In the olden days, and who knows why I recall the olden days, there was something called SuperShuttle. The outfit serviced several airports around the country. Vans from home to airport, that was their thing. It was some moment when I had arrived in San Francisco, perhaps flying home from an annual Robert Bly gathering in Minnesota, when I waited, as always, some extraordinary length of time for my ride on, you guessed it, SuperShuttle. The company operated roughly 100 vans around the greater San Francisco and Oakland and San Jose airport areas. But there were only about three vans that had a ramp for a wheelchair. So no matter how far in advance one reserved a trip, there was almost always a delay. Depending on luck, the accessible van might be heading back to SFO from, say, Concord, one hour east without traffic.
The thing is, I really can’t recall when this occurred. But it was at least 10 years ago, probably more, like 15 or even 20. And my wheelchair-equipped van had finally arrived, I had rolled on board, and the driver set off for the suburbs where I had long lived. He was in a big hurry. This was understandable, because these vans were always late. And people weren’t stupid. All they had to do was to cooperate a bit, share a taxi, and get wherever they were going faster, and probably at the same price. Anyway, the driver had strapped down my wheelchair, jumped in his seat, and I began to complain. Part of locking down a wheelchair passenger in that sort of van involves making sure he has a seatbelt. I didn’t. He began driving, and I began to yell. The man, a fairly young guy with an eastern European accent, threatened to throw me out of the van. I mean this. “I’ll drop you off right here,” he said, as we passed an island between several roads, the freeway just a few feet ahead. I got out my cell phone and began to call the company. He pulled over, attached the seatbelt, and we continued.
Why I remember this, well that’s the thing. I suppose that there are certain small events that people never quite let go of. And one of the chief attributes of disability, and in fact, all of life’s most draining moments, is that there is so little control. And so much humiliation. And while as I write this, I seem to have all sorts of perspective, it is also clear that I don’t. I can’t forget. Can’t forgive. Can’t let go. And here we are. Today, incidentally, to get to San Francisco Airport, I roll out the door and down the hill to our local subway (BART) station. BART goes right to SFO.
So it’s not so much an event that begins this blog, more an attitude. Why do we hold onto things? Is there some constructive purpose here? How can we let go of them? Is there some constructive purpose there? Maybe. With so little control, one needs acceptance. Everyone does. And that’s why I hold onto these things. To remember how it felt. And to try to adjust.
The trip with the airport van didn’t feel good. But now it’s past. And now what’s present is December, the end of 2021, a year no one liked and no one will forget. By the way, I mark this milestone with a bit of apparent good news. I’ve had my booster shot, Moderna, and this means I am armed for viral war. COVID-19 cannot get a hold in me at least, not for easily. Or so someone at the New York Times believes. I don’t really believe it myself.
Tomorrow I am going down to the Mission District to have lunch with a friend at a place that has a minimal outdoor seating area. And let me point out that it was 49° in San Francisco today. 10 Celsius. I don’t care. I may not be the extroverted life of the party. But I do enjoy human company. And I need to see my friend Stephen, currently rocketing from Trader Joe’s to the Washington DC opera. Jane and I plan to rocket with him when his opera opens there in May. Stay tuned.