Where do you think you're going with my daughter?

Chula Vista - H st. Trolley Station:

Ripples of heat squirmed skyward off of the rust colored trolley tracks.  The white and gray gravel surrounding the tracks glared their distain of having to bear the unrelenting rays of midday sun.  The old gum spotting the concrete where the sparse crowd of waiting passengers stood waiting for the trolley was beginning to reconstitute and bubble up, resembling the simmering yoke of an egg being fried sunny side up.

Summer school for an 8th grader is a mixture of boredom and babysitting.  They all wish that they weren't there, but the ever-present knowledge that they aren't old enough to be free to run-a-muck the way they wish hangs over them like a dark rain cloud about to burst.  So, the summer school campus turns into a pressure cooker of hormones, pent up aggression, dramatic relationships, and sweat running down backs, soaking the waistbands of underwear, which was still purchased for them by their moms. 

Sandy was a rail thin, blond, pale white/red sunburned, visually impaired 8th grader.  Let me repeat: Sandy is Caucasian.  Everybody knew it and acknowledged it, everybody but Sandy.  Sandy had grown up in South Chula Vista her whole short life, so as far as she was concerned: she was mostly black, with a bit of Chicana mixed in for good measure.  This confusion had nothing to do with her visual impairment; she could see, just not well enough to not need to use a cane.  But, she could use a mirror.  The only issue was that the image she saw in the mirror did not match the image in her head.  

Sandy had a smart mouth.  It had a way of combining three to four MTV and BET quotes into a string of head-wagging-finger-snapping-hip-swishing insults when she was feeling sullen.  Rarely was she made to pay for these indiscretions, but there had been times in the past that fists and feet had caught up with her.  Yet, Sandy was determined to stay the course, hoping to sass her way to darker skin.

My time with Sandy was spent convincing her that using her cane on and off campus was imperative for her safety.  Surprisingly she bought into the program very quickly.  Her fast progression found us moving through street crossings, mall travel skills, and on to mass transit within a few weeks.  This was what brought us to the H st. trolley station, on an oppressively hot afternoon.

Along with a ice cream bar, Sandy had bought a new pair of sunglasses that day to cut down the glare (which allows her to get the most out of her functioning vision) and also because "these look hot on me", her words not mine.  She loved making me roll my eyes; it always garnered a head tossed back giggle.  


I was also wearing my sunglasses as I provided her with an overview of the trolley stop: the entrance, the ticket machines, the jack to plug in her head phones to get ticket machine instructions, the Braille signs, the yellow bumped tactile indicator that tells you that you are about to walk off the platform onto the tracks, etc.

There are specific cane techniques for everything that a person who is blind or visually impaired does during their day.  From crossing streets to going up and down stairs; there is a technique for every single activity of daily living.  As an instructor I have to know them all and be able to teach them all.  The only way to learn them all is to do them all…blind.  This means that my training and certification involved donning a blindfold and performing all the techniques that I teach while my classmates practiced their teaching skills.  So, Orientation and Mobility Specialists (The technical name of my career) are like the Ninjas of the rehabilitation/special education community.  But I digress.

Because Sandy had enough functional vision to see my cane and my movements I took advantage of this blessing by simply "showing" her the correct techniques.  This means that I had my cane out and I performed the techniques the way I wanted her to and she copied me.  She was (and is) very bright and picked up the techniques very quickly. 

As we stood under the awning taking a break from training and from the sun an old rust-patched brown sedan rattled to a stop next to the curb in front of us.  The engine remained running as the driver exited the car and walked around the front of the car to open the passenger side of the vehicle. "Is he here to pick somebody up?" I asked myself.  We were standing next to the ticket machine, so as he walked toward us it was also possible that he was going to buy a ticket before getting his bags out of his car.  These questions were answered in five dirty once-white sneaker steps, which placed the driver in front of my student and me.

"Where do you think you're going with my daughter?" spewed out of his sun cracked lips.  "Excuse me?" I said, "This is not you're daughter, trust me".  This was when I noticed this man was not looking at me as he spoke or as I spoke to him.  His brown tightly curled locks dripped in front of a pair of closely set brown eyes that were focused wolf-like on Sandy.

"You need to be very careful of the words coming out of your mouth…You! (referring to Sandy) get in the car NOW! I don't know why you're with this guy but we're leaving now!"  Sandy laughed!  She turned and looked up at me; I had side stepped next to her, her devilishly smiling face now peaking out from behind my shoulder. 

