If at Birth You Don't Succeed (10 page)

“That's awesome!” I exclaimed, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was talking to one of my idols. “We could put a sidecar on my wheelchair that you could ride in.” See? Even with Stephen Colbert, I was still angling to be that leading man. We never got to film it, but my friend Kevin Scarborough did the most amazing concept poster. So, Stephen, if you're reading this, I'm still totally onboard.

My phone just kept ringing, which was overwhelming and exhausting, but I was happy to talk with almost everyone. My work was finally making a positive impact. But amid all the well wishes and positivity, there were also bizarre calls that were tinged with resentment and slightly creepy vibes I couldn't place.

“Are you the guy I spoke with a year ago about my idea for a travel show for people with disabilities? I think we've had this conversation before…,” a woman from Maryland accused. Her tone was very menacing. She kept me on the phone for an hour, grilling me, as though she were recording the call and trying to get a confession out of me. It was unsettling, to say the least.

There were also chats that started off friendly and then quickly revealed another agenda.

“I absolutely love your work, and you're very inspiring, but I was e-mailing with a friend of mine, and let me just read you what she wrote:
He's got a great attitude, but the stereotypes he's perpetuating are undermining everything real advocates have worked for. Maybe he could get us in touch with Oprah and we could all work together on this show?
”

And then there were the people who were downright furious that I had chosen to describe myself as a “wheelchair-bound lady-magnet.” “You're not bound to your wheelchair!” they'd yell into the receiver, with all the misplaced anger of a drunk dad at a Little League game. “Your wheelchair is not part of you!” a stranger would insist.

Now, I'll tell you what, when I travel with my wheelchair on a plane, they don't stuff us both in cargo. I get to ride separately in economy. But on several occasions, airlines have lost my wheelchair in transit, and those unfortunate separations have taught me something.

For instance, when I was heading back to Los Angeles after meeting with New York publishers to secure the deal that would eventually become this book, my electric wheelchair made a connection in Phoenix that I missed.
3
The next flight to LA wasn't until the following morning, so an airport employee brought me one of those gigantic airport wheelchairs with a pole sticking out of the top of it, pushed me to what would eventually be my gate, and left me there with my bags to spend the night. At my size (a robust youth medium), I'm unable to propel myself in a manual chair that seems specially fitted for The Mountain in
Game of Thrones
. So I spent the night on the floor at my gate, counting ants, unable to leave my bags to crawl to the bathroom. In that moment, I was forced to recognize that while I may not be physically bound to my chair, my autonomy most certainly is. My wheelchair is like the Canada to my Quebec—I wanna be free of it, I have my own identity, but if we split up, all I'm left to do is think of weird things I could put gravy and cheese curds on. Of course, the terminology traps didn't end at “wheelchair-bound.”

Other callers were distraught that I had chosen to describe myself as “a disabled person,” rather than their preferred “differently abled” or “a person with a disability.” I fully understand the intention behind person-first language. I agree full-heartedly with the goals of this movement. But here's the thing: first of all, saying it my way is a full four syllables faster than “a person with a disability” and a whole lot less clunky. These are things that matter when you're struggling to get yourself across in a fifteen-second sound bite on TV or trying to stand out to a casting agent who's read ten thousand descriptions of ten thousand people in two weeks.

And as for the whole “differently abled” thing, do we ever talk about anybody being “differently abled” when they are extraordinary at something, or does it always imply a disadvantage? We don't say Tiger Woods is a differently abled golfer because he's better than anybody else in the world. I've never seen a poster that says
Differently Abled Cellist Yo-Yo Ma, Live at Carnegie Hall!
It just never rang true for me.

But my main problem is that with all of the emphasis placed on phrasing, I've found that people outside the disability community are wary of even starting a conversation with me because they're afraid that if they use the wrong term, I'll be profoundly offended. I never want to discourage anyone who's genuinely interested or curious from asking an honest question. I always wanna be approachable.

Now, anyone has the right to disagree with me. You have the right to be angry, even. This is just my personal take on a much larger issue. But before you craft a differently-abled effigy in my likeness and use this book as kindling, remember—whether or not we see eye to eye on the best route, we're all trying to get to the same place.

Learning how to stay true to yourself while some people expect you to speak for everyone has been a tightrope walk—which is very hard to do on four wheels. I never expected to be a disability advocate. I was a comedian first, a storyteller second, and probably a connoisseur of fine bathrooms third. But in that audition video I jokingly stated that “I have cerebral palsy, which I believe is the sexiest of the palsies.” The line caught on, and people with CP started adopting the title. As I was reading through YouTube comments, I was surprised to find that that little phrase was starting to change perceptions. Somebody wrote that they were out to lunch with their family and saw someone in a wheelchair who was severely disabled, and their first thought was not one of pity but of recognition
, Oh, sexiest of the palsies!
This guy was able to see a person in vastly different circumstances than his own and feel an instant sense of familiarity, like that person was somebody he could imagine grabbing a beer with.

One of the reasons Oprah is the best interviewer in the world is because she's able to make whoever is sitting across from her feel like they've met a new best friend. When Oprah and I hugged good-bye, I left knowing that I'd made an impression, but I thought it was along the lines of
Someday I'd like to have this young man over to my house and we'll split a quesadilla!
I'd felt we'd shared a moment of mutual understanding, but when I watched the episode months later, I was surprised to see that after our brief encounter, when they cut back to Oprah for commentary on our exchange, she was in tears. “Zach makes you want to be a better person, with his humor and his heart, and everything he's had to deal with from the time he was born. I've never met anyone like him, and I've met a lot of people.”

