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This article originally appeared in the February edition of New Mobility
magazine. It is reprinted here with permission. Please visit
the New Mobility web site at www.newmobility.com
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WEBMASTER'S NOTE: The following story is absolutely accurate. I know from first hand experience riding with my son. I do have to say that we have had good experiences on Foothill Transit buses, Metrolink trains, and Long Beach Transit buses. As for the MTA, what follows is exactly how it is:
Written by Mark Cromer
This is a story about public transit so, naturally, we miss our first train by three minutes. Grudgingly, we pull onto the freeway and—along with 50,000 other suburban commuters—jockey to catch the fast break into the City of Angels. We might have waited for the next train, but there wasn't one for four hours. It's an omen of things to come.
Brian Miles leans forward in his wheelchair, braces his arms on the adapted steering wheel of his 1991 Ford van, and aims the steel beast for the fast lane. I'm in back and trying hard not panic.
"Hey, man, don't worry," Miles grins into the rearview mirror. "I'll get us there no sweat. You might say I have a lead hand." The speedometer continues to climb as Miles caresses the steering wheel's suicide knob and Jim Morrison croons "This is the end." I can't stop thinking about the witticism that frames Miles' license plate: "I'd Rather Be Walking."
But Miles, a C56 quad, has made this run from the Pomona Valley to Los Angeles many times before. He's had to. That's why we're taking this daylong look at wheelchair access on Metropolitan Transit Authority trains and buses.
"I've had a few bad experiences with public transportation," Miles shouts from the driver's seat. "One time I took a bus when my van was in the shop. It took two hours longer than it would have to drive, and the bus's lift broke on the ride home. I had to wait an hour for someone to show up and fix it just so I could get off the damn thing" Ever since, he's driven his own mule in preference to taking mass transit.
Time and good fortune find us pulling into Union Station. As Miles has predicted, we've beaten the train.
Walt,our photographer, and I shadow Miles into the station's ornate lobby, trying to remain anonymous enough to document the MTA's treatment of its wheelchairusing customers. We quickly discover that it's not going to be a day of "Hi, how can I help you get where you want to go?"
The MTA employee at an information counter seems irked by Miles' evidently inane questions: "How do I get to Pershing Square from here?""Where do I buy my tickets?" "What sort of wheelchair access is there?"
Miles spends about 10 minutes waiting in line at one vending machine in plain view of the staffers who have directed him there—before discovering that he needs to buy tickets downstairs on the subway platform. While walking patrons are quickly whisked down elevators into the bowels of the station, Miles must ride in an impressivelooking stainless steel box. The only problem is finding the cleverly disguised callbutton— it takes a few minutes—and then figuring out how a quad can press it. Miles is in no hurry now, but it would be a bummer if he were.
Down on the platform, we wait for our train to Pershing Square. An offduty train driver shows Miles exactly where to wait. He seems courteous and sincere. "It's important to know where to board the train," he says."I've seen people in wheelchairs get stuck in the gap several times."
The train rolls in and the driver helps Miles to one of the onboard spots for wheelchairusers. Two stops later we're ready to disembark at Pershing Square, but the crowd pushing onto the car doesn't seem to care whether Miles makes it off or not. The driver is alert and keeps the doors open until Miles is safely away from the rail car.
"You know, people are supposed to let those guys off first," the driver says, sticking his head out of the window of "But as you can tell, nobody really cares anymore."
James Fadeley knows all about people not caring whether it's difficult—or even possible—for wheelchairusers tc access public transportation in Los Angeles. At 57 hard years old, Fadeley appears like a grizzled angel drifting down the platform toward us, a bag of fruits and vegetables balanced in his lap. Compared to Miles' sporty young suburbanite look, Fadeley's weathered face radiates an inyourface challenge to roll a mile in his chair.
Fadeley says he's used public transit to get around Greater Los Angeles in his wheelchair ever since a stroke 20 years ago. Sometimes he's successful, but increasingly not. "It varies now day to day, often depending on the personnel," Fadeley says. "It seems the buses cut out disabled access first. Mechanics lose their overtime and the ramps stay broke. If they really wanted to transport us, they'd fix those lifts in a hurry."
Fadeley warns us that drivers will often pass up a wheelchair user, especially if nobody else is waiting at the stop. "I figure either the lifts are broke or they just don't want to hassle with getting you on the bus," he says.
Before Fadeley slips away, he evaluates MTA's efforts. "I'd give them a D," he says. "Not failing, but damn close."
A few minutes later we're in the sunlight and moving toward the bus stop at Sixth and Hill. Miles pulls up close to the curb—practically under the sign—and waits for a bus from any of the several routes that theoretically stop here.
