Another Day.”
I rolled into the kitchen and put a package of popcorn in the nuker. When it was done, she had made a selection.

“You sure have a lot of movies,” she said.

“It passes the time,” I said. “What are we watching?”

“Bride of Frankenstein,” she replied, tasting the popcorn. “I always liked Elsa Lanchester’s hair in that movie. Do you remember the time that I dressed like that for Halloween?”

“That was so funny,” I said. “You wore your hair that way for like, a week, didn’t you?”

“Two weeks,” she corrected. “The dye wouldn’t come out! It wasn’t as temporary as the box said it was.”

We watched the movie and finished off the six-packs. If it was three years ago, we would been making love before the credits ran. But instead, she thanked me for the nice movie and popcorn. I thanked her for the beer. We promised to get together again real soon. Quick peck on the cheek. Old friends.

***

In my mind I could visualize Janie going down the elevator, getting in her car and driving away. I looked out the window, alone again, and wondered – do you think someone in an apartment across the street was watching us?

I wheeled over to the telescope looked into the viewfinder, wondering if the anonymous blonde was still awake. In my mind she was just getting home from a bar, taking off clothes that smelled like cigarette smoke. There was that chance I could catch her giving me a private strip show, peeling off her blouse, skirt, bra and panties, unaware I was watching her every move.

Or maybe she would bring a guy home with her, and I would see them kiss. He would strip her and I would pretend it was my hand caressing her bare flesh. Or maybe another girl, that would be fun to watch too. My mind raced with possibilities. My heart pounded as I scanned the darkened windows for even the hint of light. My hands quivered as I thought endlessly of the blonde.

Next thing I knew I felt this pain in my neck and side. I awoke with a start. I had fallen asleep in the chair again, quite possibly the most uncomfortable thing to sleep in. I must have bumped the scope when I drifted off, as it was askew and pointing at the ceiling. At least the tripod didn’t fall over, I thought.

I looked at the clock and it said it was 3:30. That didn’t tell me a lot because I wasn’t sure when I drifted off. I looked out the window and was rewarded with inky blackness. Nothing going on in any of the apartments. My luck!

“Damn,” I thought. “All this work and the only thing I got out of it was a crick in the neck.”

I wheeled the chair into my bedroom and hauled myself into the bed. I was too tired to change and slept the rest of the night fully clothed.

I ran into my quirky neighbor today, the one who lives two doors down from me. I was getting my mail from downstairs and discovered one of her letters had been tucked in with my mail. Rather than go all the way back downstairs, I knocked on her door.

“Why Cole, how nice to see you,” Felicia said, opening the door.

“Yes, nice to see you too. Uh, this letter got in my mail by mistake, I thought I’d drop it by.”

“Thanks! Say, I just put on some tea, would you like to come in for a cup?”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”

I’d never been inside Felicia’s place before, and sweet heavy odors hung in the air. It seemed like a mixture of candles, incense and potpourri. I wheeled over to the kitchen table where she was preparing some teacups and saucers.

“I usually use coffee cups,” she said. “I so seldom have company anymore. But I do like these teacups. People don’t use them enough, you know?”

I smiled. She was right. I don’t think I even own a saucer, let alone a teacup. She poured the hot tea into the cups and proffered some sugar.

As I sipped my tea, I glanced around the apartment. Her tastes were eclectic – mostly antiques mixed with some shabby furniture. On the walls were some paintings of animals, Indians and other Indian artwork. She followed my gaze to a web-like circle.

“That’s a dream catcher,” she said. “It is believed that if you hang one over your bed, you’ll have good dreams. Some say the bad dreams are caught in the webbing, while the good dreams and visions pass through the hole in the center, others say the good dreams are collected in the webbing and the bad dreams pass through the center.”

I smiled at her. “And do you have good dreams?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, smiling back. She stood up and removed the dream catcher from the wall, and handed it to me.

“This particular one was made by an old woman named Maria that I met in New Mexico.

