Haben Page 13

“I can get someone to read the menu to you,” he offers.

  “It’s really hard to hear people in the cafeteria. When you email the menu, though, I can read it on my computer. Then I know exactly what each station is serving.”

  “We’re all really busy here. We have hundreds of students. You can ask one of us to read the menu to you and we’d be happy to do that.”

  My frustration squeezes the air out of my lungs. “That’s the thing—I can’t hear people reading the menu. I’m Deaf. That’s why I’m asking you to email me the menu.”

  “I’ll talk to them.” Claude starts walking out the door. “I need to get back to work.” With that, he dismisses me.

  When Gordon and I exit the building, a torrential rain pummels us.

  I pull out an umbrella and hold it out to Gordon. “You should hold this since you’re taller.” He lifts it over the two of us, and we walk under the shelter through the pouring rain. “So, what do you think?” I ask.

  “He was being a complete jerk.”

  Wind blows the rain at an angle, making our umbrella nearly useless. I pull my coat tighter around me. “He was nice the first time I talked to him, but now…”

  “I hate the Bon. You’re forced to pay for a meal plan if you live in the dorms, so even if you don’t eat at the Bon you’re still paying for it. And when you do eat there, it’s crowded and they run out of food. The whole operation sucks.”

  “I don’t like cooking, but I’d rather cook than eat at the Bon. I’m moving off campus as soon as they let me. I think the rule is that students have to live on campus for two years.”

  “I’d rather live off campus, too.”

  I tap the stairs with my cane as we begin our descent. “Remember when I challenged you and Justin to close your eyes and go down these stairs using a cane?”

  “Justin was surprisingly good at it. You could sort of feel the tone of the different vibrations to sense what was around you.”

  “Mhm. That was fun.”

  Gordon stops in front of the library. “What are you going to do?”

  I breathe a deep sigh, overwhelmed by it all. “I have two papers to write and an exam to study for. I shouldn’t have to worry about my next meal.” I tug on the umbrella. “I need to get to class. Thanks for going with me to Claude’s office.”

  “Of course. You shouldn’t have to deal with the Bon alone.” He returns my umbrella, but it’s his words—those precious words of solidarity—that shield me from the worst of the weather. Pulling myself away from the library, I trudge down the road to class in my rain-drenched shoes.

  Maybe I should just accept inferior service at the cafeteria. At least I have food. Around the world, millions of people struggle for food. When my mother was my age, she was a refugee in Sudan. Meanwhile, here I am attending an awesome American college with a full-tuition scholarship. Who am I to complain? Blind students at other colleges struggle to get access to course materials. By contrast, Lewis & Clark is doing a stellar job providing me all my course materials in braille. Claude’s actions seem to say, “Go away, stop complaining, and be more appreciative of what you already have.” Maybe he’s right—maybe I should just be grateful.

  That evening, the Bon doesn’t email me a menu for dinner. Nor do they send a breakfast menu the following morning.

  “Did they send you a lunch menu?” Gordon asks. We’re in the Akin study room working on homework.

  “Yeah, they sent the lunch menu.” I raise my eyebrows. “After lunch.”

  “Wait, what? They sent you the lunch menu after lunch was over?”

  I nod.

  “Good God! It’s 2007, sending emails is the easiest thing in the world. They’re just being lazy.”

  “I’ve spent time in villages with limited resources. If I actually had to live with restricted access to food, I could. But the Bon has resources.”

  “This has to stop. Tell me how I can help.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I think I’ll email Claude and ask why the menus are so sporadic.”

  “Good. See what he says.”

  The menu situation continues through the weekend. On Monday, Claude finally sends me a response. Gordon and I meet up at the library’s assistive technology room that afternoon, and I show him the email:

  Hi Haben,

  I was not in the office before lunch, but I did get back after 3:00 and checked my email. It is likely what happened this time (and possibly in the past) is that even though our supervisor took the time to generate the email, they did not hit the send/receive button, so it sat in the outbox until I got back to check for new mail. I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience, it doesn’t make much sense to take the time to type them up and not send them, I completely agree, so something must have come up.

