Never Walked In High Heels

I can tell that it is him pushing my wheelchair without looking behind me. The way his black gloved hand grabs the push bar sends a surge of confidence through the entire chair. I can feel it in my spine. And then after that shudder comes a feeling of such relief and relaxation that I sit back in my chair a bit more peacefully. I don’t have to look for every crack in the sidewalk, every possible stick my front wheels could get stuck on. My eyes, my mind, my muscles can all rest for a few moments knowing that he has my back and is thinking for both of us.

We dodge in and out of the commuters at London Bridge Station, a fog of air coming out of out mouths giving the only visible sign of exertion. He tells me that people stare at us all the time. I have never noticed, and he has long stopped caring… or maybe he never did to begin with. Our contrast is almost more shocking than the obvious. Me in my white fur hat, him in a battered bomber style one. His coat tattered and grey, I’ve just gotten mine for Christmas, the bright red making me look like a special holiday doll which is never allowed to be played with. Rarely do people comment on the fact we do not look like we belong together. In our circle of friends it’s assumed we can get by in the most chaotic of situations.

Arriving at the elevator we wait alongside mothers with their young children draped in fleece blankets and tucked inside a multitude of layers. The women avoid eye contact with us. He and I are clearly the odd ones out. But the children, even I can see them look at me with as much curiosity as they’ve ever had. This is when my friend’s imagination gets the better of him. He leans over and whispers in my ear.

“It’s almost like they’re saying ‘wow, she has a really big stroller. Maybe if I play my cards right, I won’t ever have to get out of mine.’”

This is why he and I get along so well.

I’m in Central London trying to get the 188 home. A driver pulls up to the stop looks at me and insists that London buses don’t have wheelchair ramps. Now in a lot of ways, I can’t say I really blame him for being a fool, just like I can’t be blamed for being born with a disability. He doesn’t know that I have lived in London for years. He doesn’t know that I’ve used 3 buses today, all of which had wheelchair ramps. He probably doesn’t even know that one entire side of his double-decker bus is devoted to a full color ad declaring all buses in London to now be wheelchair accessible. And I’m assuming that he has no idea that I work for Transport for London and I just met his supervisor last week. All he knows is that he is one hundred percent right and I have a disability, which makes me automatically one hundred percent wrong.

Like I said, people shouldn’t blamed for how they are naturally.

Except it is this exact excuse which keeps London miserably inaccessible to wheelchair users and woefully under prepared for the Olympics / Paralympics in 2012. Yes, the London Underground was started in 1863. Yes, London is a city where things are so old that every piece of construction could qualify for a blue historical plaque. Yes, the city is hard for anyone to get around in. None of this justifies the fact that we are now five years after Britain passed the Disability Discrimination Act and there is still not a single reliable form of transportation in London for disabled people to use. As a transportation advisor, I’ve heard public officials try to justify these conditions over and over. And you know what, after all this time and all the warning, after America passed its disability legislature a full fifteen years before Britain passed it, there is still no good way for person’s who have anything less than a fully functioning body to get around in London.

An athlete in the Paralympics stands to be insulted by the ground staff at any London airport. They would be appalled to learn just how many taxi drivers don’t know how to use their own ramps, and how many bus drivers deny that ramps even exist. And, my guess is, after a day or so, they would consider themselves lucky to even get on a train with the level of resentment I’ve seen from most station staff. And the London Underground has a goal of making thirty three percent of all stations on the system accessible by 2013… that’s it, just one third. These are the situations I see in London on a daily basis. In one of the world’s most diverse cities, access is far from being even “manageable.”

When determining nation wide access, the concrete obstacles are often easiest to change. The mental blocks that people throw up are always inhibit equality more than issues of bricks and mortar. Now my worry is that people are falling for ‘good enough,’ and the idea that London was never made to be accessible. Maybe if you have the luxury of taking this attitude London’s accessibility today seems impressive. But to those of us who are dependent on accessible transit, these conditions are paltry to say the least.

People of London you have just under three years to inform, change, and build. The first thing you must do is stop hiding behind your “nature” however justifiable of an excuse it may provide. Since when has something right ever been easy? I don’t think with this little time left Londoners can accomplish the necessary adjustments to make this city wheelchair friendly. Prove me wrong.

Sometimes I feel like going through the streets of London is like being a high school quarterback. Of course, that experience is not one that is unique on the field. Dodging individuals trying to make out in the middle of the pathway or young mothers suddenly stopping to grab their children by the hand before they totter away can be equally as dangerous as trying to beat the clock for that last-minute touchdown.

