Kindness is Greater than Fear: Changing Access Denials by Finding the Roots of Conflict

by Sassy Outwater-Wright

From the Editor: Not too long ago I was directed to a blog article, and I liked it very much. I had a bit of trouble figuring out how to contact its author, but what do you know—she was a part of the National Federation of the Blind’s Massachusetts convention. In this blog entry, which she modified slightly for our publication, Sassy talks about the problem in enforcing the rules about allowing guide dogs and rideshare companies. I observe that many people are angered when they are passed by, but remarkably few people are willing to complain using the monitoring tools we have in place, and still fewer are willing to tell drivers and providers when they have received good service.

As you will soon see, guide dogs and ridesharing services are only a small part of Sassy’s message. They provide the context for a more substantial lesson, one I hope you find as moving as I do. Here is the article:

On my way home from work and medical misadventures in Boston one snowy January night, I had a long trip ahead and was eager to just collapse into my Lyft, pull out my laptop, and work on a presentation due the next day. I was not feeling well, it was bitterly cold, and I was in one of those take-no-crap-from-anyone moods, where the first wrong thing is instantly the last straw.

So when my Lyft driver called and was having trouble finding my address and I talked him in by giving turn by turn instructions, I bit my lip and wanted to be wrong. But I couldn’t ignore my hunch—this guy was going to try and refuse my guide dog. The only thing cuing me into that was his accent.

Yep. I was going there, judging. And I hated myself for it. My bias was showing, and there was nothing good about it.

There are several reasons I hear as to why drivers won’t allow me to get into their vehicles with my guide dog. First is fear. They are scared of my dog. They’re worried the dog will bite them or jump and distract them or ruin their car’s interior. The next most common reason is an allergy. The ADA classifies allergies of life-threatening severity as another disability. So that’s classified in Lyft and Uber policy to the drivers as “being able to perform essential job functions.” They would have to take any passengers who presented themselves for transport. I can’t drive because my eyes don’t work; they don’t give blind people driver’s licenses. Some people cannot be that close to dogs. Similar consideration.

Lastly, you get those who come from cultures or countries where dogs and people don’t mix. Dogs are strays and attack people in many developing nations. Drivers have never heard of a service dog. Disabled individuals do not have access to the rights we do, so seeing someone out with a guide dog is a new experience for many drivers. Dogs are not in-home pets, and the concept of a service dog is one they don’t understand and have probably never had a chance to learn about firsthand. Sure, they’ve read the paperwork and heard about it, but seeing a disabled person out on their own in public is different enough; seeing them with a service dog is incredibly hard to understand when the only thing you’ve seen dogs do where you are from is chase people and get into fights for scraps.

My responses vary. Fear of my dog damaging vehicles or attacking people is laughable. Accidents happen once or twice in a working dog’s career. I pay to have them cleaned, or, like any good dog handler/dog mom, have learned to leap twenty feet to catch all matter of bodily excretions in a relieving bag, which I can whip open in .2 nanoseconds if need be. I’ve done it in a dressing room while trying on bras. Nothing phases me, so no car is in danger from my dog.

And my dog won’t attack anyone. I’d never let someone hurt him to a point where he might feel he needed to defend himself, and he’d never think to do that, so it’s not something I ever worry about. I’ve had nineteen years of dog handling experience at the level of dog training that might easily qualify me as a dog trainer. I can handle pretty much any situation and know what my dog is thinking. It’s just a non-issue.

While a non-issue for me, for someone terrified of dogs, all my assurances aren’t going to do anything for them. There are those who argue but listen to reason, then there are those who just look for a fight. I’ve been refused rides so many times that I have gotten good at reading people from the moment they pull up—if they pull up at all. Some see me with my black Labrador guide in harness standing next to me and drive off before I can talk to them. Most say no and speed off. If they stay to argue, I can usually eventually get them to listen to reason. I don’t like having to report them to Lyft because they will lose their access to drive. They’ll lose their job. That doesn’t feel good to anyone. But standing there in the cold with no ride because I’m blind and work with a guide dog doesn’t feel good either.

This gentleman had an Arabic accent. I know that sound anywhere, because I grew up surrounded by it. I grew up in an Arabic household, and I know the nuances of why many in Arab cultures fear dogs being too close to them. I should be the last person thinking that this man was going to refuse to transport my guide dog. Besides, I know how to explain it if it comes to that. They’re not the ones I usually worry about, because I can talk to them. I can reason with them. The angry ones who won’t listen a) don’t have a particular ethnicity or country of origin despite popular harmful theory, and b) you can’t reason with rage-fueled hate. This is just fear, I told myself.

