Crossing

Crossing

I was furious with my boyfriend Marty. He'd been hassling me about my political leanings all throughout lunch, and was continuing to do so as we walked back across campus to class. When we got to Beal Avenue, I impatiently shook off Marty's hand and strode out across the road.

Tires squealed, and a motorcyclist swerved around me, barely missing me. Shaken, I darted to the other side of the street to be greeted by the exclamations of students waiting on the curb. "Didn't you see?" "What are you, blind?" "Are you NUTS!?"

I plowed through them, and roughly shook off Marty's hand, practically running to get away from his officious, anxious questions and comments.

"Leave me alone!" I yelled, and finally, he did.

It wasn't the first time I'd heard brakes.

Because of the visual impairment that keeps me from driving, I am generally respectful to fearful about crossing streets.

When I was in elementary school, there was no light at the corner of Sand Hill, Route 66 and Route 12. I had to cross there to get home, and would tag along with other students making the crossing in a herd if I could. Once, I followed an older student, but I was not quick enough, and I heard the high scream of brakes as the driver of some piece of heavy equipment, a road grader, I think, did his best not to squash me flat. Probably the only reason I'm here today is that graders just don't move that fast to begin with.

When I was in highschool, my parrents had Joe Ingram, a mobility instructor, come to town and spend several hours with me, just crossing streets, giving me tips on where to cross, and how to move at a steady pace so that a driver would be able to predict my whereabouts.

But I have never been comfortable crossing. When I spent the summer as an intern in Oregon, I needed to cross a major road to get to work. Every morning, my heart would be in my throat until I was safely on the other side. I would have to wait for a major lull in traffic, then race across, ignoring all of Joe Ingram's advice about a steady pace. Coming home, I would do my best to latch onto another staff person, or I'd have to do the same heart-stopping exercise over again.

The reality is, that I can't gage speed and distance reliably. Nor can I see if a driver has acknowledged me, or is on his or her cell phone. This is not one of those disability things I can "overcome"

I joke about my motto being "better safe than flat" but there is a grim truth behind the humor.

It is a surprising restriction, I've missed tourist sites in foreign cities because I feel too at risk as a pedestrian. At night, I'll go out of my way to use an intersection with a traffic signal, knowing that drivers are even less able to see me. I'll take off my hat on bitter cold days to make sure I have all of the audio information I can possibly get, even when crossing relatively quiet streets. When there is construction which changes how sidewalks and cross walks work, I may put off errands, or ask for rides to places where I'd normally walk with ease.

And it's become a true measure of trust when I will jay walk with someone. I've had intense conversations with friends, and lovers about letting me know what they are doing when, and about how frightening the experience is for me if I have to move quickly, in fast, heavy traffic. The intensity in my voice is off putting,I know when I tell them how unpredictible bursts of speed or sudden stops can leave me shaking with a combination of fright and anger. There have been lovers dumped and friendships damaged after such conversations if I am not taken seriously.

So, "didn't I see?" well, no, maybe not. "Am I blind." Well, as a matter of fact, yes. and "Am I nuts?" Well, looking at the reality, no, I am not. It just took me a long time to realize that my caution is justified, and that "better safe than flat" is a good motto, even if It does mean that I can't manage certain things on my own

Given the alternative, I can live with that.