Sitting in the coffee shop, I am in my element. My companion is telling a lively story, I’m laughing, and the time scrambles before we part ways. As I slip out the door, my companion tells me to say hello to my parents, and that’s when I remember: she’s their age, rather than mine. But yet it is we who are friends. Aren’t we?
There is no community on campus that is fully aware of and committed to the needs of students with disabilities — and, since Stanford is a place that embraces (or professes to embrace) community for students from all backgrounds, this strikes me as a serious flaw.