THE POWER OF ONE PERSON by Mary Johnson Disability Rag January/February 1992 Special ADA Issue The Americans with Disabilities Act may be ushering in a new era of access. But for well over a year already, a man in Rhode Island and a woman in Maryland have each singlehandedly gotten scores of agencies and programs to provide access. How? They are forcing them to start obeying laws that have been on the books for nearly two decades. They are using Section 504 of the 1973 Rehabilitation Act and their states' human rights laws. And neither has yet lost a battle for access. In Rhode Island, Gregory Solas, a former ironworker, has in the last two years filed complaints with the Rhode Island Department of Education's Civil Rights Office on 30 of the 37 public school districts in the state. He's taken complaints out on private and parochial schools as well; he just won a complaint against Salve Regina University. In his hometown of Warwick, R.I., he used the 1984 Voting Accessibility for the Elderly and Handicapped Act to force access to his formerly inaccessible polling site. Solas has used the Fair Housing Amendments Act to win a battle against realtors who were steering him away from houses he wanted to rent and now, with the encouragement of the Rhode Island Governor's Commission on the Handicapped, he's pushing to ensure that the state's open meetings law, which gives disabled people access to public meetings, is enforced. Last summer, after 3 years of fighting, Marilynn Phillips of Westminster, Maryland won her case against the Maryland State Arts Council--which had insisted it didn't discriminate--and for the first time in history, the National Endowment for the Arts took away a state arts agency's federal funding. The arts group soon came into compliance, installing a lift to its historic rowhouse headquarters and making the restroom accessible. Phillips, a professor at Morgan State University, now says she's determined to see that the hundreds of programs the state arts group funds become accessible, too. Though it was her biggest victory, Phillips has had others. She filed a complaint against the Baltimore-Washington International Airport for failing to have restrooms she could use. She's filed complaints against Caldor's discount store, Sears, Paul Harris Stores, Casual Corner and Macy's--for not having accessible dressing rooms. Using the state's human rights law, she's filed complaints against the Leisure Health Spa, Western Maryland College and Westminster High School for "discriminating against wheelchair users." Some are still under investigation, but she hasn't lost a case yet, either. Together, these two people are changing the meaning of access in two states. How do other disabled people feel about lone wolves like these? "If we had a Greg Solas in every county in this country," says Bob Cooper, director of the Rhode Island Governor's Commission and a fan of Solas's, "we would live in a country which would not have needed Congress to enact an Americans with Disabilities Act. Most states have similar statutes. But the vast majority [of disabled people] are unwilling to challenge authority. Solas is. He has yet to lose a complaint. He does his homework." His statement was echoed by Maryland Commission on Human Relations' Deputy Director Henry Ford, speaking of Phillips. More things are becoming accessible "thanks to Dr. Phillips" and others like her, says Ford. He thinks the attention Phillips has brought to the issue has been healthy. "Within the last year we've gotten a flood of complaints" about access, he said, and he expects to get more after the ADA takes effect. "It's like the Clarence Thomas-Anita Hill hearings. That law [forbidding sexual harassment] has been in place for years too, but it seems something has to happen to bring it to public attention." People like Solas and Phillips make many of us uneasy. William Anderson, who has a disabled child, told the Providence (R.I.) Sunday Journal last summer he disagreed with Solas, and that access laws were too stringent. "To just spend money indiscriminately to do all this stuff, I just can't see it." Though they are only pushing for what is their right by law, they are seen as "bad cripples," to use Marilynn Phillips term. But it cannot be denied that they have made access occur where it has never occurred before. It's amazing how much more willing folks are now to recognize that there are problems still to be dealt with and to plan ways to overcome them than there was before [Solas's] publicity," says Cooper. Solas takes a straightforward view of all this. "I've been hitting home runs right along," he says. Ironically, Solas and Phillips are people for whom the ADA will make little difference. They have found that current laws work fine--when used. That's the problem, say activists concerned over the ADA's impact. Disabled