From September 7 to 18, Rio hosted the Paralympics: more than 4,000 athletes competed across 23 sports. Like previous editions, the Games were held separately from the "regular" Olympics, with a gap of three weeks. The message of accessible, inclusive sport that the Paralympics embodies takes on a somewhat contradictory dimension—not only because of the stark separation between disabled and non-disabled athletes, but also because of reduced media coverage. Controversy aside, this edition delivered remarkable moments, equally moving for both the sports world and the disability community. Reader Marta de Rino sent us her reflection.
"When I woke up without legs, I looked at what remained, not what was lost." Alex Zanardi
I love the Olympics. I really do. I try to watch every event I can—all kinds of sports. I find it extraordinary what those men and women accomplish: through exhausting discipline and relentless rigor, they push their bodies to perform feats that, to my untrained eye, seem like genuine miracles or magic tricks.
I love the Paralympics equally. Not more. Not differently. Equally. Yes—equally. Because for me, someone with all my limbs and supposedly free from any disability, it's just as unthinkable that I could perform any athletic movement even remotely like what those athletes accomplish. Disabled or not.
So I was proud of our men's volleyball team, our women's volleyball players, our fencers, swimmers, and divers who gave us medal after medal in August. And I'm equally proud of all the athletes giving us just as many—perhaps even more?—right now.
But there's a catch. A nagging feeling lingers. I see a certain hypocrisy in how loudly and justly these feats are applauded. "It takes courage, incredible strength! Their limitations didn't stop them. They went beyond. Beyond the obstacles. Beyond defeat. Beyond the walls."
Absolutely. It's true. No question.
Yet across the world, thousands upon thousands of people with various disabilities will never compete in any Olympics. Because for them, "the limit" to overcome is smaller—almost tiny in our eyes: eating without choking, tying their shoes, sleeping for more than an hour before waking for some reason, dressing themselves, managing their own hygiene, or, most basically, making others understand what they want by blinking their eyes or speaking a word that's understood.
Why don't these people have our total, unqualified admiration? At best, they receive pity and sorrowful comments about parents "bearing this cross."
Alex Zanardi's words are beautiful. They apply to everyone. It's another way of talking about the glass being half full.
I read in them an invitation to see each person—any person—for what they are. Not for what they lack.
"They can't read. They can't eat alone. They can't walk."
But they can smile, hold a hand, look you in the eye.
Not to settle!!! But to start there. Because Alex Zanardi and Beatrice Vio and all the others got where they are by looking at what they had and moving forward. One step at a time, they accomplished extraordinary things. Their finish line was a medal. For someone else, it's something that seems less heroic: pulling on a shirt, sleeping alone, eating while sitting. Or simply blinking to say yes or no. It's a daily training. Silent. Hardly spectacular. But just as hard, exhausting, courageous. Heroic. And it lasts a lifetime.
So let's keep cheering! Not just during the Paralympics. Always. Every day. Looking at each person with respect and admiration for the strength they're undoubtedly putting into their own deeply personal race.
But more than that. We need to fund research. We need to put human and economic resources toward removing architectural barriers and maintaining the structures that support this daily struggle. We need to enable real inclusion in schools—not as parking lots, but with qualified, trained, professional staff. We need to provide modern aids that make at least some essential daily tasks a little less difficult.
Damn it.
Could it be that economics decides who's a hero and who isn't?
Marta De Rino, 2016