Lady In Waiting

7:23 in the morning. I am  one hour and thirty-seven minutes early for today's round of Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy appointments, and as such, I am the only one in this white-tiled waiting room. I am here before the receptionist, before the coffee, and from the looks of the pitch blackness outside, I'm earlier than Daybreak herself.

My life is in a constant state of waiting, especially these days. Waiting rooms, and waiting for rides. Waiting to get to class. To work. To my internship. The "getting there" is completely out of my control.  Sure, I can tell the folks at Go!Bus dispatch that I need to be somewhere by 9:00am, but I can never guarantee the timeline. Last week, on two occasions, my ride was an hour and a half late. Today, I am extremely early. Rare and blessed are those rides when I get someplace on time, and rarer are the rides when I am not riding all over town for two hours, before I get to my destination on time.

Waiting.

When I am waiting for the Go!Bus, I have time to think. I have time to go through stages of anger and frustration. Of pity and self-loathing. Of hating systems and corrupt individuals who run them.  Last week, when the Go!Bus was so late, I ranted in my mind. Be cautious, dear reader, for the words that I write next are true, and of that moment, but not at all polite or congenial. 

It started with exhaustion: How long have I been standing here? How long do I have to stand here, out in this cold, before they come and get me? I could go inside and wait, but they never know where I am, and I can't miss this bus. I have to be out here, so I can see them. 

Then it moved intoself-pity: This sucks. I hate my life. I hate this. I fucking hate my eyes. This is ridiulous. Why do I have to be the one on the look-out for THEM? I'm the blind one, here! God! Why can't I just get in a fucking car, and fucking drive! I would BE THERE by now! I'm tired. I'm tired of this life, this waiting, this constant struggle to just go anywhere. Fuck. 

Done waiting in a blizzard, I shuffled  and turned around to wait inside the foyer of my apartment building. I clicked on my phone to check the time. The bus was now 34 minutes late. I called dispatch, and politely asked where my ride was, but also expressed my frustration at being late for my  internship.  "I am so sorry, Cassaundra," the dispatch operator said. "We have been lacking in drivers lately, a lot of folks just not showing up, so we're working as best as we can Someone should be to you anywhere between ten and thirty-five minutes."

Waiting.

And that's when my anger became directed at broken systems: Damn that Go!Bus. They need to hire more drivers. And they need to pay those drivers more money, so that they choose to go to work and stay in their jobs. Because if the drivers don't do their job, then I can't do my job. I hate this system.  

And it continued like this, me screaming in my head, fighting back tears, fighting with God, fighting to not just throw my hands up in the air, and call it a day before it had even begun.

Waiting.

And the Go!Bus arrived. And, as I had suspected, it didn't know where to stop, and zipped past me in a blur of blue and red, and roaring diesel. I bolted out the door, my anger mounting in my voice, curling around my words as I screamed, "HEY! YOU! GO!BUS!" Tripping in the snow, tripping over my cane, I rounded around the corner of my building, and with panted breath, rushed to where he had parked the vehicle.

The doors opened. "You....are....supposed to be... BACK. THERE," I heaved as I gulped in frostbitten  air.

"Sorry," the driver shrugged.

And I got on the bus, and started my Monday.

When I am waiting for the Go!Bus, I think about the kind of car that I would drive. (A lime green or powder blue VW Bug, thanks for asking.) I often wonder what I would do if given back the time that I spend on busses on streetcurbs. I wonder how my life would look if I could drive. I would probably sleep in, knowing that in a car,  any one of my numerous commute routes would take, at most, twenty minutes.  I would probably open a tab at a Starbuck's that's "on the way". I would have a backseat full of everything that I need - rather than a mammoth collection of purses that double as Mary Poppins' carpet bags ("Oh, you need a lamp? I've got that in here, somewhere...."). If I could drive...

If I could drive, my phone would most likely always be charged because I would have a car charger right there. And my butt would certainly always be warm, because, heaven knows, if we're living out this fantasy right now, my imaginary car totally has seat warmers. If I could drive, I would constantly play a blend of my favorite music -- from Michael Buble to Michael Bolton, from Taylor Dayne to Taylor Swift.  And you had better believe I would be singing along to every single word. 

I know that I shouldn't complain, that I should be thankful for the blessing to live in a city that offers door-to-door transit  for its disabled and elderly population. And I am thankful. Most days. It has become increasingly difficult to hold out that gratitude. I still don't know how to hold gratitude, and to hold anger and frustration. I can't wrap my mind around the idea that both are valid emotions, and are not exclusive. Because it feels like they should be. I'm hoping to understand these complexities. 

