Rush hour trains and bad legs: A hellish combo gives useful perspective

Last week saw debate in the British press about a change that could cut American classics like To Kill a Mockingbird from the curriculum.  It's a an understandable move in a battle to raise pitiful awareness of British literature on its home turf, but it's a shame to think of anyone growing up without Atticus Finch.

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it," Finch teaches us.  I have a strong grounding in British classics, but I can't think of one that drives that particular idea home that idea so well.

This was on my mind a lot as I faced a tough rush hour commute.

I like to think I've always been relatively sensitive to disability on public transport.  I became acutely aware of the challenges as my mother lost her energy and mobility.  Commuting, when you're not in good shape, is a gruesome thing.  But it was not until I started tackling journeys with my own mobility compromised that I realised how gruesome.

I'm quite unsteady on my feet right now.  I'm walking slowly, stumble easily, take steps one at a time.  Standing up for the full 50-minute journey to London … something that's often necessary on our overcrowded rush hour trains … is impossible for me.  There are designated seats for disabled people, and I'm walking with a stick.  Should be a place for me, right?

Wrong.  Civility is dead, even in what was once the land of good manners.  Commuters load onto trains in fast-moving packs.  They jostle for any available seat.  Everyone, including those in the supposed disabled seats, has perfected the art of self-isolation.  They keep their noses in their iPads, avoid eye contact, block sound with their headphones, and thus probably wouldn't notice someone having a heart attack next to them, much less a middle-aged woman who needed to sit down.

I'd witnessed this, but it is only now, walking around in a disabled skin, that I understand the consequences.  It's not just the added effort and the risk of falling over.  Knowing what's likely to come, it's a deep-rooted dread.  What happens if I don't get a seat?  What if someone pushes me over on those stairs, or getting off that train?  It turns commuting into a stressful, high-anxiety experience.  All exacerbated by the embarrassment of sticking out.  Needing help.  Being different.  Could I ask someone to get up?  Sure.  But I'm mortified to do it, and hate to confront the fact that I'm turning into an old woman.

Thankfully, I don't have to commute during rush hour very often.  Even more thankfully, my current issues are probably temporary and I have a chance of getting back to normal.  But now I've truly experienced how even a mild disability can transform something simple, taken for granted, into something hellish.  The empathy will make me a better person, hopefully even more sensitive to those in need.

That's the lesson To Kill a Mockingbird tries to teach.  I hope British kids find their way to the book, one way or another.  Trying to understand the world through someone else's perspective always makes us better people.