by Christopher Gray
On a cold, foggy December evening, I was walking from my office, heading to the streetcar station to meet some friends near San Francisco's famous Haight Asbury district. About half a block from the station, a familiar voice called to me from a car on the street and moments later, an acquaintance jumped out of a car and came over with a greeting. He runs a restaurant in my neighborhood and sometimes drives a taxi as a way to make ends meet and be able to afford San Francisco's high cost of living. I have eaten many times in his restaurant and have occasionally rented an upstairs room for large dinner gatherings and meetings. We greeted one another warmly and he offered me a ride in his taxi as he was already carrying some passengers in the general direction I was heading. They didn't seem to mind, so I began to get into his taxi: a very large, wheelchair-accessible van.
It was then that the situation took a bizarre turn. My friend insisted on following me into the van, helping me with the seat belt, and suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, began acting concerned about my ability to find the seat, use the shoulder harness, to generally function inside his cab. His concerned reaching for half the belt and trying to help me become positioned properly in the van, my simultaneous reaching for belt and clip, the proximity of the other passengers and their luggage; all these circumstances led to a difficult and awkward situation.
Finally, the belt was fastened, and I seemed to be where I needed to be to make my friend feel satisfied that we were both ready to continue with the ride. But then, to my utter amazement and chagrin, he proceeded to pat my arm, and say, "There we go. Everything's fine."
For extra good measure, he elected to provide me with a second reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Good boy," he said with a sound of relief in his voice having satisfied, I suppose, his need to reassure either himself or me, who knew for sure?
For the remainder of that ride, I made every effort not to feel the stunned disappointment that that "good boy" comment had engendered. Coupled with the pat on the shoulder, it made me feel more like my friend's dog than his colleague or acquaintance. I wondered, was this really how he perceived me? Was it possible that all of our business dealings and cordialities in his restaurant had conveyed nothing to him about me as a person, or about blind people more generally?
Perhaps most readers who are themselves visually impaired have had a similar experience. Perhaps you have felt the disappointment and personal devaluation that comes with such an episode, even if only for a moment or two. Never before had I been struck quite so keenly or was I so unprepared for an event like this.
Afterwards, as the days passed by, I asked myself, "What experience"? A slow realization came to me that while I was attributing a specific patronizing attitude to my friend as what I supposed his experience of me was, it was, in reality, my own interpretation of what I imagined his experience to be that was bothering me. Perhaps I was correct, but perhaps not. I did not really know what he had thought or felt during that 15-20 second seating process. English is not his first language, and perhaps the struggle for words and the need to get out of the middle of a busy street had something to do with his choice of words, too. Might not a lifetime of other experiences, mostly in a country and culture far removed from mine, have taken over and governed his actions in a moment of pressure and concern?
We are so often faced with embarrassments and experiences that can range on a "scale of annoyance" anywhere from petty discriminatory acts all the way to major instances of discrimination, and sometimes it seems virtually impossible not to confuse the discriminatory actions with the perpetrators of those actions. The fight not to be angry or defensive can be as hard or harder than the battle of securing our rights as bona fide citizens.
When faced with a situation where advocacy is needed, what do we find usually succeeds the best? Is it that momentarily satisfying flash of anger and discontent, or is it diplomacy? When we meet with those who take actions that are harmful to the blind community, do we succeed more often by approaching them from some common ground, or from the perspective of anger and resentment? It is so hard not to feel that anger and resentment. And yet we know that if we can find or kindle that spark of understanding within a group of people, we can, by degrees, bring the entire group into a position that engenders actions favorable to us as people who are blind.
Take the case of a traffic signal we want to be made accessible. Very often, we write and call and find ourselves facing rejection from a traffic engineer or a local bureau that is acting according to some already established community policy. As we wait to learn whether our request for an accessible signal will be granted, we continue to cross dangerous intersections and feel a growing anger and resentment toward the person or group that comes to personify our difficulties at this particular intersection. By the time we meet those responsible for these feelings, it is very difficult not to burst out in outrage over a situation that has been simmering in our own minds toward the boiling point for months. "This is not a discussion," whispers our adrenalin-filled psyche, "this is my life!"
But at the same moment, we know from other experiences that a rational, considered approach to many situations lends itself to far more positive results. Nobody likes being yelled at, after all, and there is an overwhelming need to provide people with the facts about a given situation in order to help them judge what is possible and come to a decision based on knowledge rather than tradition, or instinct or fear.
It is when we can step back and approach situations with calm, rational, considered words and demeanor that we are at our best as advocates. It is for this ability to communicate and exchange information that we strive every day as advocates. Sometimes, change happens so slowly that it almost hurts, and yet, in many cases this is how change comes. Yes, sometimes a good, old-fashioned lawsuit doesn't hurt either. But let's face it. Those dramatic legal victories don't come that often. The long-term changes usually come incrementally in our neighborhoods, towns, and cities. They come because reasonable people like you and me take the time and spend the energy to educate our neighbors and help them take reasoned and reasonable actions.
I haven't seen my friend since that miserable December evening. But soon, I know I will go to his restaurant, meet him once again, and sit down to a nice meal. For now, I'll probably avoid the taxi because that memory and the feelings the incident engendered are just a little too fresh in my mind. But the restaurant will still be the venue where we have shared convivial experiences together. We can talk amiably together there. Maybe we will find a way of discussing whatever created the incident in the cab. Maybe I will discover it really wasn't worth thinking about or dwelling upon at all. Surely though, we will work to keep establishing a better and better ability to communicate together as human beings, different, but with an equality that may transcend many differences, if given the time and energy.