Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [67]
Not long ago, I was in line to go through security at the airport in Oakland, California. As soon as I got in line, another passenger said, “We’re going to lift the rope and let you go up to the front of the line.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I said.
“Well, it’s going to be easier for you.”
“What could be easier than standing in line? I do it every week. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, it’s easier on your dog.”
“No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
As we inched forward, three other people tried to move me up to the front of the line. They were insistent, and before long they became so angry when I chose to stay in place that I was convinced we might come to fisticuffs.
I know they had the best of intentions. I know they were only trying to help. But I didn’t need to go to the front of the line just because I am blind. I want to stand in line. I want to move forward like everyone else. I don’t want to be set apart. I want to interact with people, talk to people, and be with people.
I look forward to the day that I can go to the airport, stand in line, and not receive grief.
I look forward to the day when I want to cut in line and someone says, “Well, who made you king?”
I look forward to the day when blind people will be treated as equals in society, when we are truly accepted as first-class citizens.
Since 9/11 I’ve been asked to talk about what happened to me that day, and I made the decision to speak about it for three reasons. First, if it would help people better understand blindness and the fact that the handicap is not being blind but rather the attitudes and misconceptions people have about blindness, then it would be worth it.
Second, if it would help people understand how the guide dog relationship works, it would be worth it.
And third, if it would help people move on from 9/11 and discover some of the important lessons to be learned, then it’s worth it.
Several years ago, I flew to New Zealand to tell my story. My second week down there, I spoke to a group of students in South Island who were active in the Royal Foundation of the Blind. After I spoke, one of them shared this story. He and a group of blind friends had recently gone on an adventure expedition. At the end of their trip, they had been sitting around a campfire when their guide got up and said, “I have to tell you a story. Before we left, I was going to call your leaders and tell them the trip was off because I did not think there was any way I could guide a bunch of blind people without someone getting killed. There was no way blind people could do river rafting and rock climbing. But then I watched a television interview of this blind bloke who survived 9/11 and came over here to show us what blind people can do. It changed my mind. I’ve had the best day of my life. I’ll guide you guys anytime.”
If this was the only thing this “blind bloke” ever accomplished by telling my story, it would be worth it. It’s all worth it.
Later that year I spoke at Temple University, and a woman came up to me. She had a friend who perished in the attack on the Pentagon, and she was devastated, stuck, unable to talk about the tragedy. “I have had a hard time dealing with the loss of my best friend,” she said. “But listening to your story and hearing what you learned and how you survived has helped me. You are right. We need to continue to dream, and we need to learn how to work with each other, and I’m going to do it. I can talk about it now, and I’m going to move on.”
We can’t let fear paralyze us. We must carry on. The best way we can honor those we lost in the fires of September 11 is by moving forward and building a better society through trust and teamwork. We can make it happen.
We need to dream, to dare, and to do. I lived a nightmare at Ground Zero, but even a nightmare can turn into a happy ending if we refuse to give in to fear. Out of the ashes and rubble of 9/11, we can create building blocks for the future. Don’t let your sight get in the way of your vision. Join Roselle, Karen, and me. Let