Transcript
Progressive Insurance Announcer (0:00)
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Leigh Ann (0:24)
Hey Moth listeners, it's Leigh Ann.
Meg Bowles (0:26)
You're about to hear a great story.
Leigh Ann (0:28)
And the reason why is because of.
Meg Bowles (0:29)
The direct support of listeners like you.
Leigh Ann (0:31)
The Moth is a nonprofit. While donations to partners like public radio are important, we rely on your generosity.
Meg Bowles (0:38)
To bring stories and storytellers all over.
Leigh Ann (0:40)
The world, from Nebraska to Nairobi. Please consider donating today by visiting themoth.org or texting. Give 242-78-6779. Thanks for listening.
Meg Bowles (1:04)
From PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Boles, and in this hour we'll hear four stories told live on stage at Moth events around the U.S. true stories told without notes about real, sometimes surprising events. If 2020 taught us anything, it's that life as we know it can change on a dime. The stories in this hour all deal with moments that caught people off guard. Some moments are a test of will, while others can throw a person's life completely off course. Our first storyteller is Aaron Pang. He shared his story at a mainstage presented by WGBH in Boston from the Wilbur Theater, here's Aaron Pang live at the Moth.
Aaron Pang (1:50)
So I'm commuting home from work, and 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 and 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 and 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. And this woman at the front, she looks to me and she gives me this little fish, and she winks and she says, honey, you got this. And 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. And 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. But I don't say anything. I don't say anything because I want to be considerate of their consideration. 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. 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. And 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. You just do whatever's most comfortable for you. And that's when I snap at her and I say, yeah, you guys passing. That is what's most comfortable. And she's stunned into silence, but without another word, she concedes, and she moves past, and people are trickling past, and I can feel that pressure on the back of my neck ease a little bit, and 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. And 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 tried 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. 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. And 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 full time 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 full time 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, Bart's actually pretty great. Because every train car has reserved seating for people like me. And these accessible seats allow me to play this game. This game I like to call accessibility seating. Chicken. Like this one time I walk into a car with a very pregnant woman and an old man. And. And 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. And there's a lot of weird like polite shoving. And as all of this is happening, all of the able bodied people in non designated seats ignore us. 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. 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. And 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. And. And 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. And 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. And 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. And instantly the hot air just deflates out of her. And she begins apologizing profusely and she's just like, oh, I'm so sorry. And she begins telling me her whole life story about her injury and I can relate. And 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. And I couldn't agree more. Sitting on the subway is great and 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 starfishing 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. And 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. And 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 kind of 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. And 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 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. And as all of these thoughts are tumbling through my mind, a couple of more trains pass. And when I finally feel up to it, I get on one and I go home. I get to my apartment, I make dinner, I put on a TV show. And 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. And as I get into bed, I grab my phone to set an 8am alarm so that I can catch the 845 train. Thanks.