It doesn't take long to see Fadeley's point. The first bus brakes momentarily, slowing to perhaps 10 mph, then roars down the street. It's almost as if the driver is making sure a nondisabled person isn't waiting before leaving Miles in his exhaust.
Three more buses blow past Miles, who by now has his hand raised like he's trying to hail a cab. He wonders aloud,"Do you think they can see me?"
I figure the only way they can't is if the MTA has really reached out to the disability community and started hiring blind drivers. Then an elderly lady joins Miles at the stop. Surprise! A bus pulls over. But the fun's just starting.
The woman boards and I follow her on, while Miles waits at the curb to see what happens next. The burly, middleaged driver doesn't seem to notice Miles.
"Hey, I think that guy in the chair wants to get on," I tell him. He looks over his shoulder at Miles, who's looking back at him.
"Oh yeah, how do you know? Where's he going?"
"I don't know. I just think he might want to get on."
"Damn."
The driver gets out of his seat and asks Miles where he's headed. Miles tells him he just wants to ride down Hill Street a few blocks. "Yeah, but where are you going?" the driver demands, as if having an unspecified destination were cause for abandonment.
Finally convinced that Miles needs to board the bus, the driver maneuvers it close enough to the sidewalk—a process complicated by motorists sharking the curb space behind him. Once he's close enough, the driver trots to the back of the bus and lowers the ramp. He asks three people to move, then flips up the vacated seats to make room for Miles and his power chair.
As the driver heads to the front of the bus, ready to resume
his route, his irritation is plain to see. Yet more palpable is the
tension from the passengers, who seem confused that five minutes had to
be spared to pick up Miles. Nothing is said, but nothing has to be.
When he's waiting, Miles is invisible. When he's boarding,
he's in an uncomfortable spotlight. In transit, no one looks at him.
He's once again the invisible man.
A few blocks later, we're off the bus and heading for Broadway. On the way, we meet Audrey Harthorn and Lillibeth Navarro. both cruising the boulevard in their chairs. Harthorn's assessment of MTA bus access is direct.
"It sucks," she says. "Most of the time the lift equipment is not working and, even when it is, I suspect the drivers tell you it isn't just so they don't have to pick you up. These drivers are on tight schedules and picking up a wheelchairuser takes time."
Harthorn and Navarro both recount the numerous times they've encountered the "who let you on board?" vibe from passengers. The irony is that MTA downtown buses serve primarily workingclass members of minorities, most of whom are not strangers to discrimination. A black driver, Harthorn recalls, once told her, "I don't like picking up you people".
You people.
"All the anger certainly makes me feel like a secondclass citizen at times," Harthorn adds, "but I don't expect it to change anytime soon." Discrimination, she notes, is deeply ingrained and diffficult to erase.
Navarro, who works as an advocate for disabled people in Los Angeles, says she and others have urged the MTA to invest in low-floor buses, which are easier for people using wheelchairs and anyone else to board.
"Long Beach has low-floor buses," Navarro says, "but MTA in Los Angeles says they're too expensive and not readily available to purchase."
Navarro observes that MTA's service is a patchwork quilt that varies with where you go and who you are. "In Santa Monica, the service is clean, efficient and less costly," she says. "In Los Angeles proper, it's broken and expensive."
Both women say they now take the bus as a last resort.
We move north on Broadway, weaving through crowds lingering in front of the classic theaters that have long since died, their decaying marquees the only remnants of their glory days. At Broadway and Eighth, we decide to catch another bus. Plenty of nondisabled people are in line with us this time, so there's no long wait for buses that don't stop.
The driver seems happy to help Miles board, even cracking a smile as he asks,"You all set?" But the ride back to Union Station is a rough one. Either this bus is ready to fall apart or the roads have taken heavy artillery fire. The woman in front of me can't stop the bottles she has stashed in her jacket from clinking like a liquor store in an earthquake.
At Union Station, the driver helps Miles onto the ramp, which delivers him safely to the ground. Good thing, because it breaks on the way back up. I ask the driver if this happens often.
"Oh yeah, a lot of buses got broken ramps," he says. "But, hey, what can a driver do about it except write it up and hope it's fixed the next day?"
But what about the guy on the curb?
"Him? He's outta luck until the next bus. But like I said, I'm not a mechanic, I'm a driver."
Back on the freeway and headed home, Miles is again pouring it on in the fast lane, and this time it doesn't seem as worrisome. As I watch suburbia blur by, the bus driver's words come back to me. "I'm not a mechanic, I'm a driver" And I wonder if that's maybe why thousands of wheelchairusers—like everyone else—think mass transit in Los Angeles is a great idea for someone else to use.
If it ain't broke, don't fix it. But if it's busted, then the
MTA should at least try. Until it does, we're all drivers.