In 1971 I boarded a plane at LAX en route to London. On the way, we landed in Montreal for refueling. The process took quite awhile, perhaps because we were to take on other passengers, but the captain came on the intercom and told us we would have a two-hour layover. He recommended we deplane and get a bite to eat, browse the airport shops, whatever. While everyone was getting off, a flight attendant leaned down and asked if there was something she could get me. I said, yes, my wheelchair.

I was traveling with a couple and their young boy, and I wanted to get off the plane and mill around like the rest of the passengers. I’m sorry, she said, but that’s not allowed.

What? Not allowed?

The law, she said, prohibited any person who was a wheelchair user from entering the country by plane from another country.

What? Health laws, she said. Since there was no way of documenting my disease or whatever caused me to not be able to walk, health laws prohibited me from getting off the plane and setting wheel on the ground. I could be contagious, or something.

Well, that was 1971, you say — and so much has changed since then.

Yes, you are so right. It is so different now. Things have been changing steadily over the years. But not everything.

For instance, in 1980 I was given a community college teaching assignment I’ll never forget. At the time I was teaching for the developmental education department, which was known for offering classes to disadvantaged and marginalized populations. I was asked to fill in for someone on maternity leave, teach elementary reading to a class of adult Gypsies three nights a week at a local high school campus.

All the women wore fluffy white dresses and shiny black eyeliner, and they sat in rows of desks that were too small for them. All the men wore suits or sports jackets and stood at the back of the room with cigarette packs bulging from various pockets. I swear they were all used car salesmen. I circulated around the room from desk to desk talking with the women about their reading material — the equivalent of “See Dick, See Jane.” The men had no intention of participating, and the women all seemed shy and wouldn’t look me in the face or speak to me.

This went on for a month. Needless to say, no progress was made in the reading department. When I reported to my department chair, I asked her why the Gypsies refused to learn if they had taken the class in the first place.

It’s probably because in their culture, you’re taboo, she said. Your wheelchair made you taboo, so they couldn’t speak to you or look at you, for fear they might get what you have.

Well, that was 1980, you say, and so much has changed since then.

Right. Like NYC Mayor Bloomberg and his “we-don’t-want-no-wheelchair-cripples-in our taxis” campaign.

Taboos die hard, don’t they?