Sunday, April 23, 2000

'Little person' left big changes for disabled

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        Twenty years ago, people with disabilities in the Tristate were just beginning to organize.

        Members of a local chapter of the National Association of the Physically Handicapped were coming together, discussing concepts such as apartments that a person in a wheelchair could actually get into and out of; the possibility of people with significant disabilities managing their own lives; and working together to create a community where transportation was less than a nightmare and competitive employment a reality. head Doubly challenged

        Dixie Lee Harmon was at the center of all of it. Technically disabled from birth as a “little person” (no one would dare call her a dwarf), she became disabled in yet another way when her neck was broken in a swimming acci dent at age 12.

        Dixie Harmon died this month, and the loss is one which will be felt in circles with and without disabilities. But marking her passing has also provided many with a moment for measuring progress.

        “Some say life begins at 40,” commented Robert Harris, a Cincinnati artist and disability rights advocate, of his long-time friend.

        “For Dixie, that was really the case ... She lived in the family home — which was inaccessible as it was — and rarely ventured out, except to go to church or maybe on a special outing.” Then her mother had a stroke, and Ms. Harmon, at age 41, began to blossom.

        She helped found the local in dependent living center (now called Independent Living Options), and the Hollister House apartments, specifically designed for physical accessibility.

        She was one of the first employees of that independent living center, and became a leading voice in Cincinnati for curb cuts and accessible transportation.

        “We met in 1991,” recalled Sallie Hilvers, Metro's director of public affairs. “She sat me down and made me understand how hard it can be for people with disabilities to get around. We had put resources into paratransit in the '80s, but Dixie knew that people with disabilities just wanted to ride the same buses as everyone else.”

        Largely because of Ms. Harmon's time and energy — training drivers, encouraging wheelchair-using consumers and, as long as health permitted, using lift- equipped buses on both sides of the river — Metro no longer keeps count of how many wheelchairs come aboard their buses.

        “There are so many of them now,” Ms. Hilvers said, “we don't bother to count.”

        Dixie Harmon was quadriplegic. In her forties, she had control of her forearms and hands, but mobility declined over time until she had virtually no use of her hands at all.

        In contrast with her small stature, however, her spirit and energy were enormous, and her voice was strong in fighting for better lives for people with disabilities.

        Often funny and always honest, this remarkable woman absolutely refused to quit. “She nearly died about 14 times,” one friend remarked, “but she just kept getting back up!”

        Her spirit and spunk, her unmatched perseverance, those were the traits that made significant improvements in transportation and public access in our city. Yet, it is the small, personal details that keep another in our memories.

        As Debbie Dase, staff member at United Cerebral Palsy, and Ms. Harmon's friend and co-worker of 17 years, said in a memorial tribute to her friend: “who will steal my socks ... or my stapler? Who will share ... my chocolate?” head Gift of laughter, trust

        My own memories of this powerful leader are scattered, poignant, personal.

        It was Dixie Harmon, 20 years ago, while riding together in a rattletrap van to some other city, who taught me that it was OK to laugh about disability, our own and those of others.

        And, it was Dixie Harmon who called me into a private corner outside a meeting room one afternoon, to ask me to help adjust her pants leg. To be quadriplegic and need to ask others for such assistance could be humiliating; when Dixie Harmon asked, it felt like a monumental gift of trust.

        That, and telling certain people when not to sing, was part of the Dixie Harmon formula. She accomplished more with less than many do in twice the years.

        As Sallie Hilvers quipped: “I hope heaven is handicapped accessible.”

        If it's not, Dixie Harmon is probably working out the details.

        Cincinnati writer Deborah Kendrick is a nationally recognized advocate for people with disabilities. Write her at Cincinnati Enquirer, Tempo, 312 Elm St., Cincinnati 45202. E-mail:dkendrick@enquirer.com.

       

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