By William G. Stothers
May of 1977 was a heady month for activists in the disability community. Demonstrations and sit-ins across the nation in April reached a crescendo in the 25-day takeover of the HEW offices in San Francisco, resulting in the federal government issuing the regulations for Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act on May 1. Finally.
And the very same month of May, thousands of people with disabilities from all over the country (and other countries) descended on Washington, DC, for the White House Conference on Handicapped Individuals.
The mood was extraordinary. The conference hotel jostled with people with disabilities. Battery chargers lined the hallways. People wandered through the backstairs of the hotel, taking over freight elevators, just to get around. It was chaotic. It was wonderful.
Jim Hammitt, founding editor of this magazine, was there, accompanied by Cyndi Jones. She had just resigned from MAINSTREAM and the trip was her last official act. In fact, she was filling in for another staff member, Linda Gunther, who was unable to go.
I was there, too. As a member of the Mayor of Toronto's Task Force on Disabled and Elderly, I went as an observer. I had driven down that lovely spring with an assistant, Jeff; because my trip was a last-minute decision, the conference hotel was full. I checked in to the storied Hay Adams Hotel on Lafayette Square across from the White House.
In many ways, the conference itself bristled with energy. People from all over the nation mingled together and found soul brothers and sisters. It was the dawning of an awareness of communal power. This is not to say the conference was a love fest. Far from it. There were regional antagonisms, as well as disability-specific ones. The rooms, the halls and the workshops bubbled with rumors, conspiracy theories, and battle planning.
Nonetheless, there was a gradual coming together over the week of the conference.
But this column is not really about the White House Conference. That just served as scenery and backdrop to a love story.
It began in a civil rights workshop. The room was crowded and a little tense, as I remember. I had arrived a little late and parked just inside the door.
There was a lot of talking going on, and evident hostility directed at "those Californians" from Berkeley at the tables in front.
As the bickering droned on, a young woman on crutches came in the door and asked if she could take the empty chair next to me. Sure.
The workshop wasn't going anywhere. I grew bored. And I asked that young woman who had taken the seat next to me if she was bored also. And would she like to split and go have a drink. Yes.
Cyndi Jones and I had a pleasant drink in one of the hotel bars. We talked a while, and before going our separate ways, I asked her if she would like to go out for dinner the following night. Yes.
The next day, I realized (as she did separately) that we had not arranged a time or place to meet for this dinner date. The prospect of finding one another in a hotel where neither of us was registered seemed impossible; we barely knew what each other looked like in an ocean of people in wheelchairs and on crutches.
However, we did find each other. And we went off to dinner. In my van, with my assistant Jeff, my friend Bill Owen (also down from Toronto), and another friend from DC, we drove to Virginia and boarded a boat for a dinner cruise on the Potomac River. We had a great time. Cyndi and I made plans to play tourist in Washington during the rest of the week in off-time from the conference.
We toured several of the Smithsonian museum buildings and art galleries. And we spent evenings together as well.
The end of the week came all too soon. I was scheduled to drive back to Toronto and Cyndi had her ticket to fly home to San Diego with Jim Hammitt. I asked Cyndi to come up to Toronto with me for a visit. No.
Well, I said, if you change your mind, here is my neighbor's address and telephone number.
And with that, we went our separate ways as the White House Conference broke up. My assistant and I headed north to home, leaving on Friday afternoon on a leisurely pace.
We arrived home on Sunday afternoon. A lovely spring day. I wheeled into my house. Tired and at last glad to be home, I wheeled in. And in the living room, on the couch, sat Cyndi Jones. Smiling.
We were married seven months later.
William G. Stothers is editor of MAINSTREAM.
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