Black Kansas Citians have enough obstacles already. Disability adds another layer

I’m a Kansas City native, raised on the East Side. Poverty and crime were the norms where I’m from. I grew up knowing the color of my skin was something to be feared. Some people will never understand how someone can go from having fun outside to walking around with a gun at 12 years old. No resources and a broken education system gave us the understanding that our fate was what we saw daily.

I joke about it now, but man, was I proud to reach 21. I saw so many things at a young age that still cause me some trauma today. I say that just to say this: I grew up in a system that kept Black men like myself defeated — a product by design. We were treated like criminals from the time we hit our preteen years.

I remember times I would mess up at school and instead of getting positive direction, I would be hit with a negative outlook: “You’re not going to make it far anyway.” “You’re just like the others..” “What a waste of potential.” We were being shaped right there for what most of us would see only as a beginning to an end.

A monster was made out of me. Going through life not feeling wanted. Believing luck was the only way you could become something — and we weren’t lucky. We were hopeless, wanting the life we saw on the other side of town. But instead, we were woken up by gun shots and sirens. We never had it good.

I wasn’t perfect, and growing up with no direction didn’t help. But I also know that any encounter I had with law enforcement was always stereotypical and ruthless. Police officers never respected me. They made me feel like I was nothing on many occasions. The notorious “driving while Black” is real. I’ve never been more nervous than when a police officer is behind me, in my own hood and especially outside of it. Lord knows we don’t belong in many places. And when your image is one of a culture that police don’t understand, you become an instant target.

Just being Black is already an issue for some people. Add a little disability to it, and now you’ve entered a world no one wants to talk about. When I was first paralyzed by gunshot wounds to my abdomen, I couldn’t find any representation of other Black disabled people. On top of that, my therapist couldn’t either. The life they wanted me to believe I could live was one of privilege — something I did not have.

I wasn’t going to return to a supportive family and community. I was going back to my own real-life experiences. I couldn’t see myself in the people they tried to show me as references. Those people have never lived my life. They don’t know the pain in my heart. They want me to see my own identity in people who could never see themselves in me.

I truly believe if I did not find a way to take control of my life, I would have committed suicide. I felt overwhelmed from the lack of resources that ultimately prevented me from being independent. I thought I would need help for the rest of my life, and that’s how it was framed for me.

For example, three years after injury, I still didn’t know I could drive. I would see vans with disabled people in the back, but not the driver’s seat. I believed that part of independence was gone forever. Nope — nobody ever told me what was possible.

Social media provided me the visual I needed. Once I asked around, it didn’t take long for the people I had been around all along to send me to the manufacturers they work with to get me behind the wheel. Wow. That first day I took my car out on my own, it felt like my wings were beginning to open.

I’ve only been a part of the disabled community for eight years, but I see it lacks color. We still don’t see representation of many Black people with disabilities, because systems have prevented families from getting the help that could really unlock possibilities. It’s hard to find a place to belong when all the resources are outside your community, and the people who provide them don’t know how to bring you to their world, or even how to accept you in it.

I learned a long time ago what to expect life would be like for me, but I didn’t imagine how it would be being Black and disabled. And still today, one of my biggest fears is being pulled over. Even with my wheelchair visible in my truck, I know that my color will be seen before my disability.

Wesley Hamilton is founder and CEO of the Disabled But Not Really Foundation in Kansas City.