people are simply afraid to use the laws. "All the ADA has done is create expectations that are going to be dashed come January 27," says Cooper. "It's created great expectations among people with disabilities that somebody else will take care of the problems for them." Many, perhaps, take the view of Marian Vessels, director of the Maryland Governor's Committee on Employment of People with Disabilities, who insists that "using the legal system should not be the first step." The first move should be a "willingness to negotiate." Others, though, find in this attitude just more proof that we don't take our own rights seriously, willing to agree to less access than we are even conceded by law. To say that Vessels and Phillips don't see eye to eye is putting it mildly. Phillips says she encountered Vessels when she first started to look into filing complaints and was steered "in the wrong direction." "Filing complaints is the keystone of the ADA," says Cooper. "On an intellectual basis" disabled people know this, he says: "but on an emotional basis, they expect somebody else will take care of it. That's certainly been the problem with 504." "You only get the rights if you're willing to push for them," he continues. "We may have freed the slaves--but all we did was take the chains off. We've left them on the plantation to become sharecroppers. Only those who are willing to insist that what was written on a piece of paper in a law--who are willing to exercise their rights--have gotten them." Solas and Phillips are unusual among disabled people: They believe, without question, that they have rights. They know there are laws on the books that guarantee them access. And they use those laws skillfully. They see it as fighting for what is rightfully theirs--and all other disabled people's. "Nobody should be intimidated by the law," argues Solas. "The laws were designed for people to use. He likens them to "opening up a door. They're there," he says. Just like we should be able to use doors into businesses, "we should be able to use the door of justice as well." "I just can't tolerate anyone getting ripped off of their freedoms." he continues. "We pay taxes like everybody else and we should have the same entitlements." What amazes Solas, come lately to disability rights, is that more people don't use the law. "It's just incredible," he says. "I just consider myself a regular guy who wants to get something done that's right." The former welder minces few words. "I've taken on an issue that happens to be very important to a lot of people," he says. "Everybody has the potential to get out there and do this stuff," he points out. "Just one thing, just one curb cut. Or get one telephone pole removed out of a curb cut. Or just address one little issue. It's incredible what we'd get done" if each of us just did that, he insists. He doesn't pretend that change comes easy: "Just go try to get a curb cut changed. It's not the easiest thing to get done. But it can be done. "That's his message: one person can do it. "And it's nice when you get something," he says. Despite what his critics believe, Solas says he likes to address issues "like a gentleman, without friction. But if it comes to where you have to file a complaint, and use the force of law, so be it." Like many who know their rights, he takes the long view of opponents. "If they're having a hard time with it, then they're having a hard time with it. But down the road they'll convert and understand that this was right. They'll realize they didn't understand it." If that attitude has not enabled Solas to move mountains, it has certainly enabled him to get barriers removed. Solas's polling site wasn't accessible. "They think, well, they can vote in their car.'" said Solas, ever wise to the ways of injustice. "I went through that once, but I'm not going through it again." "It didn't take much," he continued. "I got on the radio and voiced my opinion. A day later they're out there banging away with their hammers and nails. They knew they had to get their thing in order." Both Solas and Phillips find it almost unbelievable that people don't use the laws. "I didn't think it was fair for people to tell me go to the bathroom before I came to a meeting. In other words, 'why do you need a water fountain? We'll get a drink for you.' Or, 'Why do you need a phone? We'll make the phone call for you.' Why do you need the fire alarms lowered? We can pull the alarms for you.' I mean, these are just peoples' attitudes." "What a world disabled people have been living in! This is incredible! Until you get disabled, you don't really know the score." "I mean, this stuff is not hard to see. It's all over the place." Phillips and Solas stress that it's important to know the laws well--to do your research. And to be persistent. "Once you take the mystery out of the law, it's not