Aaron Pang - Balancing Act

 

So, I'm commuting home from work. When I walk into BART, San Francisco's subway system, I am instantly annoyed, because I walk with a cane and I wear leg braces. I notice that the elevators and escalators are out of service, which means that after sitting on my butt in my office for eight hours, I have to start off my commute by walking down three flights of stairs down to the platform. And there's nothing I can do. That's the only option. So, I walk up to the mouth of the stairwell, and I take a deep breath, and I put my hands on the inevitably sticky handrail and I begin my descent. 

 

Whenever I'm walking downstairs, I have to stay relatively focused. I have to stay focused, and so I don't notice immediately. But about seven or eight steps down, I realized that nobody is passing me, even though it's peak commute hours and there's so many people in the station. The stairwell is actually wide enough for two people to walk side by side. And so, I pause and I turn around and I see all of these people behind me walking at my pace. [audience laughter] And this woman at the front, she looks to me and she gives me this little fist pack and she winks and she says, “Honey, you got this.” [audience laughter] 

 

I realized they're not passing me, because they're trying to be considerate. They're trying to give me space. But what they don't realize is that their consideration is causing this huge backup up the stairwell, a backup that people could blame on me. I can just feel the pressure building on the back of my neck as more and more people enter the station. I can feel like now I'm the only one standing between their day of corporate office work and their night of precious, precious Netflix. [audience laughter] But I don't say anything. I don't say anything, because I want to be considerate of their consideration. [audience laughter] And so, we keep walking. 

 

But about halfway down, I hear this disembodied voice at the top of the stairs, a man who's obviously had a very long day, and he just yells, “Oh, my God. Walk faster.” [audience laughter] I would love to. But everyone around me in my close vicinity freezes in this thick awkwardness, as if they're offended for me. And that woman, she puts a hand on my shoulder, gives it a little tight squeeze and she says, “Ignore him. Take all the time that you need.” [audience laughter] I turn to her with a smile on my face, and I say, “But you guys know you can pass, right? There's plenty of space. I'll be fine.” And she goes, “Oh, dear, that's so considerate of you, but you don't need to worry about us and you definitely should not worry about him. He is being such an ass. [audience laughter] You just do whatever's most comfortable for you.” That's when I snap at her, and I say, “Yeah, you guys passing, that is what's most comfortable.” 

 

She's stunned into silence. But without another word, she concedes and she moves past. People are trickling past, and I can feel that pressure on the back of my neck ease a little bit. I keep walking, and I finally get down to the flat of the platform. On flat ground, I'm able to ease into a mode of walking that requires a lot less thought. But I'm still at the mouth of the stairwell, so I try to hustle out of the way to let people pass. As I take a step, my left leg, mid swing, catches my right leg, and suddenly my body's moving forward with nothing underneath it. I tried to execute an emergency maneuver. I try to hop on my right leg, replace my cane to catch my fall. But as we all learn in physics class, Isaac Newton's a bitch. [audience laughter] And therefore, my body is a body in motion crashing to the ground. 

 

See, I became differently abled about seven, eight years ago when I underwent a series of surgeries to remove this benign tumor from my spinal column. Every surgery has its risks. My risks manifested after 20 hours in the operating room. I woke up in a hospital bed unable to walk. And for two months, I stayed in that hospital bed, learning to walk for the second time in my life. But after those two months, I walked out of that hospital. But now, I do so with a cane and braces and a limp. 

 

And every year, we would go in for checkups. My mom would always ask the same question. She would ask, “Isn't there anything you can do for him, to fix him, any special treatment we can try?” And the doctors always provide some version of the same answer. They say, “Aaron's recovery has been miraculous. He has a fulltime job, he lives by himself, he even travels. He's independent, and that's much more than we can ask for.” 