On the one hand, that's one of the nicest things that anybody has ever said about me, especially from a person who has interviewed so many of the world's most extraordinary people. On the other, I couldn't help but feel that this emotional response was at least in part due to an assumption that I had it a lot tougher than I actually did. Here was an African American woman born in 1950s Mississippi who had elevated herself to become one of the most influential and powerful voices in the world. I, on the other hand, have all the privileges afforded to every white, middle-class American male. On top of that, I have a loving family who has supported me in almost every endeavor I've undertaken. My single disadvantage is that I was born with cerebral palsy.

I couldn't help that. Instead of fighting against it, I worked with everything I had in my personal arsenal: humor, intelligence, empathy, curiosity, creativity, and hotness. Funneled through all those positive traits, my wheelchair and my diagnosis became tools rather than obstacles. I apply them when they can make my work better and try to check them at the door otherwise. They get in my way sometimes, but they also pave it. So when I'm sitting across from Oprah, or anyone else, my goal is to be seen not as someone who is forced to sit down, but rather as someone who chose to stand up. To me, that's putting the person first.

Oh, and for the record, Oprah smells lovely.

 

CHAPTER 6

How to Lose a Television Show

When I met Kristina Kuzmic we couldn't say a word to each other. If we had talked, there was the risk that either one of us could be sued for five million dollars. That's the kind of contract you enter into when you agree to be on a reality show. So the bubbly, curly-haired, fresh-faced girl could only be referred to as her initials because we were forbidden to officially meet until the cameras were rolling. Every detail of K.K. and Z.A.'s lives were a mystery to each other. The first thing I noticed about her was that at the mere mention of chocolate she would have what could only be described as an orgasmic response. I had a pretty good inkling that we'd be friends, because I also climax when presented with M&M's. The second thing I noticed was her perfect, beaming smile, which immediately made me regret that I'd not thought to use white strips before making my debut on national television.

On each episode of the competition, K.K., Z.A., and the eight other monogrammed contestants faced off on various challenges, and basically whoever screwed up the most would be sent packing. Their final thoughts and regrets would then be played over a walk of shame as they exited OWN studios with their luggage, got into a 2011 Chevy Equinox, and drove away.

This disgraced exit was what we all had the pleasure of filming first, before the competition even started. The ten of us sat in the back lot of the studio and took turns putting on the black trench coats wardrobe had provided so that we all looked uniformly grim when we wheeled out our empty prop luggage to the fuel-efficient and unexpectedly luxurious disgracemobile. It was a stark reminder that though we were all hopeful, nine of us would be going home as losers. When it was my turn to face the bright lights and head down the ramp while contemplating a future where my dreams had been dashed and I might never get another chance to have a show on television, Corky the stage manager had some advice for me.

“When you go past the camera, try not to look so chipper about just being eliminated. Okay, reset the crane!” he called out to the crew.

I went, as we call it in the business, back to one, filming my sad departure three times.

“That's a little bit better, but it still looks goofy,” Corky critiqued. “I know your wheelchair can't actually fit into the Chevy Equinox, so when you get to the car, just duck down behind it and we'll cheat the shot.”

I was a terrible loser. It was the least convincing failure in the history of television, and luckily no one would ever have to see the footage of my defeat.

Over the weeks of filming, my interactions with K.K. were few and far between. We'd sneak in little bits of contraband conversation, but if we mentioned anything personal our handler would scold us, and an absolute silence policy would be enforced.

I almost instantly became a fan of Kristina Kuzmic. She was vying for a cooking show and had the same “anyone can do it” mentality about the kitchen that I had about travel. The premise of her show was to teach the world's worst cooks that even they could make a great meal for their friends and loved ones. She was funny and relatable, and I admired that she wasn't trying to be the version of herself that she thought Oprah would like.

Kristina grew up in Croatia but had to flee the country with her family when civil war broke out. She emigrated to the United States at fourteen and learned English by watching
The Sound of Music
a thousand times. Her passion for cooking was passed down from her grandmother, who taught her that food brings family together and to go with her gut on any recipe. She was a tough and relentlessly optimistic survivor who had raised two kids while waiting tables. Despite a difficult divorce, she found the courage to give love a second chance and had recently married a wonderful man named Philip. I didn't know these details of her story until much later, but in her, I immediately recognized a kindred spirit, someone else who'd been through a lot of shit and had still come out smiling.

The two of us refrained from the tantrums, catfights, and tears of reality TV with an unspoken understanding that at the end of the day, this was just a contest, and while we both wanted very badly to realize our dreams, there were more important things in life than winning. We were on opposing teams, but I hoped that no matter how the competition ended, Kristina and I might end up being friends.

On my team, I emerged as the funny guy everybody liked who also inexplicably seemed to be the only contestant with previous production experience. Knowing that everything I said could and would be used against me in a court of basic cable, I was always humble and never had a bad word to say about another person on camera. I didn't graduate from the University of Texas Film School, but all those long nights shooting sketches and editing in my dorm room had adequately prepared me for producing a Kohl's commercial in five hours, and that proved more useful than any degree. The biggest revelation of competing on
Your OWN Show
was that I might actually know what I was doing.