blind

Last summer we took Amtrak from 30th Street Station to D. C. for a mini-vacation. The man in front of us in line stared at us, long and hard, squinting his eyes before he motioned for us to come closer. I don't remember his name, but he was deaf, mute, and almost blind, and he was headed to D.C. for a national Deaf/Blind conference. He drew us a picture showing how excited he was to be riding the "bullet-train" and made the "whooosh!" noise as he did the train-motion with his hand. I felt like crying and wanted to hug him and offer him to join us on the bullet-train. But he couldn't hear me when he turned around.

A few nights ago on the 6 subway uptown there was a blind man in front of me to my left and a homeless man to my right. When I first spotted the white cane I panicked like I always do, looking around to make sure no one gets in his way. There were people rushing in while the automated voice requested "Stand clear of the closing doors, please," and a few bumped into the blind man. I got mad at those idiots who weren't more careful, and sad because there wasn't anything I could do. Then I felt bad because of course these people didn't shove him on purpose. They just really wanted to get on the train to head home from a long day's work.

This especial concern for the blind bothers me. Is it pity or compassion? I dislike pity, a lot. I might even say that I despise it. But compassion is different. I'd like to think of myself as a compassionate person, but who's to say, really? And what do I do with this compassion?

Not much point to this post, but I liked the memory of the bullet-train man. I forget his name, but his face was priceless. Though he was scrunching his face and standing a bit close for comfort, he just wanted to discern who he was sharing the amazing bullet-train experience with. So open with his joy. It was encouraging and humbling.