A nice, gooey chunk of H-pie landed in my lap the other night. The kind of piece that when swallowed stays lodged for a fair amount of time until you and your conscience deal with it, or you blog about it.
I spend two nights a week taking a weaponry and combat class in central Christchurch. During those few hours a week at the gym there is often pain involved -- the good kind of pain that lets you know you have muscles and they are willing to alert you to just how high your soreness level will be when you overextend yourself or smack yourself with one of the training weapons. (Hence, why it's done in a controlled environment, so they can administer first-aid and also film your stupidity for future training sessions.)
As I am minus a vehicle (by choice), I take the admirable bus service offered by the city. During these forays, I tend to see some of the same people on the streets. We all have to get around somehow. One guy in particular that I see several times a week is what society would label 'impaired'. He has no legs. By no legs I don't mean amputated and wheelchair-bound, I don't mean using prosthetics. I mean no legs. He stops just below the waist.
I see him all over the city, maneuvering his way through the streets and crowds and traffic lights and all kinds of barriers you and I take for granted. He does all this on a skateboard. Of course everyone he passes does a double-take when he rolls by, including me. How can we not. It's not something most people see every day.
We happened to get on the same bus Wednesday night. I walk on, pay the fare, sit down, stick my ear buds in, turn on my iPod and prop one foot up on the empty seatback in front of me. I wince from my now stiffening hamstrings and bruised shins, when I notice who gets on next.
Using his arms as legs, the guy I so often see zooming around the city on his skateboard, 'walks' on, pays his fare, chooses a seat a few rows in front of mine, hikes his backpack up onto one seat and easily raises himself into the adjoining one. He settles back, his own earbuds firmly planted in his ears and the bus begins to move.
I stop in mid-sigh and think what a complete weenie I am to be griping (even silently) about my pain, when perhaps this guy wouldn't mind knowing what pain of any kind might feel like in legs he's possibly never had.
I got nothin'.
I examine my feelings a little further and wonder if it's pity that I'm feeling for him in addition to my own, momentary self-loathing. No, not pity. Curiosity. This guy is roughly my age, well dressed, etc. In fact, minus the obvious, he's got style. I wonder what he does all day. Does he work, go to school, run a business, volunteer, what?
I think there is an attitude in western cultures that people with impairments are less valuable than those of us bustling around whole and relatively undamaged (or at least damaged, but functioning). "Load of old tosh," I say. By all observations, this guy is a university student with a busy schedule and a plan. Hell, maybe he plays a mean bass, I don't know. The point is, he's doing something.
The bus drones on passed quiet streets and darkened storefronts. This is a familiar route. I zone out, bobbing my head absentmindedly to a familiar beat. The guy two rows ahead does the same, no doubt listening to something hip from his own music library.
The bus reaches my stop. I stand and wave my thanks to the driver as I exit through the backdoor. My quads protest the action of moving, but I ignore the pain. I glance up as the bus pulls away. That guy is still groovin' along in his seat.
Just another example of the amazing variety of people we come in contact with every day, but often never think too much about, as we are so lost in our own problems.
I smile and flip through my song list until I find Groovin' by UB40 (a standard in all of my playlists). Pointing myself in the right direction, I let the Reggae beat walk me home.
Next time I see that guy, I'm going to ask him what he's listening to.
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