 

And the doctors are right. I am independent. But things like having a fulltime job or even graduating college on time, they don't really test your independence. At least not on the day-to-day basis like just the casual grind of a morning commute on the subway can. But despite all my criticisms of BART-- BARTs actually pretty great. Because every train car has reserved seating for people like me. These accessible seats allow me to play this game. This game I like to call Accessibility Seating Chicken. [audience laughter] 

 

Like, this one time, I walk into a car with a very pregnant woman and an old man. [audience laughter] There are only two seats for the three of us. And so, in the 10 seconds between us getting on the train and the train starting to move, we have to decide who sits. This becomes a game of will to see who is the most stubbornly polite. And there is, “Oh, no, you sit. No, you sit. No, you sit. But you're pregnant. But you're old. But you're handicapped.” There's a lot of weird polite shoving. [audience laughter] As all of this is happening, all of the able-bodied people in non-designated seats ignore us. [audience laughter] 

 

But when the dust settles, the woman and the old man are seated, and I'm the last man standing. I am the last man standing, because I am the youngest and I look the strongest, and to be perfectly honest, I really like to win. [audience laughter] And so, I take my spot next to one of the railings that you can hold onto and I'm basking in my victory, satisfied in my ability to help somebody else out in need. That's when the train starts with a jolt. I lose my balance and I fall into a businessman in a suit. And then, finally, somebody stands to let me sit. 

 

See, in public. It's a weird balancing act, balancing how people perceive me, how I perceive myself and what I'm actually capable of. Because on the other side of that coin, sometimes people don't even notice that I need help. Like, on a different commute, I'm seated there in one of the accessible seats. Next to me is an able-bodied woman in the other accessible seat. We stop, and the train doors open, and this woman in her late 50s comes in, and she just beelines towards me and she gets right in my face. And she says, “Excuse me, can you please stand? I have a bad back and I need to sit.” I point to my cane-- But before I can say anything, the woman next to me stands and this lady takes her seat. And for the next 15 minutes, I can feel her channeling this self-righteous anger. She's furiously scrolling on her phone, giving me the stink eye. 

 

But about one stop, before I get off, she turns to me and she goes, “You know, you were supposed to stand for me, right? These seats are reserved for people who need it.” And then, she points to her phone, which has the BART website on it with the rules of priority seating. Without a word, I just point to my cane and then I lift up my pant leg to show her my braces. Because every once in a while, in public, it's nice to have two forms of crippled credentials. [audience laughter] 

 

And instantly, the hot air just deflates out of her, and she begins apologizing profusely and she's just like, “Oh, I'm sorry.” She begins telling me her whole life story about her injury. And I can relate. She says something that I always remember. She says, “I know I might not look like I need it, but these seats are really helpful.” I couldn't agree more. Sitting on the subway is great. Sometimes people don't know that I need those seats, and that's completely okay, because other times people can't help but to notice my disability. 

 

Like, when I end up walking down three flights of stairs, and ended up tripping and just star fishing on a really crowded platform, I'm lying there and I can hear the train that I was supposed to be on pull out of the station. My legs feel like electrified jello, and I am only able to get on all fours. Somebody who reminds me of my mom comes up next to me and offers to help. And without a word, I put out my arm and she takes it. When I try to stand, she doesn't realize that I'm about to put all of my weight on her. And so, she's not ready. When I do, she loses her grip and I'm about to fall again. Except this time, there's a man behind me. He puts two arms under mine, and he puts me on my feet. 

 

I don't give this man permission to pick me up, let alone even touch me. But in moments like this, you have to swallow your pride. And so, they walk me over to one of the benches and they offer to sit with me until my train comes. But I say, “No, it's totally fine. This happens all the time. I'm just a little shaken up,” and they fade back into their lives. As I'm sitting there, I'm just furious. I can feel the other people just taking sideways glances at me. I'm furious, because for the last seven years, I've done so much physical therapy to get to where I am now. But in those same seven years, I have also watched a stupidly large amount of TV. 

 

I am currently on my fifth rewatch of the West Wing. That's 577 hours of television [audience laughter] that I could have better spent on my legs. And so, I always think about this concept that Journalist Malcolm Gladwell popularized, this idea that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at anything. And so, when it comes to my legs, I wonder if I just don't have the talent or if I'm not dedicated enough. I wonder if my disability is severe enough for me to sit or if I'm strong enough to stand. I wonder if it is okay to get drinks with friends after work or should I go to a physical therapy appointment. 

 

As all of these thoughts are tumbling through my mind, a couple of more trains pass. When I finally feel up to it, I get one and I go home. I get to my apartment, I make dinner, I put on a TV show. As the night progresses, I feel the pain in my knee dull, and those thoughts begin to fade. I'm getting ready for bed. I brush my teeth and I stretch a lot. As I get into bed, I grab my phone to set an 08:00 AM alarm, so that I can catch the 08:45 train. Thanks.