London is considered by many to be the most civilized and, oddly enough, the most advanced city in the world. And, looking at the city as a whole on a good day, this is largely true. You can top up your cell phone at any ATM, the trains run on time (as long as you fit into the ideal London body), you can go through your day relatively smoothly with your iPod in your ears and your purse in your hand, conducting business on the go, dropping into Fleet Street when necessary, and jumping on the train just before the door closes to make the most of time. **

 

Oddly enough, with all this advancement and adaptation that is supposed to make life go as smooth as the silk of a new White House/Black Market dress, we’ve lost something. As human beings in London, we have lost the entire skill of spatial awareness. The irony is, of course, Westerners, particularly British Westerners, in comparison to most cultures, feel the necessity of a relatively large amount of personal space. With this notion, one would assume, comes the ability to remain extremely well placed in the environment. Not so.

 

It would be easy for me to say that American tourists are the worst. And they are pretty bad – don’t get me wrong. As an American, myself, I often groan at the middle-aged woman in khaki shorts with her fanny pack with her flat drawl that can only come from Minnesota. She is in London to experience culture, and as such, she’s doing her best to herd her children like a flock of geese. In doing so, of course, she is completely oblivious to those of us who still have to work on a 9 to 5 job while she is on vacation. 

 

But it does not end with the tourists. It doesn’t end with the individuals trying to get that perfect shot of Big Ben when they might just as easily hop into a local newspaper agent and get one ten times better. It doesn’t stop with Regent’s Park where the young people make out freely. It doesn’t even stop in Covent Garden where the mixture of bipeds and motorists proves to be so deadly that no law can dare define the area. No, it doesn’t stop there. Londoners will take their half out of the middle as much as Americans. I stop in awkward spots as much, if not more than the young couple across the street wanting to show off their make-out skills. And sometimes, just sometimes, the fact that millions of us are trying to go in completely opposite directions backfires in a way that can only be described as inner-London traffic. 

 

Getting around in London should really be the new Olympic sport for 2012. It can be called “urban slalom,” and you lose points for every biker you hit, every time you disrupt the flow, and maybe even gain a few points for every time you dodge out in front of an oncoming car, knowing full well that you have plenty of time and ample speed to be across by the time he reaches the crosswalk. The British, of course, would have the home court advantage and make sure that even a New Yorker would get a run for his money. I might just be the champion as I dodge and ram, predicting an entire sidewalks’ move and how to avoid a lawsuit while going at top speeds with a 500 pound electric wheelchair. It’s as much art and skill as it is athletics and critical thinking, and I challenge anyone who thinks they can master the London sidewalks to do it in an electric wheelchair.

 

Today I found myself in Cambridge Circus, one of my most dreaded areas where Charing Cross meets Tottenham Court Road in an utter mess of confusion and terrible planning. Getting through the crosswalk of Cambridge Circus proves to be the most annoying endeavor in the entire city as buses tend to enjoy stopping for the light directly over the crosswalk, thereby blocking the wheelchair ramp to cross. Sunglasses on, my iPod in my ears to ensure that nothing would annoy me and I could have a completely private walk in a city of millions, I waited for the stoplight to turn and the crosswalk not to be blocked. Finally an African woman took my hand just as the light was about to change back to “don’t walk.” 

 

“Come on, honey. We’re going.”

 

And with that, she held her hand in front of the oncoming taxi to make sure they would continue to stay still even after the light had changed so I could get across with a clear shot. 

 

Then again, there are some times where you need a city full of strangers just to get by. 

The problem with human rights is that people don’t realize how important those rights are until their own have been violated. I was trying to get on a train with Paige the other day up in Scotland, and she sat down a full cup of coffee and a full cup of hot chocolate so that she might get a ramp for me. Then, a moment later, I saw a cleaner start to get on the train and, realizing what was about to happen, I grabbed him and said,

 

“There are two cups of hot coffee on the train. They are mine. I’m waiting for a ramp. Please do not throw them away.”

 

“Right,” he said, looking at me blankly and extremely confused.

 

The next thing I knew, the coffee cups were gone. I was livid. First of all, no one comes between me and my coffee, particularly at 8:30 on a Scottish morning when the weather is miserable. Doing so is the equivalent of putting one’s hand in a piranha tank. It is truly, in a matter of speaking, taking your life into your own hands. When he got off the train, I confronted him.

 

“Why did you throw away our coffee when I specifically told you not to?”

 

“You want to get a on you say?” he asked me, avoiding eye contact. I could see this was going nowhere, and so I grabbed a hold of his arm and repeated the question. Within another moment, Paige arrived. 

 

“What’s wrong?” she said, ignoring the man complaining about my grip.

 

“He threw away our coffee when I specifically told him not to.”

 

Within the next fraction of a second, Paige was asking the janitor questions and making him feel extremely uncomfortable, I’m sure. 