  We hope that you understand that this is something that we are trying to help you with, but you also need to understand that this is a service that we are not contracted to provide, and that unlike the college, we do not have people on staff to assist students with special needs. We will continue to do our best to help you, but it is not reasonable to have an expectation of us that we are not required to do (we never expressed that we could, or would, commit to this), and it is also unreasonable to expect that this assistance will come seamlessly. There will be meals that are missed, and there will be times that emails will arrive late. We are just not set up with the support staff to assist you personally in this matter—we work hard to meet the needs of over 1,000 students for every meal, so we hope you understand that we have a variety of concerns to address every service, and whenever possible we are giving you all of the help we can.

  In speaking with several people associated with the college, we understand that this is frustrating for you, but we continue to recommend that you find someone at the school who can find you a regular and permanent solution.

  Best,

  Claude

  “I can’t stand that guy!” Gordon glances at the computer screen again. “He thinks the college has some magical disability solution so that he doesn’t have to think about people’s disabilities. He’s the one with access to the menu, not Student Support Services.”

  “And Student Support Services told him to send me the menus, too. Dale even offered to braille them, but to do that she needs the Bon to send her the menus. I’m wondering…” I pause to collect my thoughts. “In the first part of the email he mentions typing. The menus are print-outs pinned to the wall by the door, right?”

  “Exactly. It looks like they just type the menus in Microsoft Word, print them out, and then hang them on the wall. There should be no reason for them to type the menu a second time. All they’d have to do is copy the text from the file and paste it into an email—and then actually hit send.”

  “Right.” I half smile at that. “It’s funny: the guy sends me an email saying he’s not equipped to send emails!” I shake my head. “Lots of places are like this, refusing to accommodate people with disabilities because they don’t want to think about disability. They treat serving people with disabilities as optional, charity work. They assume that only disability specialists can work with our ‘special needs.’ That term is so demeaning. The need to eat is a universal need, not a ‘special’ need.”

  “Aren’t they required by law to serve students with disabilities?”

  “I need to read up on the Americans with Disabilities Act. Can I have my computer back?” Gordon rolls his chair back over to his laptop, and I scoot my chair up to my computer. Over the next hour, I immerse myself in the details of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). There are parts that are reassuring, and there are parts that are confusing. I begin drafting a response to Claude:

  Hi Claude,

  Bon Appetit has a legal obligation, under the Americans with Disabilities Act, to provide people with disabilities access to its services.

  I have been asking Bon Appetit to make the menus accessible because I’m Deafblind and can’t read the print menu or hear someone reading
the menu in the noisy cafeteria. My computer has software that converts text on the screen to digital braille, so I would be able to access the menus if Bon Appetit emailed them to me.

  Please understand that I’m not asking for a favor, I’m asking Bon Appetit to comply with the law. Under Title III of the ADA, places of public accommodation, like Bon Appetit, are prohibited from discriminating against people with disabilities. If Bon Appetit continues to deny me access, I’m going to take legal action.

  Will Bon Appetit commit to making the menus accessible, consistently and professionally?

  Sincerely,

  Haben

  After reviewing the email, I look up the email addresses for Bon Appetit’s senior management. I type these addresses into the cc field. I also include the Dean of Student Life, and Dale from Student Support Services. I review the email one more time. Satisfied, I hit send.

  Wait. How would I file a lawsuit? I don’t know any disability rights lawyers. I can’t even afford a lawyer. New questions begin kicking up doubt. How long do I wait for him to respond? If he agrees, how will I know if he really means it?

  This is actually the perfect place to strike out into the unknown. Lewis & Clark College celebrates the history of America’s pioneers—the college has a centrally located statue of Sacagawea, the Native American woman who served as an interpreter for the explorers Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. The college football team is called the Pioneers. The college newspaper is the Pioneer Log. The college shuttle is the Pioneer Express. The shuttle’s destination? Pioneer Square.

