Crossing the Street

On a crisp morning in Madison, Wisconsin, I happened to be walking along one of the busier streets in my neighborhood. Reaching the intersection, I stood idly tapping my cane on the pavement, listening for the traffic to flow in the right direction so I could cross the street. I was conscious of the footsteps approaching from behind, but I really didn't pay much attention to them. I noticed them only slightly more when they stopped beside me, waiting, I assumed, to cross the street as well.

I had just come from visiting a friend, and being somewhat preoccupied by the memory of our conversation, I was totally unprepared for what happened next. The sound heard by my left ear suddenly disappeared. An unknown object had been thrust in front of it, blocking out all sensation of hearing. I felt, more than I heard, the inhalation of breath, and then I knew, too late to do anything about it, what was about to happen. Two cold clumsy hands had been cupped over my left ear. And before I could think of pulling away, a very loud, high pitched voice yelled, "Can I help you across the street?!"

Momentarily devastated by the over-stimulation of my senses, I stood for a short time unable to move. And then, very slowly, I began to get very angry. What right did this woman have to totally violate my personal space and yell at the top of her lungs into my ear? But that wasn't really what hurt. For greater than the pain of decibel overload was the pain of what I suspected had caused her behavior in the first place. To her, because I was blind, I was obviously also deaf. Here we go with the stereotypes.

Now I must admit that my first reaction was to cup my hands over the woman's ear and yell at the top of my lungs, "What did you say, Madam?" thereby forever impressing on her inner ear, not to mention her brain, that not only were blind people quite deaf, but quite rude as well. What I ultimately did wasn't a whole lot nicer. I remember saying, in a somewhat indignant tone that the long white object I held in my hand was in fact a cane, and not a hearing aid. "Well!" she said indignantly, as she disappeared into the crowd, "I was just trying to be helpful."

A number of months have passed since the occurrence of that unfortunate incident, and I continue to be troubled by it. It's no fun to be a stereotype. It hurts to be thought of as someone you are not, and for no apparent reason. It also hurts to admit that I was less than patient in my response. And so this brief commentary is written as an apology to an unknown person. "Madam, wherever you are, I'm sorry. I had no more right to be rude than you had to make erroneous assumptions. And to make sure it doesn't happen again, perhaps you and I should make a deal.

I will try to be more polite, if you try to be less assuming. When next I meet you on the street I will be happy to accept your assistance if you are willing to accept me; not the me you think I am, but the me I have become. Who knows, we may learn a great deal about each other while crossing the street together."

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