The Potrero View | February 2013
One October morning, at the south corner of Eighth and Market streets, I boarded an uncrowded Muni 19 on my way to interview the new principal at Downtown High School. Facing the windshield, I parked my electric wheelchair at the spot reserved for wheelchair users, and switched it off.
“You’re good,” the driver said, eying me in the rearview mirror.
I wanted to say, “No, I’m not” but am tongue-tied. I don’t feel secure because she neither strapped my wheelchair down nor buckled me up. “Y-e-s,” I stuttered a few seconds later.
Securing a wheelchair with straps takes two minutes; buckling a wheelchair takes about ten seconds. If the bus got into an accident, I’d probably fly out of my wheelchair, hit the metal pole in front of me, and break my bones. Months after this incidence I still wonder why the driver didn’t strap my wheelchair down. Perhaps she was being lazy. I’d never had this problem before when riding a bus; not even during rush hour.
In 2010, one late fall afternoon, after tutoring English at Alameda College, I sped toward the MacArthur Boulevard bus stop, one stop from Mills College just in time to catch the 57 bus. The bus was crowded and stuffy.
“Where’re you going?” the driver asked.
“Mills College,” I said.
“Are you serious?” His cold eyes blinked at me.
“Yes,” I said, noticing passengers were staring at me. Feeling embarrassed, I clenched my teeth. I didn’t want to cruise the bumpy sidewalks back to Mills. It’d take 15 minutes to get there; by bus, less than a minute. The unhappy driver buckled me up and slammed the metal drawer behind my wheelchair.
When the 19 lurched forward, the side of my wheelchair joystick unit hit the fold-down seat. My hands pressed against the seat’s edge; I shook until the 19 jolted past Mariposa Street and halted on Rhode Island Street. It was the wrong bus stop, but I didn’t mind getting off one stop too soon, one block from 18th Street; I was early for my interview appointment. At the front door I jerked my head back, seeing that the slope of the sidewalk was about 25 degrees. I trembled, sitting 23 inches above bus floor level. My wheelchair could flip over when I get off the lift.
I wheeled slowly to the tilted lift, leaning toward my left, and grasped the rail on each side. The driver lowered me to the sloped sidewalk. One, two, three. I wheeled out of the lift into the sidewalk, holding my breath until I reached the stop sign. I took a deep breath to calm down. The San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency should place the bus stop at the flat northwest corner of Rhode Island and Mariposa streets; it isn’t safe for wheelchair users to get off at a sloped bus stop.
Putting my sweatshirt hood on, I cruised up Mariposa Street, then turned left on Vermont Street. I slowed down on the sidewalk, which has several raised concrete bumps that almost tipped my wheelchair over. I passed 18th Street and headed to Downtown to do my interview.
After finishing my interview an hour later, I sped to 19th Street, turned left on Rhode Island Street, and cruised toward 18th Street. But as soon as I turned right on that street, I couldn’t turn back: I was going down a steep hill. I tried to steer my wheelchair toward the sidewalk, but it wobbled and skipped. I felt nauseated and tense; my stomach twitched and turned. My right fingers barely touched the joystick to steer the wheelchair straight. If I pushed it too hard, I feared that my wheelchair would go down too fast and flip over. My heart raced faster as my wheelchair bumped and moved from side to side. My spastic feet shook on the footrest; my eyes shifted to the bottom of the hill, which seemed unreachable. My stiff elbows thrust against the padded armrests; sinking deeper and deeper into my seat, I wheeled down the hill inch by inch, my breathing shallow.
Relieved, I reached De Haro Street safely. Phew! I spun my wheelchair around. I will never go up or come down this steep hill again. A minute later I boarded the 19 heading to the Civic Center BART station. The driver, just like the 19’s that morning, without strapping my wheelchair or buckling me up, said: “You’re ready.”
I still felt sick to my stomach and grew even sicker when he jerked his chin at me and urged me again: “You’re ready.”
I just want to get back to Oakland as soon as possible. “Yes,” I said.
I feared that my wheelchair might move from side to side, but it didn’t shift an inch while the bus roared to my stop: Seventh and Market streets. When the driver lowered me to the curb, I realized that I didn’t have enough room to get out: the lift was too close to the curb rail. I sensed that the driver didn’t want to do more work, so I said nothing. I backed up my wheelchair a couple times before I could run it over the lift’s right side guard, like I was flying over a speed bump. My left spastic foot jumped out of the footrest and jerked. My wheelchair skipped to a stop; I flung my hand at my knee to stop the jerking. I sighed.
I crossed Seventh Street, then stared at the tire on the driver’s side. It was about three feet from the curb. If the driver had parked a foot away from it, I wouldn’t have struggled to get out of the lift. Crossing Market Street, I glanced at the sky, the sun beaming at me. I flickered a smile before wheeling into the elevator to catch the BART train to Oakland.