She was selling them at an Indian jewelry shop. I had already purchased several items but she insisted on giving it to me.”

I ran my hands across the suede webbing and beads. The feathers were soft, as if it had come off a bird yesterday.

“Are you part Indian?” I asked her.

“My Mother was one-quarter Cherokee,” she said. I nodded.

I wheeled closer to the wall so I could hang the dream catcher up again, but she stopped me.

“Wait,” she said. “That’s yours now. I have other dream catchers. This one is yours.”

“But, I couldn’t….” I started to say. Part of me wanted to take it home. It was, after all, beautiful. “I mean, it was a gift, that woman gave it to you.”

“No, you must. I realize now that the woman in New Mexico wasn’t giving it to me at all. I was but a courier. It’s yours. Besides, I have others.”

“Well, if you put it that way, I guess I couldn’t possibly turn it down.”

Felicia smiled and nodded, looking satisfied.

I looked at the circle in my hand as I finished my tea. So simple, a hoop with interwoven suede straps, some beadwork, feathers. Yet so beautiful. And within it the power of a belief it represented.

I thanked her again and returned to my apartment. I haven’t chosen where to hang the dream catcher yet, I am waiting for it to tell me where it wishes to be.

I’ve never had any native artwork before, but this incident reminds me that we live in a country so free that differing beliefs can live in harmony. As I think of all the people that fought for those rights and all the people that will fight for such freedoms in the future, it makes my small battle for a wheelchair ramp seem a little less important.

I’m sitting here facing the worst thing in my life. A deadline. OK I guess maybe there are worse things in my life than deadlines, but my editor wants me to write something. I hate it when my mind is a blank. No flexibility, no understanding about the three margaritas I put away last night in the name of “research”.

So here I sit staring at the white screen, wondering what to write about, wondering why I ever write this column at all, wondering if you, the ever present reader, really care about my day to day life at all. Wondering why I even bother.

God I wish I hadn’t run out of tequila. I’d go to the store but it’s too much trouble to hail a cab this time of night. I wonder if I can bribe my neighbor into going to the store for me. Course, if I did that, you wouldn’t be reading this column, now would you? There’s a reason I buy limited quantities of alcohol at a time. I’d consume it if I had more.

Oh, I finally replaced my cam. Yeah! As you might recall, my webcam died a spectacular death when my brake extension handle caught on the cable, pulling it off the desk. All the kings horses and all the kings men were unable to put Humpty Dumpty’s lens back together again, although I’m thinking about turning the old one’s cable into an extension cable if I can find the specs for the USB port.

Anyway, I was out today and saw a discontinued Quickcam on special for $30, so I picked it up. Works flawlessly, in fact I think the image quality is a little better than the old one. Still juggling the ports when I need to use the scanner though. Can’t bring myself to pick up a USB hub yet, not till I replace my puter. Like that will happen.

So anyway, now I can get back together with my favorite online honeys again – Stephi especially has been bugging me that she hasn’t been able to see me since my cam broke.

She’ll be happy.

Speaking of honeys, the cute little married chick at the PT office flirted with me again yesterday. I don’t know why she tortures me so with her million-dollar grin and big brown eyes. At least she doesn’t actually do the PT on me, thank God for small favors. I have this recurring fantasy that she gives me more than a receipt when I give her my copay. Like that will happen.

I fell again this morning, and it wasn’t even related to tequila. I spilled my coffee at breakfast – the only beverage I like better than alcohol. As I reached to dab the ambrosia of the gods off the floor (seriously considering licking the paper towel), the front right wheel of my chair gave way. Again. Goddamn Jennings. I don’t know why I keep this thing around. Gotta get my Quickie back from the repair shop. Pray the Jen doesn’t break again in the meantime, ok?

Luckily, I wasn’t badly injured, except my shoulder’s a little stiff from catching myself on the way down. I found an old pain script and took one of those, but hasn’t helped a whole lot. Then again, maybe that’s why this is the column from hell.