There’s a glaring double standard in public transit

I love making generalizations. I know I shouldn’t, and so now I only make them when I’m at home. But I’m going to make two generalizations that absolutely, 100 per cent, apply to all people who’ve been blind for the majority of their lives.

The first is that we weren’t properly accommodated during gym class in elementary school. I challenge you to find me one exception, especially in the public system. I spent a lot of time tossing a ball at the wall of our school’s utility closet. (They put me in the closet, because they didn’t know how to accommodate me in the actual gym class.)

The second is that virtually all blind people on the planet struggle with accessible and equitable transportation.

When I was in law school, a judge introduced me to a lawyer who could help me set up the internship opportunity of my dreams. It was with a firm in Toronto that practised social justice law. I met all the requirements, and even hit it off with one of the firm’s lawyers. But when it came time to figure out logistics, it became apparent that it simply wouldn’t work.

Getting there would have involved taking a streetcar that would have deposited me in the middle of the street, requiring me to cross a lane of uncontrolled and chaotic traffic both ways. Either that, or a cab ride that would have been prohibitively expensive for a student and Ontario Disability Support Program budget.

Swallowing down the angry, humiliated lump in my throat, I had to decline.

The employment situation ended up working out in my favour long-term, thankfully. My husband and I have arranged to live in a city that’s reasonably mid-sized and navigable, but even with guide dogs and all the orientation and mobility training in the world, we can only still independently travel to a handful of places in the region.

One of the region’s solutions to the issue of inaccessible transit is Mobility Plus. It largely functions as a door-todoor service that disabled clients attempt to book in advance.

Is this starting to sound like a dream come true?

It isn’t. Until recently, client bookings were triaged based on need, first and foremost. If the nature of your trip was related to either a medical appointment or employment, you could book further in advance than other clients.

Then, in March of this year, based on some vague reference to the Access for Ontarians with Disabilities Act, the region did away with any sort of hierarchical triage system. Sort of like if you go to the hospital with palpitations and chest pains but have to wait your turn because someone is in front of you in line with a sprained ankle.

But fine, let’s carry on.

All of this would matter significantly less if the service actually got you places on time. As it stands, you are given a half-hour window during which the vehicle can arrive, and you can be on the vehicle for up to an hour and a half and whisked all over the city before having your demoralized ass deposited at your final destination.

You can’t schedule in any stops, either. So no errands or dropping your children off at daycare on your way to work. And what is inexplicable is that Mobility Plus is still not operating at full capacity at the same level as before the pandemic. By contrast, conventional public transit, a service to which Mobility Plus always compares itself, barely saw a dent in service since the start of the pandemic.

The comparison to conventional transit is often trotted out to justify any perceived shortcomings, but if conventional buses were to come within a halfhour of the scheduled time and not permit you to complete errands during your travels without having to wait at each destination for an hour, it would be considered unacceptable.

With a rationed system that has finite resources, I do not see how it could equitably support disabled people without some sort of triage mechanism, when trying to book a ride feels like “The Hunger Games.”

The system is simply not capable of meeting demand. For instance, I had to miss a medical appointment a month ago because, despite following all booking procedures, the driver admitted I’d be 48 minutes late for a 45-minute appointment. (I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how wonderful the Mobility Plus drivers are, as well as the vast majority of the booking staff, with whom my family have developed great relationships.)

Another recent time, the vehicle came more than 20 minutes outside the halfhour window for an outing with my kindergartener where we had to book our spot, so we missed the event. The final straw was when I wasn’t picked up for a meeting at work because my COVID-19 screening hadn’t been processed — another distinction from public transit, which does not screen each passenger via phone before boarding.

Beyond increased funding and a better triage system, I admit I don’t quite have the answer. What is apparent is that the way the system is designed does not make it suitable for disabled people who have jobs, or who have little children to shepherd around. And I acknowledge my place of relative privilege in this situation. My husband and I are employed and have resources we didn’t have as students; I have colleagues with whom I can potentially carpool.

But when we return to work, I’m not confident I’ll have a reliable and consistent way to get there. And I can’t tell you how exhausting it is to constantly be at the whim of others: other people, failing systems, when my goals are modest — get to work, take my kids places, and say yes when I’m offered the internship of my dreams.