The switch had been flipped.  My soul focus was now student safety.  Nothing else mattered.  Adrenal glands activated, the familiar metallic taste flooded my mouth.  I controlled it with my breathing.  Muscled tensed, then relaxed, responding to years of training and application in jobs performed for many years that were not in my current field of employment.  I was back in my element.  My essence was activated.

"Sir! You need to return to your vehicle! This is not your daughter; I know her father and you aren't him! Please return to you're vehicle! This is MY student and she is NOT leaving with you! Return to you're vehicle!"  He stared at me, jaw slightly slacked open; you could almost hear his brain attempting to work.  He then showed his level of mental disturbance (I state this as a saddening fact, not as slander or an insult) by giving his delusion one more try, though this time it was laced with a quiver of unsure, fearful aggression. "You better f***ing wwwwatch the wwwwwords yyyyouuuu're sssssayyying…" he squeaked.  His eyes still fixed on the now bristling blond clutching her cane handle up near her chin, like a unwilling participant at a karaoke bar, strangling a microphone, on a packed Friday night, more angry than embarrassed.

"Sir! There is one problem!  I'M NOT BLIND!" I said sternly as I whipped off my sunglasses and stared him in the eyes for the first time during this whole exchange that has lasted no more than 30 – 40 seconds. 

I may see a more surprised face someday: The face of a new graduate being presented with a new car wrapped in a huge bow, a family being surprised by a healthy military husband or wife coming home a week early from deployment, a child getting the exact remote controlled off-road dirt buggy they'd been wanting on Christmas morning.  Until I experience one of these, his face will more than suffice.

The bottoms of his sneakers had a blue design on them, swirling from the heal to the toe. The back of his jacket was sweat stained and had the heavily pressed horizontal folds that accompany long hours of sitting in a car seat in hot weather.  I had to make these observations quickly due to his rapid retreat away from what he either thought would be an easy score, taking a blind girl from a blind guy, or from a illness induced hallucination. 

The rear license plate was mangled, rusted out, and dangling from one screw, so a partial plate number was all I collect for reporting purposes, but my objective was met: Protect the Student.  Parents give me their children each day to take out into the world to teach them the bad business of going into harms way and coming back home each day exactly the way they left, preferably with a bit more knowledge and confidence.  They entrust me with their most prized accomplishment, of who has been raised with the knowledge that they are more vulnerable than their contemporaries.  I teach them to adapt and overcome, to succeed at all costs, to acclimate, to assimilate, to contribute, and to survive in environments that were not designed to extenuate their strengths.  I make them chose on their first day of training with me "You can either be trained or maintained! Which will it be!?". They chose to be trained.  My job is to make myself obsolete.  My job is to fade away until they don't notice that I'm gone.  I strive to be unnecessary. 

Sandy was doubled over laughing as I turned to look at her.  "That guy was crazy!  You would have smashed him huh?!?! If he'd come one step closer huh?!?!! Oh, man!  That would have been awesome!!!" she shouted joyfully.  "Too much paperwork kid…not worth the paperwork" I said.  "So, what you have done if I hadn't been here?" I asked.  "Uhhh, I don't know…dang…I have no idea." She sputtered.

The trolley lesson was over.  But, the self-defense lesson to follow had just begun.

"As-Salamu Alaykum...thank you" Alekum As-Salam

San Diego: Blue Line Trolley - South Bound

His recently shinned second-hand shoes looked to be a half size too big.  He had his legs sagging between the two maroon colored vinyl bench seats.  His knees hung on the brink of hyperextension in the way that only the knees of someone in a deep sleep could sustain.  His forehead pressed against the tinted trolley window, leaving a slight smug of forehead-grease which mixed with bright morning sunlight to make dimly glowing rainbow.  The heal and fleshy palm of his right hand created a cup that his right cheek and chin rested in.  His fingers fanned out across his face.  His ring finger bridging from the bridge of his nose and poking himself in the left eye.  He took deep & heavy slumber filled breaths that made is chest fall twice as fast as it rose.  His sweat pants were also a size to big and the legs drooped low from his thighs, low enough that they draped on the top of his blue lunch cooler, which sat on the floor beneath his seat.  His checkered work shirt went with neither his pants nor his shoes, but it was clean and had sharp pressed collars.

