Do you see me as human?

Scrolling through The Times this morning, there was video of a LGBTQ individual asking Trump one poignant question: “Do you see me as human?”

But I was off to breakfast with my family. My small cluster, all between 78 to 82, gathered around  the table on the lovely patio of the historic Arizona Inn. Me feeling the cocky youngster in the crowd at 54! I had my speaker set up in the middle of the table as we chatted, their plates overflowing with pancakes and French toast, drenched in butter, whipped cream, and syrup, while I sipped on my protein drink. It can be tricky to find the right volume for the speaker, especially since older folks sometimes struggle with my staccato, synthetic voice. I could upgrade my improved AI voice generation quantity for $99 a month, but I’m rationing for now. Thankfully, we were a good distance from the nearest table.

As I began to share a childhood story, I noticed a woman at a nearby table turning around to gawk at us. I stared back, and neither of us flinched. My blood started to boil. “You might think I’m staring at you, but I’m just trying to figure out where all the NOISE is coming from,” she declared loudly and indignantly.

My blood pressure surged, and tears welled up in my eyes. I cranked the volume up, “I lost my tongue and larynx to cancer. Do you want to come over and take a look?” I could faintly hear my family trying to calm me down, telling me it was okay and that she was a jerk, but their voices felt distant. I closed my eyes, fighting back tears. Noise. Noise. Noise. She called my voice noise. I am noise. I am noise in her lovely Sunday morning at the serene Arizona Inn. But I am NOT NOISE.

Enraged and hurt, I frantically grabbed my things. In a burst of defiance, I walked briskly past her and gave her the finger. The other patrons were just a blur to me now. Her response was another haughty remark: “Classy, really classy.” My husband, trailing behind, shot back, “Are you happy with yourself?”

I felt a whirlwind of anger toward her and frustration with myself for letting her get to me, and with the world of bold bully’s that has risen in the era of MAGA. Were we more tolerant, less prejudice, before? Perhaps it was just more hidden. As an average-looking straight white woman, I certainly hadn’t faced the worst of it. Sure, I encountered sexism in the still male-dominated arena of architecture, developers, and contractors. But now, as I navigate life with a disability, I'm grappling with a profound and painful understanding of what it means to feel like an “other.” It's an experience that cuts deep, revealing the isolation and struggle that so many endure.

Do you see me as human?