Waiting. 

And as much as I complain about the Go!Bus, as much as it makes me want to scream and gnash my teeth, and get all Psalmist and weepy, I am also devastated that this service will no longer be available to me, come Monday morning. 

March 16th, 2015 is my  proverbial stroke of midnight. That's when my horse-drawn carriage of a Go!Bus turns back into the squatty, orange pumpkin of multiple, fixed-route bus lines. I hope that glass slippers make for good walking shoes. 

You see, according to the Go!Bus Powers That Be, my disabilities are not severe enough to warrant receiving Go!Bus service all year round.  Just at night, and just during winter months. "Limited Access", they call it.  

Limited access. For those who are already limited by physical disability. Yeah, that makes a whole lotta sense. 

This information was delivered to me in November, and though I knew that I could  have appealed this decision, at the time, I decided to lay that battle aside.  As a full-time graduate student, with a part-time job, and an internship, I didn't have the time or energy to bring a case before a panel and fight for transportation rights. Because why the hell do we even need to discuss this? I am legally blind, and i have Cerebral Palsy. I can't drive a car.  The regular bus routes, while accessible, are not the best for my already fatigued body. End of story. 

I have reapplied for the Go!Bus, this time, enlisting professional recommendations from both my physical therapist and a blindness rehabilitation counselor.  I hope this helps. I've done all that I can do. 

And again, I wait. 

Lyrics and Loneliness

As it is the last day before the full-swing of my semester begins, and because I am feeling a smidge  woebegone, I'm spending this Sunday listening to jazz, and reading Summer At Tiffany, the memoir of Marjorie Hart, who was one of the first women to work at Tiffany & Co. during WWII. 

I first heard of this book during my maiden voyage to Manhattan this past summer. It was in the gift shop of the Empire State Building, perched between copies of Capote's Breakfast At Tiffany's and Audrey Hepburn coffee mugs. I didn't buy the book that sunny day in NYC, but I did download it to my tablet some weeks later, and have been reading it casually over the last five months. The episodic, carefree nature in which it's penned makes Marjorie's story the perfect little "popcorn read" -- It's light, fun and filling. A simple pleasure, and one that doesn't need to be completely digested in one setting. I can put it down for weeks at a time, but when I'm curious about the madcap, Manhattan goings-on of three college girls, I turn on the tablet, and I'm transported back to the sweltering summer of 1945, my journey made complete with dizzying cocktail parties, dashing Navy boys, and dazzling Tiffany diamonds. 

One thing that I truly love about this book is that Marjorie constantly mentions the Big Band music being played during that summer, and always relates the swinging melodies to her personal, sentimental moments. Even the conversations she has with her other twenty-something gal pals are loaded with 1940s lyrical references.  I connect very deeply with this. My mind operates in terms of music  - my own moments of emotional elation or frustration can often find resonance deep within a song.  I hate to admit this, but there is a Taylor Swift song for nearly every romantic experience I've had for the last seven years. And it's not as though I listen to her music and think, "Wow! I had better create a moment that mirrors these words!". Infact, it's quite the opposite -- I can listen to a Taylor Swift anthem and realize quite suddenly, "Wow! That reminds me of [insert year] when I fell for [insert name]."

 I'm the kind of person who incorporates music into my everyday.  Frustrations at work? Satiated with one quick text  of "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate!" to a dear friend during my lunch break. (Yeah, super profound, I know!) Heading to New York for vacation? Better make a playlist with only the best songs about The Big Apple. And my desire to visit the East Coast? Further stoked when I heard Barry Manilow sing about those "long, rocky beaches" in the second verse of the ballad, "Weekend In New England".

Powerful, real lyrics get me every time. Perhaps that's why I so dearly love the music of The Great American Songbook. Lyrics by Berlin, Gershwin, Mercer - no matter the decade in which they were penned, these songs speak of timeless themes. Hope and heartache bloom in every life, and in every century, the saltiness of tears remains the same.