I was returning from a morning cappuccino and tiramisu at Caffe Italia, as well as a stop into Nelson's Photo Supplies to pickup a camera bag I had finally convinced myself that I needed.  Even though is was still early April it was warm enough that the air conditioning was pumping as I stepped onto the trolley. 

As I sat down, the legs connected to the pair of recently shinned second-hand shoes propped next to me quickly sprung awake and helped the body they were connected to right itself in its seat.  "Keep'um up there, I got plenty of room", I said.  "No, no...sorry sorry", he said in a thick, but not difficult to understand, Middle Eastern accent .  His green eyes made contact with mind then shifted down slightly.  Noticing his lunch cooler I said "Just getting off work?".  "No, coming back from an interview" he said.  "How'd it go?" I asked.  "I didn't get it...they said I need to have a car to get there because the shift starts very late" he said.  "Ahhh...I'm so tired.  I haven't slept well in three days" he said as he stretched his arms out to the side slightly and folded his shoulders forward, bringing his hands up to his face, yawning and rubbing his stubbled cheeks and chin.  "Do you live around here?" I asked as we had the turn East onto 'C' Street.  "Yes, yes" he said calmly, "I am homeless, I live in front of the library.  Do you know where the library is?  That is my home".  He laughed lightly.  It was a laugh that said "Can you believe that? I live at the library?!?"  It was the kind of laugh a friend would unknowingly and unwillingly let fly after telling you their wife was leaving them; for their sister.  It was a "Can you believe this shit..." kind of laugh.   

I'm not sure if it was for him or me, but I switched over to my rehabilitation counseling mode of speak, "Good services there, right?  That location is well served by social services, right?  I've seen them there a lot".  "Oh, yes...they come everyday and every night!  They bring us food, clothes (motioning to his donated wardrobe), and help us very much!" he said excitedly, a broad smile spreading across his face as he sat up straight in his seat.  He reached into his front shirt pocket.  My mind flashed: "Cigarettes?!...really man?...you're sleeping in front of the library and you're wasting money on smokes!?" but, to my surprise he pulled out a cell phone!  I smiled and said "Did they help you get a phone?" "Oh, yes!" he said proudly. "You must have a phone to get a job...to put down on the application!" It was at this moment that I realized this man wanted to put in the work to get back on his feet.  "Wow", I said, "that's smart."  "Yes", he said, "It is a must!".

"Man, that's rough...but I'm glad you're getting good servics" I said.  I'm not sure how many times I said the word 'services' during this portion of our conversation, but in retrospect I think I was trying to throw him verbal life-preservers, like you'd throw to person who had fallen off a ship into a dark, cold ocean.  I wanted to make life safe for him by talking myself into believing that because someone with a name-tag came by once a day to check on the group in front of the library that life was going to be ok for this man.  I changed the subject, "What is your first language?", I asked.  "Farsi, I am from Afghanistan" he said without a hint of shame.  He continued, "My father was a General in the Afghan Army, but he was shot through the cheek (he pointed to his chest)...or chest?  Then things got very bad for us."  "How long have you been in the US?" I asked. "That was...ummm, 15 years ago that I came to this country with my brother.  But, then I did a bad thing.  I broke a law and made to go to jail.  It was stupid and bad.  But...", "But, you're getting back on track now", I interrupted. Our eyes locked as I said this.  He was searching my eyes, my face for something.  He found what he was searching for quickly, we were at that moment two men talking as we traveled our morning routes.  He was on his way home just as I was.  He saw how I saw him: as a man trying to find his way in the world, no different than myself.  His face relaxed and sitting back in his seat he said softly, but with a crackle of hopeful energy, "Yes...yes. I am trying.  God willing, I am trying".  

"NEXT STOP: 5TH AVENUE! 5TH AVENUE IS NEXT!" said the computerized female announcer.  My seat partner rose slowly, picking up his blue lunch cooler.  "This is my stop" he said.  "It was good talking to you my friend" I said as I reached my hand out to him.  He looked at my hand for a split second, then took it in his as he allowed himself to look me in the eyes one last time, this time with the first trace of shyness I had seen during our time together.  I held his gaze as I said "As-Salamu Alaykum".  His shyness evaporated as he gripped my hand tighter, bowed his head toward me slightly and said in a respectfully surprised tone, "Alekum As-Salam...thank you", and stepped down the 3 steps out of the trolley and into a flood of sunlight, heat, and reality.