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In mainstream narratives, disabled people are often cast as recipients of charity—people to pity awaiting rescue. A Richard Pryor comedy routine comes to mind, where he plays a disabled person with a “cap in hand” begging for money. In this skit he exaggerated the “handicapped beggar” stereotype which is both commentary on the way people with disabilities were often treated and satire on the way society perceives them. The term “handicap” has historically been used in a derogatory or limiting way, deriving from an exchange game where players put money in a “cap” equalizing the odds and later evolving to refer to anything that was at a disadvantage.
But within the disability justice movement, care is not about charity; it encompasses relationships, solidarity, and mutual aid. It’s a space where individuals can show up, share their time, talents, or resources, and work together at the pace of trust.
This feature spotlights three community leaders—José Hernandez, Peneliope Richards, and George Gallego—whose lived experiences illuminate a different model of care. From donating personal equipment to amplifying urgent needs online to creating community spaces for empowerment, these acts of giving challenge the dominant narrative of dependence.
This isn’t about charity. It’s about community.
Finding Community & Living the Values of Care
For some, finding the disability community happens early. For others, it takes time.
“I’ve been part of the disability community my entire life,” says Peneliope Richards (Penny), who was born with cerebral palsy. “I met my best friend at physical therapy when we were two. Later, I made friends at a camp for kids with disabilities. As an adult, I’m involved in so many things that impact our community because they’re important.”
For José Hernandez, community came after a life-altering injury at 15 left him paralyzed. “I was lucky to land in a spinal cord injury model systems hospital. From the beginning of rehab, I was surrounded by people who understood—other patients, doctors, mentors. The medical team gives you the foundation, but the disability community helps you build on it.”
George Gallego, who became disabled in 1992, didn’t have the same resources. “Back then, there was nothing for civilians with permanent physical disabilities. The ADA had just passed, but local supports? Nada. Zilch.”
What changed for George was a chance encounter with a worn-out resource manual that mentioned the Eastern Paralyzed Veterans Association. “I wasn’t a veteran—but I thought, give me one piece of information, and I’ll turn it into a map. That spark led me to flight school, athletics, advocacy—and eventually, to others like me. People building something better. That’s when I stopped surviving and started living.”
For all three, the lesson is the same: when disabled people come together, we don’t just survive—we thrive.
“A good chunk of us may not be the most mobile,” says Penny, “but we sure do know how to mobilize.”
Mutual Aid in Action—Online & On the Ground
For Penny, mutual aid often looks like amplifying GoFundMe campaigns, mutual aid asks, and crisis needs on social media. With over twenty campaigns that she’s supporting at this moment, it’s not just about generosity—it’s about justice.
“Money might not grant you happiness, but it can grant you access,” she says. “And far too often, people with disabilities have access to neither.”
Her process is careful and community-centered. She weighs her own capacity—since chronic pain, depression, and ADHD can make online advocacy exhausting—and she vets requests based on need, urgency, and trust. “Sometimes that means posting at 10 PM because someone’s eviction notice can’t wait.”
The emotional labor is real. “It’s rewarding and overwhelming all at once. When people are in crisis, they can be demanding—which I understand. Housing insecurity is terrifying.”
For José, mutual aid happens face-to-face and word-of-mouth. Over 30 years, he’s supported newly injured people, asylum seekers, and unhoused disabled individuals with supplies, mentorship, and mobility equipment.
“I didn’t get here on my own,” he says. “So when someone calls, I go.”
Sometimes it’s a hospital social worker who calls José directly. Sometimes it’s a peer from Wheeling Forward or The Axis Project. Sometimes it’s just someone who knows that José will show up.
One recent example: José donated one of his own power wheelchairs to an asylum-seeker newly paralyzed and facing placement in a nursing home—not because he needed medical care, but because he lacked equipment.
“One chair can mean freedom,” José says. “It can turn a prison into a life.”
Mentorship as Resistance, Care as Legacy
For George, mentoring people isn’t about saving anyone—it’s about walking beside them.
“Mentorship is resistance,” George says. “It’s saying, I see you in a world that refuses to see us. It’s legacy. It’s survival. It’s how we build each other up when the world tries to tear us down.”
George’s mentorship model comes with one rule: pass it on. “Once you’re in a position to help someone else, you do. It’s not optional.”
That practice isn’t just about the individual—it’s about collective liberation. “When I help someone navigate a broken system, I’m chipping away at the system itself. Every barrier we break makes it easier for the next person.”
From Wheelchairs to Marathons: Mutual Aid as Movement
Care within the disability community can look like passing a wheelchair from one person to another—or passing along a handcycle so someone else can lead the race.
This summer, Penny loaned her handcycle to a fellow Axis Project member so they could participate in an adaptive race.
“Adaptive sports equipment is expensive, and grant cycles aren’t always open,” she says. “If I can help my friend and teammate do something they want to do, why wouldn’t I?”
For Penny, these acts of care are small and large at once. “We do what we can from where we are. Sometimes that means sending a meme to a friend in pain. Sometimes it’s sharing a resource. Sometimes it’s loaning your handcycle.”
This year, she’ll be racing in the NYC Marathon for a reason—to support The Axis Project. For Penny, it’s more than just a personal milestone; it’s a statement about access, inclusion, and community. You can support her and The Axis Project here.
“When we move together in public space, when we take up space, that’s mutual aid. That’s joy. That’s protest.”
Building What the System Won’t
Ask any of the three leaders what the system fails to provide, and the answers come quickly.
For José, housing is a top concern. “Too many disabled people end up in nursing homes—not because of medical need, but because there’s no affordable, accessible housing.”
George agrees. “People outside the community don’t see the cumulative toll of inaccessibility. It’s not just a broken elevator or bathroom—it’s every door that closes. Jobs you’re not considered for. Spaces you can’t enter. Moments you’re excluded from. The system fails us every day, in a thousand little ways.”
What would real care look like?
“A real care system wouldn’t start with paperwork—it would start with people,” George says. “It would be built on trust, autonomy, and relationships. It wouldn’t punish you for needing help. It would see you as whole, not broken.”
That’s the model at The Axis Project, the Harlem-based community hub George co-founded.
“The Axis Project isn’t a rehab center. It’s a community space. We train together, we heal together, we laugh, we fight, we dream. That’s care. That’s power. And that’s why it works.”
Legacy, Hope & The Future of Disability Justice
When asked what they want readers to take away, all three are clear: this isn’t about inspiration—it’s about liberation.
“I want people to walk away knowing that real care happens when we stop waiting for systems to change and start building our own,” George says.
Penny adds, “Community care can look like the smallest gesture or the biggest one you’ve ever seen—or somewhere in between. All of it matters.”
For José, the legacy is personal but universal: “With the right support, I’ve finished school, gotten a job, started driving, had a family, and lived a full life. No matter who you are or what disability you have, you can too.”
And for the future?
“My dream is simple,” George says. “That no disabled person ever has to choose between survival and dignity again.”