‘Bob’bing for Apples

For me, vacationing is a bittersweet span of several days or weeks. There is a lot of thought that goes into mentally and physically preparing myself for a trip up north, out west, and in the future, around the world. I pack my medications as precisely as a pharmacist. My toiletries are procured as thoughtfully as an art museum. However, the preparation for a trip can never compare to the reality of one’s destination, especially when it comes to finding bathrooms.

My friends from high school and I ventured up to the quaint cherry capital of the world, Traverse City, Michigan. As COVID-19 restrictions eased and our vaccinated bodies sought a thrill in travel, we made the drive up from southeastern Michigan to enjoy the breathtaking views and relaxed energy of up north.

All of the accommodations were great. We enjoyed fresh food and had the privilege of eating at staple restaurants in the city. Because of the proximity from where we were staying, we decided to venture further north to another spectacular gem of Michigan, Petoskey. We never had so much fun as a friend group then right there looking over the water and being able to soak up every moment together.

On the last day of our long weekend trip, we ventured back up to Petoskey for a brunch that would round off our time together.

We made our orders. I ordered a breakfast burrito and a raspberry smoothie. (Both, by the way, ended up being delicious). The restaurant was bustling with people when we arrived, so we understood there would be a wait for our food.

During this wait, I found myself in need of using the restroom. I walked to the back of the restaurant and found a beach-style bathroom, where the men’s door was labeled “Bob’s”. The sink was situated between the two bathrooms, one for each gender. As a side note, at this point, why do you need to label the bathrooms with a particular gender when it is single-use?

Anyways, I elected to enter the open “Bob’s” stall.

Going to the bathroom has always been a sore place for me. My disability creates an unpredictable nature when it comes to excreting bodily contents (yes, this is gross, but it is true). Hence, using the bathroom can be an intimate and long process. I often have a dialogue with myself and my body to understand where my body is functioning for that day. For this last day on my trip, my body was singing a rather drawn-out and emotional soliloquy.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“What’s taking so long?!”

As someone living with a disability, there are moments when sensory overload can create odd body pulsations. I was silent. However many responses could have been sufficient, my only response was to say nothing. I felt alone and afraid, sitting on a white porcelain throne in a make-shift beach box of a bathroom.

I continued with my process of going to the bathroom as if nothing happened. Even so, something did happen. I was questioned about why I was in the bathroom for so long. I recognize this could be seen as a small thing. In passing, it was a middle-aged man inquiring about the status of bathroom use in a restaurant that only had two available. He probably had the same urge to use the bathroom as I did earlier. Although, I do not believe the situation lent itself to great results.

I stood my own by not rushing my process, which can often happen in a society rooted in ableist speed. This speed often steamrolls disabled identities that blossom most beautifully when they can express themselves at their own pace.

This experience was a small moment in the larger geologic time for which I will exist even in my own lifetime, let alone the entire span of history. There is something to say, however, about the magnitude and weight of experiences like these on bodies/minds that are merely different from the mainstream. I cannot feel anger toward the man for his inquiry. I cannot also feel angry with myself on how long I was in the bathroom. Finding an explanation for the whole ordeal is like bobbing for apples, possible, but such a task where one can wonder whether there is worth in such explanation.

I share my story today out of a necessity to relate to those around me in disability culture. There are far too many people on the spectrum of disability that experience similar experiences and are afraid to let their voices ring in the theater of life.

If you can relate, welcome, you have been heard.