White cane madness

Off Our Backs, Nov/Dec 2002 by Merryman, Arlene

women and disability

Did you ever wake up on Sunday morning and think it was Monday? What a fright to suddenly feel there is one less day of life in which to achieve!

There was no more rest for me on just such a Sunday so I was motivated to go do my grocery shopping.

Commiserating with myself, I asked, "Why can't I just stay home and write? I don't want to go out and hear all those loud traffic noises."

As a totally blind person who has to use ears for navigation, I can't use a Walkman and listen to music like sighted people do. And facing the public's good intentions toward a disabled person is difficult for me. But what's a poor writer to do?

"Well," I resolve, "I'll try to not act different. Maybe I can make my white cane invisible. Or I'll try to not let anyone see it." So hoping to not attract attention, I don my largest backpack to carry my groceries home.

When I step outside my building, birds are singing and the sun is warm on my skin. Maybe I can make it to the bus line without someone trying to "help me." For once, I'm not in a hurry. I start to enjoy the walk.

Then, only two blocks away, I can hear a jack hammer. I begin to grow tense. Then a refrigerator truck zooms by with its obnoxious noise and fumes. My ears ache as I cross College Avenue, holding my nose, white cane extended. I need four hands to cover my ears. This crazy-making noise prompts me to say: "Oh, God! Why can't they make those sirens of a lower frequency?" That would be useful, especially for people who have hearing loss. A mile later, I cross another busy intersection.

Now the human harassment begins: "Be careful. Step down. Watch out! Don't fall!" all much louder than is necessary. Just a friendly hello at moderate volume level would be welcome. It feels to me that other people's idea of help is being forced upon me. I wince at their shouting, but no one wants to see/hear my pain; their good intentions and anxiety get in the way. Apparently their preconceived notions are more important to them than accepting, or even noticing, my reality.

My efforts at making courteous responses are: "Yes, I am fine. I hear you! Please don't shout. Just let me concentrate. I know I changed directions. No, thank you. I'll be okay. Yes, I intentionally got out of the crosswalk. Yes, I know I almost hit a pole. I'm not trying to live up to anyone's expectations today...Why are you honking at me?! That's very dangerous and misleading...No, I don't want to go that way. I do know my directions." On down the street: "I know I sideswiped a bush; I was trying to give you and your dog some room. Yes, I know I'm off the sidewalk; I was trying not to trip you with my stick....No, I'm not lost. Yes, I do know where I am and which way I want to go!" Oh, God. Here comes my bus.

But the pain of the shrill beeping noise of the bus' audible signal almost immobilizes me. I cover both ears. "Yes, driver, I will get on. But will you please take your foot off that beeping signal pedal? And please don't lower the wheelchair lift. That's unnecessary for me."

But the sight of a white cane seems to trigger a programmed response in the bus driver. Next, my eardrums are subjected to a grinding that is even shriller than the beeping signal.

Covering one ear, I climb aboard and show my bus pass.

"That lift noise was unnecessary," I try to explain to the driver. "Why did you do that, when I requested that you not do it? Yes, I will sit down when I can get away from all this noise...Please do not shout, driver - I'm blind, not deaf. Just let me get to the back of the bus. No, I won't sit behind you. I'm going to the back of the bus, driver!"

Upon hearing the word blind, four hands of at least three passengers grab and pull me in different directions. "Let go of me!" I plead as the bus starts to move. More hands grab me as I lurch down the aisle. "Yes, I know the bus is moving. I am holding on...Yes, I'm okay...Yes, I know I'm being rude!"

When I get to the rear of the bus, another hand grabs me and I land in someone's lap, instead of in the seat intended for me.

"Where's the blind woman getting out?" shouts the driver, more than loud enough for me to hear him in the back of the bus. I shout back that I'll ring the bell when we get there. By now, I am so embarrassed I want to crawl under my seat. A sweet, little, old lady pats my arm and tells me that people are only trying to help. Hearing this hackneyed statement, I want to tell her she doesn't know even half the story! But I am afraid to say anything just then since I would either scream or burst into tears.

During this bus trip, as with most, the painfully loud beeping signal is activated every time we approach a curb, continues while we are stopped, and does not let up until we are moving in the traffic lane again. I have to hold both my ears for much of the trip. It is cold comfort to know that many sighted people have also complained of this signal noise. Most people don't believe how painfully

nerve-- wracking that signal is for those of us who have sensitive hearing. They either laugh or dispute my contention. In researching this problem, I have never found any ordinance that says signals have to be piercingly shrill, in Americans with Disabilities Act regulations or elsewhere. I have talked to Washington, DC more than once, and to state officials. Several of my sighted friends agree with me that noise pollution has, in fact, increased in the past twenty years. What ever happened to the legal requirement for vehicles to have intact noise mufflers?