An advocate for disabled New Mexicans keeps up fight for inclusion

Feb. 24—Mario Lucero figures he cannot go where he wants about 75% of the time.

That's because he moves through life in a motorized wheelchair.

Which means a curb is a mountain, steps are cement hurdles, and products on the top shelf in the grocery store can seem as far away as the end of the rainbow.

Welcome to the life of a man trying to navigate a world that "wasn't made for people with disabilities."

A field manager in the state Division of Vocational Rehabilitation at New Mexico Workforce Connection, Lucero uses his daily routine to educate people about both the perception and reality of living with disabilities.

The struggles are stark and real for the estimated 280,000 New Mexicans who live with some form of disability — a group that includes people with hearing, vision, cognitive, walking, self-care or independent living difficulties. Access to things most people take for granted, Lucero said, is the difference between quality of life and struggling for life.

"Accessibility doesn't mean that we get any kind of special treatment," Lucero, 42, said during a constantly moving interview in which he led a reporter and photographer on a tour of the downtown area of Santa Fe. "All it does is level the playing field."

Even now, 34 years after the passage of the landmark Americans With Disability Act, the playing surface is not always smooth. Literally. Bumps, crevices and cracks in sidewalks and parking lots — common problems in most U.S. cities, including Santa Fe — can make the going rough for anyone dealing with a disability, be it blindness or a crippling illness that leaves them dependent on a wheelchair.

And that's just the start.

Even finding an accessible parking space is a challenge. Though Lucero can activate a motorized ramp to slide out of the back of his van and onto the ground, allowing him to roll out in his wheelchair, the ramp is of no use if vehicles parked nearby are a little too close.

Too often, he has encountered businesses, like restaurants, where the only ramp access is through the loading or kitchen area.

Asked how he gets into downtown restaurants that have a step or two — or more — at the entrance and no elevator service, he simply replied: "I don't."

His reaction?

"Left out. Second class. Not included," he said.

Robin Garrison, an advocate at the nonprofit Disability Rights New Mexico in Albuquerque, said getting accurate state figures on how many disabled people reside in New Mexico is not easy. Some may qualify for the designation, she noted, but don't identify themselves as such because "there's still a stigma being disabled."

She said in an interview there are all types of access barriers for those with disabilities, and often people cannot easily see them. People with hearing loss may not have an interpreter when visiting a public place for an appointment. Those living in rural areas who cannot drive may not have public transportation options, which can limit access to training programs and higher education opportunities.

"While the ADA has the potential to improve access for people with disabilities, it is only as effective as its implementation," she wrote in a follow-up email. "Until private and governmental entities and society at large recognize this, people with disabilities will continue to experience unnecessary barriers to access."

People without disabilities often don't recognize the little things that add up, Lucero said — like the burner control nobs on the stovetop being placed behind the burners. There also are "doors that are too heavy, [or] doors that are too narrow" in many housing facilities that may have been built before current disabilities act mandates. Though some places may believe they have a grandfather clause allowing them to sidestep some ADA provisions, she said that does not mean "you do not have to be accessible."

Enter Lucero, who educates far more than he complains about the topic. Born with cerebral palsy, he learned at a young age to defend his rights with the help of his parents. Both the elementary and middle school he attended in Las Vegas, N.M., did not have ramps for students in wheelchairs until he arrived. They quickly got them after he and his stepfather, Tim Lucero, an educator, pushed for them.

He said Robertson High School did not possess elevator service when he attended classes there in the 1990s. That posed a problem since the biology classes he wanted to take were on the second floor. Both Mario and Tim Lucero "fought and fought and fought" to ensure access, Mario said.

"By my junior year, Robertson installed elevators," Mario Lucero said with a trailblazer's pride.

But some trails can't be blazed that easily.

No giving up here

Lucero was born Aug. 15, 1981. It was not an easy delivery, his mother, Mary Ann Lucero said. He was big — 21 inches long, 8 pounds — and was apparently not getting enough oxygen.

His physical problems, not evident until he was about 6 months old, Mary Ann Lucero said, were compounded by a diagnosis of osteogenesis imperfecta, a genetic disease that causes bones to fracture or break easily.

Intellectually, her son was sharp, she said, and at 11 months old he "could say words and sentences," she recalled in an interview. By the time he was in kindergarten he would read to the other kids in class when the teacher stepped away for a moment.

He got his first wheelchair that year, too, for use in school.

"He broke his bones quite often, and that would set him back," Mary Ann Lucero said. "But one thing that never set Mario back was his willingness to do whatever needed to be done. He never let me feel sorry for him."

She said there were few resources to rely on at that time. "Nobody gives you a booklet on how to do it," she said. "You just go along and learn."

But when some state authorities suggested little could be done for Mario and she should put her son in a facility, she pushed back.

"I said, 'No, my son will not be in an institution as long as I live,'" she recalled.

She gives herself little credit for helping him, other than making sure he had therapy and received her emotional support. Something within Mario drove him to want to be as much like others as he could, despite his physical limitations, she said.

Lucero said he recalled wanting to be a doctor but realized that may not have have been the right fit. He instead attained college degrees in business administration and vocational counseling at New Mexico Highlands University. With the help of his stepfather, he learned how to drive at 18, wanting to do everything he could to remain independent.

He faced small, seemingly invisible barriers all the same. When using Santa Fe public buses to get to work about 10 years ago, he came across a driver who could not figure out how to operate the lift equipment needed to get Lucero and his wheelchair on the bus. It took at least 20 minutes.

He continued to ride the bus, though it took time to load him in. One day, one of the other passengers approached Lucero and asked if he planned to take the bus every day.

Yes, Lucero replied, adding: "Why?"

"Because you are making us all late," the passenger said.

Lucero replied he had every right to ride the bus. He said he continually uses humor and patience when people ask him questions about his disability. It can be awkward at times. Sometimes, people seeing him in a wheelchair began using sign language to communicate or speak to him very loudly and very slowly, as if he cannot comprehend.

"I realize not everybody has the opportunity in life to be exposed to a person with a disability, so they have to make assumptions," he said. "I'd rather use that opportunity to educate them rather than be angry or mad, because they just don't know."

His uses a sense of calm and patient encouragement with clients in his vocational rehabilitation work. Those clients often need more than a training program, he said. They need someone to believe in them.

They "just need hope sometimes. ... They've been told too much in their life that they can't do something," he said.

He said faith in himself and God fuels him, but admits to doubts, including about whether he would find love or marriage. He has both. His wife, Stephanie Lucero, he met in school. They married in 2008 and have two daughters, Hannah and Savannah.

"My wife is a special person who can be with someone in a wheelchair," he said. "If you ask her, she'll say, 'I don't see the wheelchair, I just see Mario.' "

Going forward, he wants people and institutions to think about embracing universal access, ensuring there are just as many entrance and exit paths for those with disabilities as there are for the rest of the populace.

Sitting in the Senate gallery at the Roundhouse, he noted the two main doors have automatic door opener buttons outside them. The doors inside do not, however. Nor could he easily push open a heavy, wooden double door situated midway through the gallery area.

Imagine, he said, if there were a fire and he needed to get out fast ...

"Universal access would benefit you as well," he said. "It benefits everybody."

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