Why Start a Blog? Why Now?

This question has been asked by several people. By me, as well.

So, here's the back story.

For years people have suggested that I write but I resisted because I have nothing to say to posterity. Nothing that hasn't been said before, and well. Then, along came Destiny. In a span of twelve months I have experienced things, as a person with severe mobility problems, that shouldn't happen in our enlightened society, especially not in wealthy cities, in newly built palaces of fine art and luxury living.


At Stanford University's Cantor Center for the Arts I went as part of a quartet of elders to see a great exhibit in October 2008. The main event was paintings on loan from Louisiana, saved from Katrinia's floods. With me was a 92 year old woman who complains about nothing. An 80 year old woman who complains about everything. Her husband, an 83 year old mountaineer who takes frequent seven mile "walks" in between his serious hiking.

We arrived at Stanford on one of the hottest days last year. He took one look at the elevator for people with disabilities and decided his wife should not bring her crippled body and high anxieties into it because it was the size of a broom closet, room for two only, and from past experience I cautioned that the trip from the ground to the first floor would be a shake, rattle and roll experience. The ramp for wheel chairs and walkers is too far from the front door for his wife or for me. I walk with two canes or a walker. So, we mounted the stairs. There must have been 40 of them and at the top none of us women could open the huge beautiful doors. There was no attendant to help us so we relied on our mountaineer, who was also busy carrying my walker up to the doors, and then descending to carry his wife's walker up the stairs, and then descending to help his wife climb the stairs. All of us burned our hands on the beautiful brass rail which we needed to pull ourselves up each step.

The exhibit was beautiful but there was nowhere to sit in the main exhibit hall when our uncomplaining 92 year old friend got tired. I and the Wife had walkers on which we could sit, frequently, which we did. When we went into the cafe it was so crowded that I had to push chairs and tables here and there to make way for my walker. After lunch it was still more crowded so that I couldn't get my walker out and the mountaineer came to my rescue by putting it over his head to carry it.

At San Francisco's DeYoung Museum, newly built, I and another friend in her nineties had similar experiences. I was rolling myself around the museum in a wheel chair. I was caught between closing doors in the elevator, had trouble getting into the toilet for people with disabilities, could not get through the cafe without asking Management for assistance so that I could roll my wheel chair and my elderly friend could push her walker between the crowded tables.

Then, several weeks ago I stayed at the Best Western/Dry Creek Inn in Healdsburg, California. Someone reserved an "accessible" room for me. But, the toilet was dangerously low. The shower was inaccessible because it was in the tub. The sink was inaccessible because it was so high I could not reach it from my walker and I can stand only for a couple of minutes. The most amazing thing was that the bed was not accessible. It was about the height of your desk or a bit higher. I think it's called Victorian style. Very popular up in the wine country. The woman at the front desk sounded like a Barbie Doll. You know--bright, chirpy voice: No, there is no riser for the toilet. No there is no footstool for the bed. Yes, I know you could report the hotel for violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act, and here is the telephone number to do so. She was cold, condescending, and oh so pleased with herself. Well, Barbie, you insulted the wrong person with your arrogance and heartlessness.

I did not apply for this job as an advocate for people with disabilities. I don't even want it. I'd rather counsel clients, play chess, read, go to the theatre, concerts, museums, be with my family, friends, pet my cat, think, do any number of other things than defend people with disabilities. But, I have the education, the know-how (I'm an expert on the media), and I've got the true grit. Besides, to whom can I delegate this task? Will you do it? So, when my son Alan told me I should start a blog I decided to do it rather than to think about it. Rather than to work through how it's all going to pan out. Destiny heightened my awareness. Each day until I die I am going to do Something until The Dry Creek Inn stops breaking the law.

There are some things I don't like about this. The risk. The idea of putting myself out there, revealing my thoughts and values. Inviting criticism. On the other hand, I'm seventy-six. Old enough to say and do what I want. Old enough to take a few hits if they come my way. I want the Dry Creek Inn to stop defrauding people with disabilities, selling services that don't exist. And I want them to stop breaking the Federal law, which overrides state law, and is designed to protect me, you, your friends and relatives who need a helping hand: there are 50 million people with disabilities in the U.S. That's more than the entire population of Canada which is 30 million. It is only several million less than the entire population of France. It is the population of all of California and Florida combined. Do what you can today. Lend a hand.

I will tell you more about my campaign in future posts. My effort is small; perhaps it's insignificant. It's not going to change the world but, as the hummingbird said about filling her tiny beak with water, then flitting back and forth from the river to the raging forest fire onto which she emptied her drop of water: "I do what I can."

So, here we are.

Anne