I Don't Want a Walkable City. I Want a Wheelable City.

To be a wheelchair user in New York City is to memorize things: sidewalks, subway stops, storefronts, stoops. The coffee shops with bathrooms that you can wheel into. The doctors’ offices with bathrooms you can’t wheel into. Which places claim to have wheelchair access, but it’s actually because of a service elevator in the back that smells like garbage (and sometimes is even full of trash bags). Being a wheelchair user in New York City requires excellent navigation skills, akin to a crew member navigating a ship around an iceberg. 

I live in the Greatest City in the World, a city I feel was built for everyone but people like me. Most people love it here; New York City hate is not tolerated in these streets. The good news is that I am very rarely in these streets due to access, so my hatred is warranted. My entire world is here, built into this infrastructure, and the older I get, the more I watch the quality of my life slip away from me. I am in my twenties, and yet, I am mostly housebound, reliant on others to travel, to eat, to survive.

When people talk about why they love New York City, especially out-of-towners who live in the suburbs, they sometimes say, “You can walk anywhere; you don’t even need to take the subway!” I (allegedly) live in a walkable city; this year, Time Out completed a survey ranking New York as the fourth most walkable city in the world. Thinking back to when I was a cane user, I don’t remember as much walkability as I do exhaustion, but perhaps it’s different for others who live here. Perhaps they have access to things that I don’t. Perhaps their legs don’t give out from underneath them. For most people, walking two blocks to pick up a cup of coffee is part of the New York experience. For me, it is a reality I will never live. 

Moments of Inaccessibility

Recently, I wanted to make bean dip. I had the beans, but not the cream. I rolled down a few blocks before hitting the nearest convenience store. This store, like all the others nearby my building, has a step up inside, keeping me and my wheelchair on the sidewalk, stuck behind a barrier. I asked the cashier through the doorway if he had any sour cream. “We have cream cheese, butter, heavy cream—no sour cream.” I settled on cream cheese. I handed him my credit card, and he went back inside to ring up my purchase. In these moments, I feel disempowered. I wish I lived in a wheelable city; I wish I could’ve gone inside the store. 

Yesterday, I voluntarily went to downtown Manhattan, navigating the rough terrain of the Financial District. The journey was perilous: edges of curbs that don’t cut and simply plunge; jackhammers and stray asphalt that create obstructions; uneven concrete that requires wheelies to get over; and worst of all, tourists standing in the middle of the sidewalk, gazing up at skyscrapers from the 70s like a hiker marvelling at mountains. In New York City, accessibility is a construct, not a condition. I wish I lived in a wheelable city; I wish I could go to any neighborhood I wanted without needing help. 

My boyfriend and I have been together for almost a year, and yet I’ve never been to his apartment. It’s twenty minutes away from the nearest accessible station, which for me is about a forty-five-minute wheel. I asked him to send me pictures one day because I’d always wondered what it looked like. When we talk about “going home,” it’s always to my place, never his. The longer we date, the more he acts like he lives in my apartment, and the more I wonder what his place smells like, if his neighbors are loud, and if his mattress is as uncomfortable as he says it is. I wish I lived in a wheelable city; I wish I lived like others, and could visit my partner’s apartment. 

This weekend, the subway station nearest me shut down because the MTA is doing track repairs. They’ve set up a shuttle bus to pick people up and bring them to the next operational station. I don’t like riding the bus, especially alone. Sometimes, there’s not enough room in the accessible section for more than one mobility aid user. Plus, those shuttles are always crowded, and people hate moving for wheelchair users. I was supposed to go out today, but instead of trying to navigate the city alone, I decided to stay inside and write this piece. I wish I lived in a wheelable city; I wish that travel, especially travel alone, was easier. 

A Walkable City Is Not Enough

The point of a walkable city is to reduce dependency on cars, increase public transit, create safe environments for pedestrians, and establish a healthier and more enviromentally-friendly city where people would want to build their lives. If you’ve ever heard about walkable cities before, you’ve probably heard about them because of Jeff Speck, and the book he wrote that your ex-boyfriend said changed the way he viewed cities forever. (Is this projection?) 

