Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [38]
We made it. We’re out.
I almost can’t believe it.
“Good girl, Roselle. You did a great job.” We’re in the lobby of Tower 1 now, and I take a few moments to rub Roselle’s head and stroke the back of her neck. She rubs her cheeks against my hand then pulls away and shakes, starting with her head. I drop the harness, keeping the leash in my left hand.
“Good girl,” I say again. “Shake it off.” I know what’s coming next. I hear her ears flap back and forth; then, as any good canine shake does, it proceeds down her spine and ripples out her tailbone as she shakes off the water. Fine droplets spray my hands.
“Great job, Roselle. Good dog. Good girl.” I pick up her harness. It’s time to go home.
David approaches. “Let’s go,” he says. The lobby is in chaos, with people everywhere walking and running across the wet tile floor. It’s a war zone. Ankle-deep water is full of debris, including ceiling tiles, building materials, and paper. Emergency workers are shouting, directing people towards the doors. Voices are anxious, strained, tight. A man approaches and identifies himself as FBI.
“Come this way,” he orders.
“Where do you want us to go?”
He directs us toward the revolving doors to the underground central shopping arcade.
“Thank you,” I call back as we walk away. “I appreciate your help.” In the middle of a little piece of hell on earth, when all of his instincts must be screaming at him to leave, get out, run away and don’t dare look back, this man stays put and offers his help. He is but one of many.
When I escaped Tower 1 that day, I had no idea it would be the last time I ever set foot inside the building. It’s funny; when I talk about my 9/11 experiences today, people sometimes assume that I was there visiting, perhaps as a tourist. “What were you doing up on the 78th floor?” they ask. I can detect a faint sense of surprise when they begin to understand I was at work that day, just like thousands of other people.
But sometimes, when I think about it, I am surprised too. The unemployment rate for blind people is staggering, somewhere near 70 percent of employable blind people, according to the Social Security Administration. The reason that many of the blind unemployed cannot find jobs is that they have faced outright rejection because they are blind or because they have been discouraged by the fruitlessness of their attempts to find a job.
I understand. I once had a job interview scheduled in San Jose, California, for a company that was producing new voice technology products. The night before I was to fly upstate, the headhunter doing the coordination called. “I notice that you’ve worked with several blindness-oriented organizations like the National Federation of the Blind,” he said.
“Yes, that’s correct.” I knew where this was leading.
“Is someone in your family blind?”
“No. I am blind.”
Early the next morning, the interview was canceled.
My friend Dr. James Nyman, a former director of Nebraska Services for the Blind, faced a similar scenario when he first started out in the job market, seeking employment as a college teacher. He recalled “at least two rejection letters that flatly stated that a blind person could not manage the responsibilities of a faculty member.” He believes attitudes have improved over the years, but the prejudice is still there, just under cover. “We are not likely to encounter such open declarations in today’s atmosphere of social consciousness, but the more subtle forms are probably more difficult to combat,” he said.1
Blind people face unnecessary barriers, and we can do far more than people think. But I have also learned that instead of thinking of blindness as a disability or a limitation, I can view it as a help. In fact, in my sales career my blindness became one heck of an asset.
First, I don’t think of myself as “blind Michael Hingson.” There are other descriptors that rank much higher. I am also a husband, friend, son, brother, cousin, dog owner, sales manager,