“Yes, You Can Come In.”
When a Playground Gate Says You’re Welcome
Joy
On a grey, rainy day in February I wheeled my way to my local playground with cautious excitement. The new inclusive gate we’d all been working towards had finally been installed.
As we all know, campaigning for change—even small, local change—can be exhausting. It’s a thousand emails. It’s repeating your point in slightly different words when it’s somehow misunderstood. It’s the assumption that you speak for all disabled people… etc. etc. After nearly four years, I admit, I’d disengaged somewhat.
I was ready to arrive and find a gate that didn’t go very far in solving access problems. Cue the guilt that I should have done more. Cue the awkward conversation where I’d have to say that despite all the money spent, no—it wasn’t the right thing… sorry.
But when I got there and tried the gate, all my worries rushed away and were replaced by joy.
Whoop!
4 Years Earlier
About four years ago, when I was planning to become a parent, I was on a visit to the local playground since I imagined it would become a crucial part of my life. I recall getting stuck in the kissing gate, not being able to get into the playground and having to do that awkward wheelchair-shuffle to try and reclaim my freedom.
There was a sign on a big metal gate used for playground maintenance that said it provided alternative access but required a RADAR key. So once I’d gotten a key, I tried this gate out.
But the gate wasn’t designed to be inclusive—it was simply designated as “accessible.” Over the past four years unlocking the gate has left me with cuts on my hands, feeling so unbalanced I worried I might fall from my wheelchair (to the visible panic of onlookers), needing to ask strangers for help, and sometimes unable to enter at all because scooters, bikes and prams were blocking the space.
And all of this with a highly-anxious and excited child who desperately just wants to run off into the playground.
This wasn’t a problem with my wheelchair. It was a problem with a gate designed without people like me in mind. That heavy, unwieldy gate with its awkward padlock and chain was a ‘smack-in-the-face’ reminder that parenthood is assumed to be non-disabled. That family spaces aren’t designed for us.
Said the big metal gate to the parent in a wheelchair:
“Fine, you can come in, but this playground isn’t for you.”
Parents Can Be Disabled Too
Over the years I’ve become increasingly aware of how often accessibility conversations focus on disabled children while overlooking disabled parents.
When I challenged the playground’s access, I was often told that the local school for children with additional needs had been consulted, and that the maintenance gate met their requirements.
Fantastic, of course.
But not my point.
Like all people, disabled people might be responsible for children. Might raise families. Might show up at playgrounds.
When disabled adults are included in family spaces, we are visible. We are harder to ignore. Our presence reshapes what is considered “normal.” And when that happens, inclusion starts to be anticipated rather than retrofitted.
More Than Access
I’m not aiming to be “given access.” I’m aiming to feel welcome. So for me, this is about far more than a gate.
With fewer barriers, I feel more independent as a parent. I have more scope to be spontaneous with my child, I don’t arrive wondering whether I’ll actually be able to get in. My daughter and I can enter and leave like everyone else.
And I really love that my daughter—and all the other children in the playground—see disabled people being included as part of everyday life.
Listening and Persisting
This may seem like a small change, but it feels significant.
It’s very easy to feel ground down by experiences of being ignored when naming barriers and I definitely felt this way. Thankfully the persistence of my parish council clerk meant this issue didn’t quietly disappear.
Support from the access officer at City of York Council also made a difference. He is disabled, and for me there is enormous value in having disabled people in roles that shape decisions affecting our lives. Not because one disabled person can represent us all—but because shared experience impacts conversations. I felt listened to. I felt understood. We were speaking the same language.
Putting disabled people in decision-making positions is the first move towards disability inclusion. I hope more councils recognise that.
A Template for What’s Possible
I hope the playground on Stray Road can act as a template for a more inclusive approach to family spaces in York and beyond. OK, it’s not a perfect solution, nothing ever is; it can’t meet everybody’s needs and it requires a RADAR key but I still think it’s wonderful!
It means I can wheel up to a playground, open the gate, and go in alongside my child without hesitation. It means disabled parents are expected.
I never thought I’d have such fond feelings for a bright yellow gate.
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