  The college’s pioneer pride strengthens my commitment to my efforts. Everyone I’ve talked to at the college, from Student Support Services to the Assistant Dean of Student Life, has asked Bon Appetit to make the menus accessible. I don’t know exactly how I’ll convince Bon Appetit to comply, but I’m determined to try. Sending that email feels like as good a start as any. Besides, learning about the ADA will only benefit me in the long run. The next time I encounter someone unwilling to remove access barriers—and I will—I’ll know what to do.

  At lunch the next day, Gordon and I are sitting at a corner table in the cafeteria. The two walls behind us absorb some of the background noise.

  “Have you heard from Claude?” Gordon asks.

  “Nope. Not a word.” I bite into a cheese and mushroom quesadilla.

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” He takes a bite of his quesadilla. “My mom called this morning. They found a bear in their garage.”

  “What?” I gasp. “Did you say your mom found a bear in the garage?”

  “Yeah, it managed to pull the garage door open and walk inside.”

  I look at him with alarm. “Is your family okay?”

  “Yeah, everyone’s fine. The bear didn’t get into the main part of the house.”

  “Thank God! Wow, I could never live in Alaska. Remind me, what are you supposed to do when you encounter a bear?”

  “The main thing is: don’t run. Never, ever, run from a bear. Oh, here comes Claude.”

  A large man pulls out the chair next to mine. “How are you guys doing?”

  My body tenses with appprehension, and I can barely speak. “Fine. And you?”

  “Good. Listen, I’m really sorry about the menu situation. Let’s start over. I’ve talked to everyone and we’re going to do a better job going forward.”

  Memories of all our past conversations flash through my mind, leaving me with a heavy skepticism. “Will the emails come on time and consistently?”

  “Yes. Everyone in the office understands this is important.”

  I take a deep breath. “Thank you—I appreciate that.” Time will tell if he keeps his promise.

  “Great.” He stands up and puts something on the table. “I brought you guys chocolate chip cookies.”

  My hands stay in my lap. I give him a nod.

  “If you need anything else, just let me know.” He walks away.

  Gordon leans over to me. “Someone must have really kicked his butt.”

  “Maybe, but how do we know if he really means it?” I pull one of the cookies toward me. “Do you think it’s an olive branch or a hush cookie?”

  “Haben!”

  I laugh, releasing some of the tension. “I’m trying to figure out if I should eat it.” The large, plastic-wrapped cookie feels soft and warm, like it recently came out of an oven. I turn it over in my hands, wondering what I should do. Unwrapping the cookie releases the mouthwatering smell of warm chocolate. “I’ll give him another chance. See what happens.”

  A year later, the Bon feels different. Claude kept his promise, and the staff now provide accessible menus. Access to the menus reduces the stress of stepping into the cacophonous cafeteria. Eating vegetarian is much easier. Framing the access barrier as a civil rights issue rather than an act of charity helped shift the culture in the cafeteria.

  The menu said station two has cheese tortellini, so I walk straight there. “Cheese tortellini,” I tell the server when I reach the counter. The server places a plate on my tray. “Thank you.”

  The tables along the wall are quietest, so I head there. As I approach the tables, I slow down, squinting at each table to see if any are empty. I reach the last table, which is also occupied.

  A young woman stops next to me. “Are you looking for your friend?”

  I stare at her in confusion. “Yeah…”

  The woman starts walking, and I follow her. She stops by the second table along the wall. “Here he is!”

  When I walk up to the person at the table, I spot a long white cane next to him.

  “Hi, Bill!”

  “Hey, Haben.” Bill is a first-year student from New Mexico who is also blind. People here talk loudly to him, so he keeps trying to explain that he’s not me.

  I thank the woman as she walks away. Then I settle into a chair. “So! I was just walking around looking for a table. This student comes up and goes, ‘Are you looking for your friend?’”