It is one of these transcending musical moments which inspired this blog post. Hours ago, I was reading a passage in Summer At Tiffany in which Marjorie is sitting with girlfriends, reflecting on the end of a lukewarm love affair. Her description of the fizzled romance is very similar to the current pieces of my jigsaw-puzzle heart. Something that looked right on paper, but crumpled when held up against the reality of differing expectation. In the book, Marjorie's friends all show their support by singing the chorus of the Gershwin tune, "Let's Call The Whole Thing Off", the lyrics written in the dialogue. And I am not kidding when I say - at that very moment, Harry Connick, Jr's rendition of that same song filtered through my speakers.  I didn't plan it, yet there it was. Harry's 1989 voice, Marjorie's 1945 memory.  Both echoing Gershwin's 1936 lyrics. And both entering my 2015 living room at the exact same time.

It was a moment of clarity. Of reassurance and affirmation. Yes, life will bring moments of decision in which I have to choose to move forward or let things go. And those decisions might hurt for a myriad of reasons. But I'm not the first to make them, nor will I be the last. And whatever feelings  of frustration, guilt,  sadness or confusion  I feel - well I can better my bottom dollar that those same feelings inspired Gershwin to write, just as they inspired Harry to sing.

We are not alone in our toiling or our triumphs. And thank God for the beautiful music that reminds  us of this connectedness. Otherwise this messy business of living would be a rather quiet one. 

Beauty and the Blind

"Blindness isn't sexy."

This was the answer given to an organization for which I volunteer when it was asked, “Why is it so difficult to raise funds for the visually impaired community?” Of course, this reasoning was delivered in a joking  tone, but there is truth in its message.  Blindness isn’t sexy.

People with deep pocketbooks support causes that are popular in mainstream American culture. Causes that resonate with the majority society, and that are seen as en vogue.  Causes that are sexy, hot, and now! Causes that inspire Change.org  petitions and dominate Huffington Post headlines. Blindness, to my knowledge, has never fallen into any of these categories. Having been legally blind my entire life, I can assure you that blindness is not only considered “unsexy”, but downright strange.

Now, I’m not writing this post as a plea for financial donations to my favorite, local visually impaired organization. Rather, I’d like to use this space as a discussion of that word “Sexy”. Because even though it was used as a metaphor for cultural popularity, there is truth, that the physical representation of blindness is everything but sexy.  A few weeks ago, I had a conversation about this topic with a very dear friend who is totally blind.

“Blindness just isn’t the prettiest disorder,” she said. “People don’t know a lot about it, so it’s scary. You have this long, white cane that you’re constantly swinging in front of you. You sometimes run into things, and bump into people.  And some blind people don’t dress well, because they’ve been taught that if they can’t see, it doesn’t matter. So, sighted people have this idea that we’re all incompetent, awkward, poorly dressed individuals who just shuffle through life.”

How true this is. I use my cane every day, and the stares, comments and general attitude of repulsion that I receive from complete strangers is shocking, even though I am well-acquainted with the experience. And, the worst part of it is, because I am not totally blind, I can see (somewhat) when these people stare at my cane. I can hear their audible gasps and speculating whispers. I’ve watched as they cross the street, mid-block so that they can avoid the potential accident of my running into them. Just because we’re sharing the same bit of sidewalk.  Once, when I was out with my parents, a matronly woman was gawking so intently at my cane, that my father, in one of his proudest daughter-defending  moments, challenged the stranger.  “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer!”  Sometimes, I feel like  a leper. Someone to be shunned, stared at, hidden away and avoided at all costs.

Which is why, in these moments, I have to ask myself,  “What would Audrey do?” and then proceed accordingly. My favorite little black dress, and my heart on my sleeve.   

Audrey Hepburn. The epitome of grace, class, elegance and poised sophistication. Men wanted to be with her, and women wanted to be her. On-screen, she was everyone’s darling, and even though Hepburn never thought herself to be attractive, she was aware of this magnetism. She once said of her subdued sexuality, "I know I have more sex appeal on the tip of my nose than many women in their entire bodies. It doesn't stand out a mile, but it's there."  Hepburn’s delicate physicality carried her through every scripted scene, and her doe-like eyes conveyed both feminine fragility and fierce tenacity, depending on what was needed in a role.

And, once, she played a blind woman.

 Audrey Hepburn’s turn as the terrorized, recently blinded Suzy Hendrix, in 1967’s Wait Until Dark is a remarkable performance. Without giving too much of the film’s premise away, Hepburn’s blindness plays a pivotal role in the trajectory of the plot, and is used against her by the murderous and revenge- seeking thugs who invade her New York City apartment.

 It’s a nail-biter of a film, and as a young, legally blind woman watching my idol portray a disability, I cheer in her moments of triumph, and deeply resonate with her frustration, when she desperately exclaims, “Do I have to be the world champion blind lady?”