 

In times like these, I can’t help but wonder whether or not we are too hard on people. I mean, really. It was his job to clean up the train, and people at the lowest part of the ladder usually have the most miserable jobs and are more than a bit snippy to let everyone else know that they are unhappy. People don’t think, as a mentor of mine once reminded me. It’s not that they’re malicious so much as they don’t realize the ramifications that their actions have on their fellow human beings. For example, if he thought about it, the member of staff would probably question, ‘why am I throwing away two completely full coffee cups? Maybe they are meant to be here.’

 

To make matters worse, in addition to people not thinking, they also don’t want to have to claim responsibility for things that are likely to go wrong. Most people don’t want to get in trouble, and the man who threw away our coffee realized that if he left rubbish from the previous train journey on the train, he would not be doing his job, and it would be more likely that someone would complain. Simple enough, and for that he is commended. Not many people I know would be willing to do this job of cleaning a train so thoroughly.

 

But the fact is, I did specifically told him not to clear away our coffee cups, and the fact is, he looked at me blankly, did not bother to clarify what I had said when it was unclear, and ignored my request. In these points, I don’t think my assistant nor I were too harsh in challenging him and his actions.

 

I said very little on the train ride back to Glasgow. I was frustrated as one can imagine. Who ever thought that two cups of coffee could cause so much frustration and disappointment? I have long since stopped being frustrated with the member of the cleaning staff. After all, he was just doing his job. But I started being enraged with the bigger problem that at the moment seems unfixable. Why is it that we even needed a ramp to get onto the train? Why couldn’t some brilliant engineer just make the train platform level with the train? Why wasn’t there an appointed train car, at the very least, that didn’t require a ramp to get on and off? Why was this world built for able-bodied people when able-bodied people ultimately have their perfectly able-bodies commit treason against them with age, aches, and illness? Who was the idiot who came up with the notion of stairs anyway? Probably some ancient Roman governor who wanted to make sure that his mother couldn’t bother him in his room. 

 

I lost my appetite for a while and stewed in my own little microcosm of social change. Before reaching Glasgow to go home, it was a miserable evening outside. The rain was still coming down at that annoying rate of not being hard enough to stop you from your responsibilities but being a bit too hard so that you would inevitably get soaked if you were out more than seven minutes. I stopped by a coffee kiosk with Paige, and we ordered another two hot coffees to go. And this time, we were prepared to guard them with our lives. I was still in my own little world, making my way back to my Glasgow flat in the cold rain. 

 

As a disabled woman, very often I am considered to be invisible, even by the most liberally minded people, and inevitably I have to ask why. Sometimes the system doesn’t work, and you have to ask why it didn’t. Sometimes the classes you need to go to are in a building that is completely inaccessible. Even to the most able-bodied of people it presents a challenge, and then you ask, ‘Whose brilliant idea was this?’ 

 

But whatever you do, and whoever she is, do not come in between a young professional woman and her coffee. 

 

Not long ago, I found myself in a pedestrian gridlock that was enough to make any urban dweller revolt. All of the sidewalks, streets, and secret allyways of London’s Trafalgar Square were blocked by formidable officers on horseback to absolutely ensure we were going nowhere. Used to such hoopla, I asked an officer what the occasion was. Turns out, on this perfect Sunday, Bush was going through London on his farewell tour. And so, despite opinions and beliefs, facts and rumors, I found myself doing the popular thing. I too was waiting in patient expectation to see George W. Bush’s limo pass the streets of London.

Truth be told, I can’t dismiss the Bush family as easily as most. There, I said it. You can stop reading whenever you want. But as I grew up in Chicago during the 1990’s, the first president Bush had a profound effect on my life. I remember sitting in front of the television, my six year old knees scraped as always, while Bush Sr. picked up his pen and signed the Americans with Disabilities Act. It was the first time in America that it was illegal to discriminate against me. As I went to school the teachers had to teach me. Doors opened, quite literally, so I could go to university, and now that I am an adult, I should be able to have the same dignities and respect as anyone else in society. It was this law that served as a model for other counties, such as Britain, to restore rights to their own people with disabilities. Asking me to hate the Bush family is like asking a newly freed slave to despise Abraham Lincoln. 

The limo passes in a flurry of camera phone flashes and finger-pointing. For being  such an unpopular president, Bush sure does seem to attract a lot of popularity from people who happen to be in the right place at the right time. I look at my phone and I can’t help but chuckle. It’s The President of the Untied States on my phone… and frankly it looks like any other car with tinted windows. I turn to leave. The barriers are now down and inconvenienced Londoners breathe a collective sigh of relief. 

“Finally. All I was trying to do is get to Charing Cross station,” a woman jokes to me. She says she’s going to visit her grandchildren for the week, and she’s hoping that tonight there’ll be time to bake bread with them. I smile at her, she smiles at me, and there is an instant connection. I say that I’m headed to the same place to catch the train home, hoping for an easy night.

“Oh, isn’t it sweet of them to let you take the train? It must be so nice to hold the rest of us up so you can get onboard.”