Jeff Speck is a city planner who hates suburban sprawl so much that he spearheads a marketing campaign centered around walkability in car-dependent cities. Maybe it’s not a marketing campaign—perhaps it’s his life’s work—but this man has every form of media imaginable to spread his message: books, TED Talks, articles, interviews, and a LinkedIn page for his company, playing the algorithm to its favor. He wants to “make our normal American cities great again”. Every time Jeff Speck speaks, Robert Moses rolls in his grave. 

A walkable city is everything I stand for, figuratively speaking, and it promotes accessibility by its very nature. But the solution for bipeds—that is, people who walk unaided on two legs—is not the same solution for mobility aid users. Disabled folks are always the first people left behind, whether it's in city planning or emergencies. What disabled people require goes beyond what non-disabled require, and often, this need gets lost in the conversation, perhaps buried under the greatest perpetrator of this imbalance: the word “walkable”. 

A city that is walkable may not be wheelable, but a city that is wheelable will always be walkable. I believe if we focus on infrastructure that benefits disabled people first, we can create a more equitable and inclusive place for all to live and (potentially) walk in. Many of these needs are already incorporated into city planning for walkability, but there are other ways to support disabled people that are not always prioritized. 

I live in a city with public transit run by the MTA, which faced a lawsuit put forth by disabled New Yorkers, suing for equal access and for the MTA to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act. The settlement from this lawsuit requires the MTA to have 95% of the subway stations accessible by 2055. I’ll be dead by then, but I’m excited for the wheelchair users who will be able to thrive after this change. 

Is the MTA on schedule? According to the MTA’s 2025-2029 Capital Plan, they will be able to “make at least 60 more subway stations accessible, bringing the system to greater than 50% accessibility.” (I hate to be a downer, but due to frequent elevator outages and planned construction, the number of totally accessible and operational stations will be lower. But it’s the thought that counts!) This access will not only benefit the disabled and elderly, but also support families using strollers, people pulling heavy coolers, college students buying used furniture off of Facebook Marketplace, DoorDash deliverymen on motorbikes, and more. If it’s something someone with a car can carry, it’s something that public transport should be able to locomote. 

The Need for Access

Access benefits all, those who need it now and in the future. It goes beyond permanent disability: access connects communities, supports businesses, drives revenue, and benefits everyone at any age or stage of life. Access is convenience, and convenience has always been a major driving factor of capitalism. (If you don't believe me, open your phone and count how many apps let you make purchases that arrive to your doorstep within a week.) Without access, society breaks down. Think of lockdown in 2020: without online infrastructure, companies would’ve nosedived, schools would’ve closed, and many businesses would’ve been gone for good. Instead, we were able to maintain our work and schooling through internet access, and not everyone had to lose their job like I did. Instead, capitalism suffered a casualty on the stock market, but it maintained and persevered. And to live in the most capitalistic city I’ve ever been to, other than Las Vegas, I’m astonished it’s fallen behind more robust and flourishing cities. A city is more than a place to live: it’s a hub for trade. It has circulation, migration. It makes me wonder: when other cities such as Portland and Boston are lauded for their evolved infrastructure and future-focused mindset, where does that leave New York City? At least we no longer travel by horse—oh wait. 

On the one hand, I want to leave this city. I feel let down by the infrastructure and struggle to travel alone safely, limited by half-mile distances and large hills. But on the other hand, I am hopeful. I see what New York City can be if only it is cared for and nurtured. I envision a city with ADA-compliant curb cuts on every corner, ramps into every inaccessible storefront and building, and maybe, just maybe, rentable powerchair stations across Manhattan, a pilot program funded by Citibank. There are so many ways we could bolster New York’s access, beyond subway stations and buses with ramps. Chances are, someone out there has already dreamt it. 

The invention of the wheel changed humanity, but somehow we ended up with cobblestone streets. When you want to improve your city and its services, you must start by talking to the people who struggle the most on a day-to-day basis. And the people who understand convenience and accessibility best are those on wheels, who are segregated, penalized for not being ambulatory in the ways others are. If you ask them what to prioritize and understand what they need to thrive, you get to the root cause of car dependency. When building a walkable city, consider those who can’t or struggle to walk, the people who are housebound and playing City Skyline all day—they’ll help you pinpoint things you might overlook if you’re not on wheels. New York City may not prioritize accessibility right now, but with a broader mindset, we can build a city that supports the needs and livelihoods of all its residents. One day, I hope to wheel that city.