that difficult," says Solas. "Step 1, 2, 3, 4, and you get to the end. There's a pattern to these things." Like Phillips, who tells of being put off the trail by various disability "advocates," Solas points out that the dedicated disability activist must "get past all the smokescreens and distracting opinions and baloney, where they try to steer you off or distract you to where you get disgusted." Over the years, he says, "people got worn down, disgusted, and left the issue." "All the 'no's' you get when you first call about an access issue can turn to 'yes's' with persistence," counsels Phillips. The Maryland Commission on Human Relations, charged with enforcing the state human rights law that forbids discrimination on the basis of disability, was resistent to interpreting it "in terms of accessibility" at first, she adds--"they didn't think they could do it." The problem was "the same Catch-22 we see everywhere:" the law requires "reasonable accommodation"--but not if it involves "undue hardship," as Ford put it. Phillips used that law to gain access to places many advocates would have given up on "by persistence and kind of continuing to argue the logic of it--which is basically what I did." The bottom line was that neither would take "no" for an answer. "I kept on arguing the logic of things," explains Phillips. "I used every kind of analogy I could: to racism, to sexism. I had very interesting intellectual debates with them. They had never had been pushed to the point where they had to be 'insightful' about the law. My impression is that every time someone had called up and said "I've been denied access, 'they said; 'well that's a shame, but we can't help you.' Nobody ever got past that." "I got past that," she said, even though "it took 3 years." "Finally, about 18 months ago," she continued, "they finally said, 'ah, I see!' It's kind of like with students I teach. With students, after you keep pounding things in over and over, they 'see.'" Phillips wants it made clear that the Commission didn't "bend any law." They just "kept looking" at it. "You have to push them to do that," she said. Though similar in their approach Solas and Phillips couldn't be more different in background. Solas comes to disability in mid-life, after years as an ironworker. He says his background made him aware of access, and good at solving problems. "I knew about building codes. I used to weld the rails, the handrails, you know, for the ramps. I was with Local 37 and I went all over the state. So I had this background already." Part of it, too, he says, "is just being a wise consumer. If you buy a product, I always say, you should look at it and see if it works. I was always an interesting guy to talk to at coffee break." "It's hard work being an ironworker. You take chances with your life. I was used to that. Get up on the girders and stuff. I always knew I might be disabled," Solas insists. "You don't play peek-a-boo with life." Because of Solas's working-class background, says Cooper, "the more blue-collar folks with disabilities are cheering him along. One of them is pushing the system." Phillips, in contrast, is an academic. She thinks that has helped her. She talks of having been "intellectually isolated from disability" growing up, which led to "emotional isolation"--a problem she has since explored in her research. "I did my dissertation on oral histories of disabled people. It opened up my eyes to the fact that we have the same experience--we all have the same experience. The intellectual side of that was very important. It made me confident." Both arrived at the same point: We have rights. For Phillips, this sometimes means that "you have to be willing to embarrass yourself. I had to be willing to call everybody, and maybe get somebody who'd say, 'hey, you're going too far; you don't know what you're talking about; don't you know this doesn't apply to you?' "It helps, says Phillips, to know that "I've done my homework." "A lot of people are afraid of change," says Solas. "We're in a tough situation in this country right now; we're in a recession. And when people think 'money,' they panic. But, he points out, "you can't segregate black people anymore--and you can't segregate disabled people. It's parallel." There's another parallel Solas sees, too: "the blacks were physically beat on in the fifties and sixties. Disabled people have been beat on psychologically. And they're in a situation where they've really suffered." "And we shouldn't have to suffer," he adds. What would Solas tell the average disabled person? "Go enjoy your life. It's your life; it's not their life. Make sure you get what's yours. You're not asking for anything more; you're asking for the minimum of what everybody else has." Why aren't there more Phillipses and Solases out there being "bad cripples" and causing headlines? Solas is not