I swallow hard. For the rest of the conversation I stare dead ahead answering in one word syllables, resisting the urge to reach up and disable the woman myself to teach her a lesson in empathy. I keep telling myself to breathe and remember that she is older, so soon she’s going to fall, break a hip and learn her lesson. Or maybe she’ll go blind. Or…

I purposely lose her in the crowd. Doing so makes me feel a little more control of my life. I don’t know if I’m aggravated more at the woman or at myself for not saying anything. “Nice?” It’s the law. It’s my right to ride that train, and the fact that I can’t ride the train without giving at least 48 hours notice proves we have a long way to go before we can even talk about being “nice.” Every time the platform manager harasses me because he doesn’t want to get the ramp out, or when I have to ride an extra hour to the end of the line because no one was at my stop to help me get off, I’m reminded that freedom, while granted by law, takes awhile to trickle into actuality. 

It is easy for us to assume that because something changes legally, the problem is completely fixed.  In reality, getting a law in the books is only the first step to evolution. After that, the responsibility rests on the citizen’s shoulders. Oddly enough, it is at this point that society claims the problems as one that can be dismissed because it is remedied. We argue for legislation and for papers to be signed but after Congress is cleared and the legislators leave for home, the reformation of society still is entirely dependent on ordinary people. It is what we do on the subway, while buying jeans, the absent minded comments we make while passing each other on the street which define the rights of the individual more than any statesman would ever dream of.

At home I fix myself an obligatory cup of tea and watch the Thames from my balcony, Canary Warf looking like the land of Oz in the distance. The warmth of my home reminds me that while the outside world can turn hostile within a second, the places where I belong value me for the woman I am and for the things I have accomplished. To them, any slight allowances in time and adaptions are well worth it.

“Hello, remember Gandhi? When are folks gonna realize that kicking young people off trains is a bad idea? It can only lead to trouble.”  - Athena Stevens

 

“Sorry, we can’t get you this one either,” he says to me for the third time in a row. It’s rush hour in London, a time that can only be classified as every man for himself. It’s a phenomenon which I can’t even complain about as, during the hours of seven to ten in the morning, I’m as savage as any of my ablie-bodied peers and nearly twice as fast. The past three years have given me a post doctorate degree in defensive driving. I weave in and out of bodies better than most footballers looking for a breakaway. Morning rush hour leaves no excuse to be late as the best thing you can do is pick up your feet and keep moving, 

Unless you are reliant on public transit. 

“Why not?” I contest back to the rail worker. “Seems to me there’s enough room to get on.”

“No, no. We need to wait for the next train. People like you really shouldn’t be out  and about during this hour anyway.”

There it is. I was wondering when I was going to find the arrogant chink in his seemingly paternal armor. I wasn’t supposed to be going to work with half the city of London. What possible appointment could I have at this time of day which would be of any importance? Why would I have a schedule to keep so tight that I actually spent my own money to buy a more expensive ticket to travel during the peak periods of the day? What could it even matter if I was late for work? 

Transit is a very strange business to be in. The things that can go awry while going from point A to point B is almost infinite once you add the Human Element. The idea is simple enough,  but in the process of trying to get everyone where they want to go, transportation has become the battleground which nearly always precedes the war of social justice. When Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a segregated bus, she challenged the whole of the American racial hierarchy. When Gandhi was thrown off a South African train, it caused one man to shift his entire world view, thereby shifting the world. And in the 1970’s the disability rights movement began by people chaining themselves to London busses in order to demand equal access. Clearly, we’re still in the trenches on that one.  

History should have taught us by now, refusal to give people reliable transport is a surefire way to start trouble. 

“Put me on this train now, please,” I slowly say between clinched teeth desperately trying to rail in my temper.   “I need to get to work.” He doesn’t move. The train passes. I am now officially late. 

The movement towards civilization has been founded on the movement of people  getting to where they want to go. Without the rails, roads, the very veins of the city our opportunities are limited to what’s just past our front door. For many, this limitation continues to be unmoved. In a world where we assume that just because there’s a little wheelchair symbol on the map means that everything is accessible, we forget that attitudes often stand more immovable than any concrete barrier. 

“So where do you work sweetie?” He’s trying to get on my good side. I’m now trying to call my boss. 

“I’m a consultant for the transit system here in town.” The truth slipped out so easily that it almost sounded sarcastic. 

“I bet we can get you on the next train.”

Yeah, funny how that works. 

As the next train rolled up he put down the ramp with a smile, and I thanked him by name. The outside began to flash past in an ever increasing cadence. I was on my way and almost on time. I thought about how far this world had to go in learning to accept the frailty of the human condition. It is a place that no motor will take us, save the drive that comes from knowing that all men are made equal;  the ones who have refused to forget that, even while simply commuting, have done a great deal to change the world.