In 1990, disability rights activists gathered at the steps of the U.S. Capitol to make a point that words alone had failed to communicate. One by one, they left their wheelchairs, crutches and mobility devices behind and began to crawl up the steps.

The moment, now known as the Capitol Crawl, was not symbolic for the sake of spectacle. It was a direct confrontation with inaccessibility. The message was simple and undeniable: if disabled people could not enter the Capitol, then the system itself was inaccessible.

Among those activists was Jennifer Keelan, who pulled herself up the steps using her hands and arms, declaring she would take “all night if I have to.” That image forced the country to confront what had long been ignored.

Just months later, the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) was passed.

The Capitol Crawl did not happen in isolation, and it was not the only reason the ADA became law. But it did something essential: it made inaccessibility visible in a way that could not be dismissed or ignored.

More than three decades later, that same logic is being echoed on a smaller, but no less meaningful, scale.

At Iowa State University, students are organizing what is being called a “Cy-Crawl” on the steps of Beardshear Hall. Like the Capitol Crawl, this action is meant to draw attention to barriers that still exist. Barriers that are often invisible to those who do not encounter them.

And for those involved, the issue is not abstract. It is about identity, dignity and being seen as fully human.

One of the organizers, Grady Sullivan, put it plainly: “You shouldn’t have to lose your identity just because you have a disability.”

That statement cuts to the core of the issue. Accessibility is not just about infrastructure. It is about whether people are allowed to exist as themselves without being reduced to a limitation. It is about being recognized as a full person, not just whether you can get through the door.

The need for this kind of protest raises an uncomfortable question: how much has actually changed?

The ADA established legal protections and accessibility standards. Ramps, elevators and accommodations are now part of the built environment in ways they were not before 1990. But compliance is not the same as accessibility. A building can technically meet requirements while still being difficult, exhausting or even impossible for some people to navigate.

Accessibility is often treated as a checklist. A ramp is installed. An elevator is present. A box is checked. But lived experience is more complicated than that. Routes may be indirect. Elevators unreliable or out of commission. Entrances may technically exist, but feel like afterthoughts. These are not dramatic barriers, but they are constant ones.

And constant barriers shape daily life.

What the Cy-Crawl does, much like the Capitol Crawl before it, is refuse to let those barriers remain abstract. It forces a physical confrontation with them. It makes visible what is usually overlooked.

That kind of visibility is uncomfortable. It is meant to be.

That discomfort extends beyond physical spaces. It shows up in conversation, too.

As Sullivan also noted, “Disabled is not a bad word.”

And yet, many people avoid even saying it, worried about saying the wrong thing. That hesitation, while often well-intentioned, contributes to the same invisibility that protests like the Cy-Crawl are trying to challenge. When people cannot even name disability, it becomes easier to ignore the realities that come with it.

Protests like these are often criticized for being disruptive or dramatic. But disruption is the point. The Capitol Crawl was not polite. It was not convenient. It was effective because it made it impossible to ignore the reality of exclusion.

The same principle applies here.

It is easy to assume that accessibility is a solved issue, something addressed decades ago through legislation. But the existence of the ADA does not guarantee its full realization. Law establishes a baseline. It does not ensure lived equity.

That gap between policy and reality is where activism still operates.

The Cy-Crawl is not just about one set of stairs or one building. It is about a broader question of who campus spaces are truly designed for. Universities often present themselves as inclusive environments, open to all students. But inclusion is not just about who is admitted. It is about who can fully participate.

If getting to class, attending events or accessing resources requires additional effort, planning or physical strains for some students, then the environment is not equally accessible.

And if those barriers persist quietly, they are easy to ignore.

That is why visibility matters.

The Capitol Crawl showed the country what inaccessibility looked like in a single, powerful display. The Cy-Crawl is doing something similar on a campus level. It is translating policy into lived experience. It is asking people not just to acknowledge accessibility in theory, but to see where it breaks down in practice.

These moments are not comfortable, and they are not supposed to be. They are reminders that progress is not a one-time achievement. It requires maintenance, attention and, at times, confrontation.

The ADA was a milestone, not an endpoint.

And if students today feel the need to crawl up the steps of their own university to be heard, that tells us something important: accessibility is still unfinished work.