This question is a choice that Audrey’s character makes in the film, and it is one that I think about every day.

How will I be a champion blind lady, today? I select today’s vintage-inspired dress  -- one of the many Audrey-worthy frocks  that I own.  How will I be gracious and generous to the inevitable and inappropriate questioning from perfect strangers? How can I explain to them that I would rather they know my name, instead of my medical history?  I determine today’s lipstick color (“Bombshell  Red”, or “Cherries In Winter”?), and spritz this week’s perfume-of-choice.  How will I work to better the perception of blindness to the strangers that I meet? I slip my feet into my heels, and my cane into my hand.  I weigh these choices in every step to the bus.  

The decision to be gracious and generous and warm is not always easy. It’s not easy when, in pitying tones, strangers offer prayers for complete, physical healing. It’s not easy when a sixty-something  fellow-bus-traveler suggests,  in a lecherous tone, that my lack of vision would have benefits because, “You probably can’t tell how old I am.” And it’s a downright impossible decision when a smart-punk kid nearly shouts to his girlfriend, “So, you think that bitch is really blind?”

And that was all within the last week.  

But I hope for the best. I hope that maybe that, through miraculous means, these strangers will remember not just my cane, but rather take note of the fact that my handbag and my shoes were meticulously coordinated. Or, perhaps they will remember that  I carried myself with a confidence that contradicts their ideas about disability.  And maybe those brief moments will change how they treat the next person they meet, and they change their conversations about normality, and little, by little, change a generation’s ideas of what it means to have a disability. To be blind. To be different. To be sexy. To be successful.

 Though she is often falsely credited as the author of  the following quote, Audrey Hepburn cited this as a favorite of hers, and it is an appropriate beauty tip for us all.

 “For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.”  --  Sam Levenson

Let Me Fill Up Your Glass... (Introductions and Stuff)

I've been thinking about blogging for a long time. I have been thinking about it, and talking about it, and thinking about it some more, and talking about it some more, and thinking, and talking; and talking and thinking.....and yet, never managing to actually sit down and write.

I think that's the biggest obstacle for me as a writer -- do I dare to add my drop of creativity to an ocean of internet that is already deep with insight and inspiration?  Will it matter, or will it just add to the cacophony of noise that begs for attention with every click of the mouse, every scroll of the newsfeed, every clever hashtag, every perfectly filtered photo?

I assume that these are questions with which anyone with creative leanings would struggle. Do I matter? Does my talent have worth? Will they care? But I have realized today, that in my life,  I have allowed these questions to translate to apathy. I can't stand for it any longer.

This afternoon, I had a leisurely lunch with a former teacher, Maria. It has been almost eleven years since I walked into her classroom for the first time, and it was so lovely to see her today. Even though our connectivity has been limited throughout the years, Maria's impact on my life is deep and fruitful. It was in numerous after-class conversations with her that I developed my affinity for modern political issues. I dare to assert that these conversations began to lay the foundation for my current graduate student status as an aspiring, macro-practice social worker.

As we spoke of all things new and nostalgic, Maria mentioned the award that I received seven years ago, when I was a senior at RHS. The award was one that spoke of my academic achievement, as well as my strong-willed perseverance in the face of physical disabilities.

"Didn't your informational plaque say something like, 'When life gives you lemons, make pink lemonade.'?" Maria asked as we both cut into our identical brunch of steak and eggs. "Because whenever I see any kind of pink lemonade, I always think of you, and that award."

"Well, thank you!" I smiled at her compliment. "Yeah, some day, I will write a memoir of my life, of what it's like to have Cerebral Palsy and be legally blind, and I am going to call the book 'Pink Lemonade'."

"It's such powerful imagery," she commented. "And, I will be honest, I hate the taste of pink lemonade, but, still, it always reminds me of you, and your positive outlook on life."

I was incredibly touched that she would remember that image, after all of these years. And it was that moment that I realized that I need to write this blog.

I'm not sure of the exact direction that this blog will take, but I am convince of the power of story, and its ability to create human connection. I am a twenty-something graduate student who is legally blind, has Cerebral Palsy, and who can't get enough of my cat, or Cary Grant films. I am a writer, a romantic, a dreamer, and a believer in all good things. I hope that my stories in this blog -- stories of trial and triumph, stories of humor and heartache, stories of transportation troubles and blindness-related blunders -- will bring a little sweetness to the daily business we call living.

So, join me, won't you? Sit a spell, and sip on some pink lemonade.