The breeze that came through the fire escape window was no match for the July heatwave. I poked my prepubescent head through the window into the wrath of the summer sun. At least the sky was a pretty shade of blue and the sound of kids belting out “Tag! You’re it!” over the melody of the ice-cream truck was music to my ears. Next thing I knew, cars started rolling up to the curb down the block. People crossing to my side of the street in droves. Great, what summer activity am I missing out on now? A barbeque? Parade? Suddenly, the noise of the newly formed crowd was filled with the soulful cries of women pleading with others, but the words drowned in the commotion. Worried looks paired with racing feet kept the street buzzing like a protest.

My hands slowly rest on the windowpane not long before I flinch in shock from the sizzling metal cooking in the sun. I backed out of the window into the slightly cooler interior. My grandma fast asleep on the couch with her flowery nightgown waving in the air from our little cheap plastic fan on high. The poor machine was no use, at best it produced a breeze as cool as an exhaust pipe. As I motion towards her, I stop and think if disturbing her nap is worth an annoying lecture about how I always ruin her sleep. I return to the window to find the heart of the crowd still beating. More cars and more people arrive. I recognize the usual gang members from their sketchy disposition and color-coded bandanas. This could be a gang war brewing.

Then, a car that’s parallel parked opened its backseat right door. A bald, middle-aged man steps out with a tank-top and timberlands on. As soon as he closed the door, he fell on his back after a piercing sound silenced the borough. Anything alive with legs ran in opposite directions. Adults, kids, dogs, pigeons–you name it. I jerked my head back and ducked to the floor. Did this man just get shot? Was everyone waiting for him to arrive? Why would someone shoot him? Is he dead? These questions hijacked my every thought.

I looked to grandma still dozing off as if two gunshots weren’t just fired. The shots were quick and harrowing like birthday balloons popping without warning, yet, this time, the sudden fear was justified, and the stakes were real. The silence that followed was worse. No more kids yelling and ice-cream trucks blaring. No more chattering people or honking cars. See, at nine-years old, I already knew what death looked like on hospital beds and funeral homes. But I never seen such blatant violence outside of movies before. To have total control of someone’s fate with a pull of a trigger. For the rest of the day I did not return to the window. All there was left to see was pretty blue skies and blood-red sidewalks.

Ripped abs on beach sands, while she holds his hands.

Just double tap and swipe up like always.

More smiles and fine-dining in foreign lands.

If only this was how I spent my days.

Meanwhile, my phone lights up my dark room.

My body sinks deeper into my bed.

It’s my duty to observe and consume

’Til the clock hits twelve and my eyes turn red.

If they can be happy, then why can’t I?

Should I buy fancy clothes and a new car?

Or, be pictured in the dunes of Dubai?

No matter what, happiness still feels far.

Maybe, I should look for answers elsewhere,

Where life’s not within an Instagram square.

The two teams were decided. Seven on both sides. The best of the best were posted at the frontlines. Hands on their knees, each of them set in a crouch start position. All eyes were on the three cherry red dodgeballs perfectly centered for the taking. Ready? Set. Go! My trembling heart was begging to run in the opposite direction. But, my devilish grin said otherwise. As a stranny and short elementary schooler, playing a game of dodgeball was a concussion or a broken rib waiting to happen. It was too late. Squeaking sneakers and an inaudible loud chatter had already started. My mission was to stay hidden so my chances of getting cracked in the nose by a speeding ball of rubber were low. Of course, that plan could not last forever since eventually everyone will be out of the game and I would be forced to scrounge up the little athleticism I had. Using your teammates as human shields also becomes increasingly difficult when their sweat-stained shirts and the aroma of wet mops kick in. “Bing!” “Dong!” The sound of the dodgeballs crashing into walls and limbs makes the game more worrisome, yet all the more exciting. The poker-face expressions on faces as they cock their arms back to beam the ball in a direction nobody saw coming is testament to how dodgeball brings out the sadism in pre-teens.

I still remember the rules of the game. If you catch the opponent’s ball, they are out. If you get hit by the ball without catching it, you are out. You can, for some reason, punch or kick the ball out of the way. My best bet was to catch the ball of someone with a weak throw so I could sustain the tingling sensation of getting hit as my abdomen takes a second to absorb the impact. Then, I will pass it to one of the heavy hitters on my team and we can form our own Batman and Robin duo. The problem with that strategy is I would no longer be hidden and I’d become public enemy #1. “Thoomp!” I caught one! The rough and scratchy texture of the ball stung in the palm of my hands as the smell of burning plastic lingered. I finally got someone out. I passed the ball to the tallest kid on our team and he windmilled his arm before the ball cut through the air and bounced off of an exposed forehead. We were gaining momentum. My feet were jittery. My blood was pumping. The taste of salty sweat was reaching my lips.

Like all good things, that momentum came to an end. With adrenaline comes bravery, and I wandered too closely to the boundary. It was just three kids on both sides now. Two of the balls were in the hands of the enemy. My attention was split in half. Whose ball could I dodge? Whose throws hurt more? It was a matter of relying on my reflexes or my pain tolerance at this point. That was when I threw my torso to the right and felt the breeze of the ball fly past me. “Bing!” Everything went dark. The smell of burning plastic returned. My right ear was reduced to an endless ringing. My face felt doused in boiling grease. I opened my eyes to find myself sitting on the cold gym floor and rubbing the heat on my face. The abrupt laughter of mean kids could not drown out the thought of “I’m never doing this again.”

I remember coming across a Tiktok post last year by a creator named @crutches_and_spice, where she expressed her frustration for how disabled people have been discarded and basically left for dead throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. She goes into detail on how non-disabled people have been too stubborn and careless with COVID-19 restrictions and protocols, like the lack of mask usage and vaccination, to the point that disabled people are the ones paying the cost. This willful ignorance on a global scale has existed long before 2020 and denotes how we live in and continue to fuel a system that persistently kills disabled people, whether intentionally or not. We can see this in how there is a lack of walkable cities around the US, less accessible buildings, more discrimination towards disabled people in job markets, and so on. The pandemic and its growing number of casualties has only drawn the curtains back and revealed the damage that we as non-disabled people have always inflicted.

My takeaway from her Tiktok and the countless other posts on her page dedicated to disability advocacy is that ableism is truly the root of all evil. Racism, misogyny, and fatphobia all derive from the notion that some bodies are less desirable than others or they possess inferior traits so therefore they must either be degraded, conquered, or ostracized. White supremacy has long instilled this concept that the white cis-gender non-disabled male body should be deemed ideal. This ideal body also informs the modern day beauty standard that, in turn, dominates our perception of attraction and relationships. All in all, that Tiktok post opened my eyes the many ways that ableism is the origin of most forms of bigotry and that we all contribute to it in some way, shape, or form. The poorly-handled pandemic is just a byproduct of that corrupt system.

Personally, after binging her content, I began to reflect on the role that I play in the grand scheme of things. Do I act ableist? Have I taken COVID-19 seriously? What can I do to prevent behaving or thinking in an ableist way? These are questions that have shaped the way I behave moving forward. I ensure that I wear my mask more regularly and get tested often if I experience symptoms. I am mindful of the elderly people in my family who are vulnerable. I try to go to as little public gatherings as possible. I make sure that my peers are aware that the pandemic is still ongoing and should also be mindful. Although the US is currently doing better in regard to COVID-19, it is still paramount that we check ourselves on our own privilege and the impact we have on the disabled community.