Many people are afraid to talk to people who use wheelchairs for fear of saying something wrong. My hypothesis regarding this all too common issue is that the lack of representation and awareness in culture makes people ignorant. That isn't the fault of humanity, but the fault of culture. The solution to this fear is to separate the person from the wheelchair and just talk to them like you would anyone else. It may well be the most simple solution to any social issue. For some people, unfortunately, it appears to be easier said than done, especially in the form of small talk.

Small talk is defined aspolite conversation about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, especially as engaged in on social occasions. I experience it most in elevators, or when I encounter people I don't know in empty halls or rooms. Many humans find prolonged silence to be uncomfortable, and would rather talk briefly to someone than to be in silence with them. The most common small talk subject is the weather—everyone goes outside, and everyone can agree on whether the weather is good or bad. I have found as a wheelchair user that some people find my mobility device to be a more exciting topic for small talk, and aren't aware that more often than not it's uncomfortable for and rude towards me.

Ever since I upgraded from an adaptive stroller to a manual wheelchair at the age of nine so I could self-propel, I have heard one repetitive phrase from strangers passing by that is impossible to answer: "Do you have a license to drive that thing?" I know that this is just a little joke that means no offense, but I'm also pretty sure that everyone knows that wheelchairs aren't registered at the DMV or any other sort of agency, and most people get wheeled mobility devices from insurance. I have not heard of a wheelchair user that has not heard this from an able-bodied passerby. My usual response is to just apathetically chuckle, then roll my eyes when I'm out of sight. This annoying phrase isn't a transgression, but I've heard it so many times over the past nine years from able-bodied folk that I want to run over their toes! There are more struggles to using wheelchairs than able-bodied people could ever dream. Their own ignorance and idea of polite small talk is another scoop in the sundae of struggles.

Electric wheelchairs appear to be more fascinating to people. How manual wheelchairs work is much more straightforward. I do welcome questions about my condition and the scooter when it's appropriate, and small talk is not really an appropriate time. I can live with people asking me about it randomly, though, as long as they address me with courtesy. However, one thing that might be a bigger nuisance than "do you have a license to drive that thing" has been on my mind lately, as I realized that I've heard it at least every month in the same elevator at school. Random, able-bodied people who clearly know nothing about wheelchairs are trying to tell me how to upgrade my perfectly good scooter!

Just this Tuesday, I was minding my own business in the ridiculously slow elevator to my Ed Psych class on the third floor of a building. Some guy I didn't know was there with me. I was checking my email on my phone, and he said, "You should get a USB port on that thing."

I looked up from my phone and at him, then down at my scooter. Where the hell would I put it? It's only a seat and handlebars on a surface. There's a three-hole plug below the seat to charge it. I have a detachable wire basket that I adore, but there's hardly any room for my clunky backpack. Quite often it falls off and I have to bend down to pick it up. I knew that this guy meant it completely innocent, but if he knew the first thing about mobility equipment, or at least wheelchair etiquette, he would know that they're not cars or Transformers, and wheelchair users don't give a crap about what able-bodied people think of them. I told him that I wasn't sure if the battery could handle it and there was no room for it, but he didn't really take that for an answer. He got off the elevator first, leaving me seeing stars.

Many power chairs do have some pretty nifty features, such as a speedometer and a clock on an electric screen by the joystick. Some have pockets and cupholders. As it turns out, there is a device to charge phones on a power chair. Power chairs certainly aren't what they used to be even just ten years ago. They're getting all these cool features that I do get jealous of! However, I use a scooter because I can and frequently do hop out. Most people who use power chairs use it 100% of the time, whereas most scooter users use it for long distances that they can't walk. I can't expect the average person to know this. The point is, I really don't want to hear from a stranger who knows nothing about wheelchairs about impossible things I "should" do with it, and I especially don't want to hear it in an elevator as small talk. If I were to encounter an engineer interested in mobility equipment, I would be absolutely delighted to discuss things with them. But that is way beyond small talk. That is an ongoing conversation that doesn't belong all in three minutes on an elevator ride.

I realize that I may sound like I expect the average person to know all this, but I make it my duty and goal to raise awareness about a severely underrepresented topic: disabilities. I know that people mean no harm when they use my scooter as small talk, but it bothers me. My scooter isn't interested in what you have to say because she's not a person with ears and a mouth. I am. And I'm first and foremost a human who hates silence as much as everyone else. But my scooter is not a conversation piece. It is not the center of my universe. It is a part of me, but it is not me. If you catch me in the elevator in silence, there is so much more to talk about than my scooter. Talk to me about the weather. Compliment my shirt, I'll return the favor. Complain about the slow elevator or the stress of the approaching finals week. Anything but weird, unsolicited comments about my mobility device.

I'm a person who hates muggy weather and feels impatience and anxiety in school like everyone else. Only one thing sets me apart—a little red mobility device. But my name is not scooter. It's Julie. Nice weather we're having, huh?