as given to introspection as is Phillips. He doesn't talk about the "disability community." He says he was invited to speak at a high school but hasn't done it yet; he was on the cable TV show produced by Cooper's group recently, talking about how it's done. But the sense is that he's not a joiner; a lone wolf. He likes what he does; he likes getting results. When questioned about other disabled people who he's worked with, he moves the conversation around to other things. "I don't really picture myself parading down Main Street at night with a lit candle singing, 'we shall overcome.' That's not my style. I'm not gonna plead with people to do their jobs; I'm gonna make sure it gets done. There's no pleading. I'm as equal as anybody else. And I'm not going to have my self-esteem banged around--or that of any of my peers or any of my friends." If Solas has a theme, it this: "Anybody can do what I'm doing. It just takes somebody to do it." He knows that "people are afraid of retaliation--or they may feel uncomfortable." Or, he says, they may feel they or their kids won't get a fair chance if they speak up--something he disputes. "When you do speak up, you do gain respect, and you do get equal services," Solas believes. That belief informs his style: "I give people a chance to get things done." When they don't, Solas doesn't waste time filing a complaint. "When they come to me, they come to a final stop sign of 'no, the discrimination is not gonna continue; yes, you are going to abide by the law.' " "The white collar disability community is appalled by him," says Cooper. "He is not playing the game; he is not a nice, kind, quiet, polite kind of fellow." Some professionals with disabilities "are very upset that he has rocked the boat, that he hasn't backed off, that he files a complaint and then, if he doesn't get a positive reaction, immediately goes to the press." Others, Cooper says, "defend his results but want to keep his tactics at arm's length, which is unfortunate." Phillips is keenly aware that she's considered "the maladjusted cripple." "I'm the sort of individual who finds it difficult to use all my energy in meetings," she says, preferring to work alone. Is she unusual? "I hope it's not unusual to believe that I'm equal to everyone else." She finds that many members of disability groups are "afraid and uncomfortable. They don't want to be 'the bad cripple.' " Other disabled people sometimes see her name in the paper and call her, wanting her to "fight their cause." And "sometimes it's such a little tiny thing--they could do it snap, snap, snap! but they're terrified!" This terror would make sense, she says, if they were going to lose their job. "But we're talking about being afraid to file a complaint because they can't go to a performance--I mean, that's not going to hurt their job! They're afraid of being typed a 'maladjusted cripple.' That's the bottom line. That's the fear we have to get over." Phillips says she remembers having that fear herself once. "I don't know why I've become so obnoxious--maybe it's age," she laughs. She really thinks it's her research, though. "I have evidence coming out of the woodwork that I'm right." "We have to fight for now," Phillips insists. "We have to recognize that we can't put off making these claims." Neither intends to stop what they're doing, "I said to myself, 'OK, Marilynn, you can go to meetings, or you can file complaints." But, she warns, "We have to have the balls to be publicly crucified, too." "I've never felt better," says Solas. "Maybe my life is programmed to be this way. Who knows? Everything becomes relative. Maybe whatever you suffer in your life there's a reason for it. If you search for an answer, you find it. I'm a very optimistic person." "I don't consider this 'work,' " he says. He considers himself "pretty effective. I can cut through a lot of red tape. I make them come to the bargaining table." "But I am not the only one who's capable of doing things," Solas is quick to add. "I'm just another person who's come along and said 'no.' I feel better now that these things are being addressed." By the time you read this, you'll be living in a country that says it's illegal to keep you from attending any meeting, going to any shop, applying to work in any but the smallest business, ride anywhere--because of your disability. Time moves quickly, say these activists. Like the Nike commercial says, "just do it"--even if it's something small. "You can't be afraid to speak up," Solas would tell you. "It may sound like the most difficult thing to do at times, but the rewards far outweigh the negatives. You become a better person for doing it." Phillips and Solas have taken laws like the ADA and used them. They've learned how to do it. They say it's simple. They outline how to do it. Now: What are going to do about it in your community