Opinion
How this bell made my Sunday – one ding at a time
by Patrick Bardelli
Just out and about, not on a hero’s journey
6.5.2025
Translation: Elicia Payne
Pictures: Christian Walker
I don’t want admiration. No pats on the back. No compliments for things that are part of my everyday life. I want to go shopping. Drink coffee. Live. Normal things.
I was standing at the Migros till when a man behind me said «So impressive, how you handle everything.» I smiled politely but thought to myself: bro, all I did was buy a cucumber.
People mean well. They want to be friendly. Or respectful. Or say something nice. But in the end, the main thing they’re saying is: I’m different. That I stand out. Not because of my personality. But because of my wheelchair.
I don’t want to stand out at all. I want to go shopping. Or have a coffee. Or sit somewhere without someone patting me on the back and saying: «It’s great that you’re doing that.»
I don’t want to inspire. I just want my peace and quiet.
The everyday life nobody sees
I’m on the tram. The space for wheelchairs is occupied – by a pram and a bicycle. Nobody looks up. I stay next to the door. Passengers get on and push past me. Some look at me, then quickly look away again. As if I were an obstacle, or a reminder that mobility doesn’t work the same for everyone.
Later at the lift in the station. I wait. And wait. Finally, the third lift that passes by is empty. I roll in. A woman says, «Oh, you go first.» I think to myself: well yeh. I have no other option.
Small scenarios like this happen over and over again. They’re not dramatic. Not terrible. They’re exhausting.
Meant well, but still annoying
Sometimes I hear: «You’re so brave to be out on your own like that.» I nod friendly. But am thinking: it’s a struggle to smile back at you right now. What would be brave? Telling you the truth.
Or when someone asks: «Did you come here all by yourself?» Yes. I came here alone. Just like around half a million other people today. Or when people say admiringly: «I couldn’t do that.» You could. Probably. Just like I never thought that I’d have to make my home accessible. But then I just did it.
These sentences seem harmless. Sometimes even friendly. But they always have a bias. They say: you’re not like us. Even if they want to say: you’re strong.
Imagine you’re standing at the till with a tub of butter in your hand. Someone behind you says: «Wow, so impressive how you manage that!» You’d probably think: are you okay? I’m shopping. That’s all.
What’s really challenging
It’s not the wheelchair that’s troublesome. It’s the expectations that are projected. That I should be grateful for any help. That I should explain why I’m there. That I should apologise if I need space. That I’m admired – but not taken seriously.
I don’t want attention. I want space. Respect. And peace.
Accessibility doesn’t mean that I have special treatment everywhere I go. Accessibility means that I can get somewhere without anybody noticing. That there are ramps and lifts that work. That I can live my everyday life without constantly having to give explanations. Without small talk about my body. Without funny looks. Without admiration for things that are simply part of everyday life for me.
Living normally
Of course I appreciate friendliness. Of course I think it’s good when people help when I really need help. But most of the time I don’t need special treatment. And if I do, then I’ll ask for it.
I’m not your inspiration meme. I’m not an ad for perseverance slogans. I’m Ramon. And all I wanted to do was buy a cucumber. That’s all.
Header image: Christian Walker
Riding my motorbike makes me feel free, fishing brings out my inner hunter, using my camera gets me creative. I make my money messing around with toys all day.
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