  “And she brought you to me?”

  “Yes!”

  “Because all blind people must be friends, right?”

  “Apparently!” Laughing, I plunge a fork into the source of the tantalizing aroma of hot cheesy pasta. “Hey Bill, does the Bon email you menus?”

  “Yes, actually—it’s been really helpful.”

  “Just curious. You’re hearing, so couldn’t you hear someone reading the menu to you?”

  “Sometimes. The cafeteria is really loud and it’s hard to hear people, even for me, so the emails help a lot.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize it was hard for hearing people in here, too. I’m glad they’re sending you the menus.”

  Bill’s answer produces a stunning realization. My advocacy affects our entire community. The changes I worked for create greater access for me and for future blind students at Lewis & Clark. I remember wondering if my access to the menus was really worth all the time and energy needed to achieve that access. For a while I thought maybe I had to just tolerate the situation. Running away from a problem doesn’t make it go away, though. Run from a bear and it chases you. That problem might have followed me through all four years of college if I hadn’t stood my ground.

  After talking to Bill, I start poking around online, looking up law schools all across the country. Just out of curiosity.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alaska Gives Me the

  Cold, Harsh Truth

  Juneau, Alaska. Summer 2008.

  “We shouldn’t have hired you.” The manager’s words send a bucket of glacier water dripping down my back.

  I flew to Juneau, Alaska—right after my second year of college—thinking I had this cool job leading tours of the Capitol Building. The recruiters knew about my deafness, and we agreed I would receive questions and comments during the tours through my assistive technology. They knew about my racial status—I checked the box for African American on the application. There was just one thing they didn’t know until I arrived at t
he Capitol. When I walked in for orientation this morning, the manager pulled me aside.

  The manager’s cramped office feels suffocating. We sit across from each other with our knees almost touching. My back straightens as I prepare to speak. “Are you telling me to leave because I’m blind?”

  “No. It’s because you’re from California. These jobs are supposed to go to Alaskan residents.”

  My stomach drops. I sit there, speechless, until the shock shifts to injustice. “The paperwork showed that I’m from California. We even did the interview over the phone because I don’t live here. You’ve known that for weeks. Why did you hire me if the position was only for Alaskans?”

  “We made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  Outside, a light rain drizzles over Juneau. The cold seeps through my coat, feeding the fear rising in the pit of my stomach. No one will hire me.

  Gordon has a job working for a tour company. His sister works for another tour company. His brother supervises a summer youth program. Gordon’s father leads wilderness and wildlife photography tours. A family friend also staying at the house works with at-risk youth. Laurie, Gordon’s mom, teaches music. Everyone has a job except me.

  Laurie rescues me from the Capitol Building, denouncing their dismissal the whole drive home. “You’ll find a better job, Haben. Juneau has lots of summer jobs.”

  I nod, too dejected to speak.

  When we arrive at the cozy house in the woods, I head straight to the computer. Craigslist has numerous job openings—Laurie was right. After the government, the tourism industry is the second largest employer in Juneau. Over a million tourists visit each summer for the city’s spectacular scenery, abundance of wildlife, and majestic Mendenhall Glacier. Many employers turn to the Lower 48 to fill their summer openings. Of course, the ads don’t mention Juneau’s persistent precipitation.

  Over the next weeks I send out dozens of applications, focusing on those that match my strengths in public speaking. Since helping to build a school in Mali, I’ve logged in numerous hours speaking to audiences big and small. My experience impressed the Capitol Building recruiters enough to choose me over Alaskans, at least until I walked in with a white cane. The applications lead to interviews, the interviews lead to rejections. Back on Craigslist, I broaden my search, responding to ads that seek people with strong reading, writing, or analytical skills. The pattern continues: submit an application, brave an interview, then face a rejection. I change my strategy, responding to nearly all the ads: shelving gift stores, baking cakes, folding laundry in hotels. Rejection. Rejection. Rejection.