I “powered up” before striding toward the car, my guide dog working at my side. I call it powering up when I push past the emotions I’m feeling, the anger and the fear, because those won’t get me anywhere in an advocacy situation, and it’s not about me. When it’s their fear or misunderstanding, it’s about what I can offer to support and teach them, if they’ll listen, and I’m in a place where I can offer. Like powering up battle armor or putting up an onstage persona, emotions aren’t answers; they’re pieces of data. I needed to be clinical and not center myself, even though I was the center of this possible access problem. His reaction to me was the crux of the problem. I can’t change my blindness; he can change his perspective.

I walked up to the car and put my hand on top of the passenger side window, which he had rolled down. And sure enough: “You’re with the dog? I can’t take you. I can’t take the dog.”

“Federal and state law say that you must take me, this is a guide dog. If you do not take me, you may lose your job with Lyft.”

“That’s okay. I’ll lose my job. I can’t take the dog.”

“Why?”

“I’m scared. I can’t take the dog. He will hurt me.”

“No, he won’t hurt you. He is a trained guide dog.”

At this point, the passenger sitting in the back transferred to the front (it was a shared ride), and the driver watched as I pulled out my phone. “Either I call the police and report this to Lyft, or you let me and my guide dog get into your car and you take me home.”

I asked in Arabic: “Do you speak Arabic? Are you Muslim?”

He answered with an emphatic “no” and kept insisting he couldn’t take the dog; but he didn’t pull away, and I could tell he didn’t want me to call Lyft. He was torn.

So eventually he let me get in, and my guide dog lay obediently on the floor under and behind my legs, where he couldn’t reach the driver or sit up much because my legs were in his way. He snuggled up to my boots and was snoring a couple minutes after we got on the road. He was fast asleep and stayed that way the whole ride.

My heart was racing though. I didn’t know if this driver I just argued with was trustworthy or if I had just angered him. He could do anything to me.

He dropped the other passenger off, and it was just us. I clutched my phone in my hands, thinking: “What will I text people if something goes very wrong?” I typed a quick text message to my husband that I was concerned for my safety.

The moment the door closed behind the other passenger, it was like a light switched on. The driver looked back at me. “You speak Arabic?” he asked in Arabic, hopefully. It was an unspoken coded message between us, meaning: “Are you safe? Do you hate me because I’m Arab? Is it okay for me to be real and myself in front of you or will you treat me with hate and discrimination simply because I’m Arab?”

I got it instantly and gave him the most genuine, kind smile I could find, not even knowing if his eyes were on the road or on me. “Yes, I do. I’m safe. You’re okay.”

“Can I tell you why I’m so scared of your dog?”

At my gentle nod, he launched into a halting half-English, half-Arabic tale of being bitten by a dog while he was working. A dog attacked him out of nowhere while he was making a delivery, and he needed many shots to recover from the attack. He was petrified, driving with my dog inches from him.

I nodded my understanding and carefully explained the ADA. He asked about my upbringing and how I came to know how to explain disabilities and laws to him in Arabic? He also wanted to know why I was being kind and educating him? He was used to anger and hate from people. And he acknowledged that I had every right to be angry with him for his initial refusal to transport me with my service dog.

I wrote another text to my husband to let him know I was fine; there would be no further worrying. I understood what had happened. The driver’s explanation did not negate the argument we had earlier, but he was listening avidly to everything I said about guide dogs and the ADA. He was trying mightily to be brave enough to get me and my guide dog home because he respected that I deserved the same access to services as everyone else. No law can lessen his fear of my large dog though. Not after the horrific trauma he had experienced. So we were quietly empathetic to one another in that ride. And the shared cultural experience of both being aware of the hatred Arabs experience in America every day was the bridge that melted that initial tension and fear. We were instant friends and allies because both of us know what it is like to be so misunderstood and to fight for basic kindnesses every day of our lives.

We talked for a long time as we inched through traffic—about Africa, religions, history, baby names, and choices of faith.

I learned he was going to be a first-time father to a little baby boy in one week. We talked about good names. We talked about love, people, sacrifice, and kindness in how we listen to others and don’t center ourselves when it’s not about us, but about their emotions being the block to a resolution.

When we pulled up to my house, I said: “I’m going to have my dog stand up and get out of the car behind you on the driver’s side so he doesn’t have to turn around. His face will be close to you, but I’ll keep my hands here so he can’t touch you. Is that okay?”

To my surprise, he got out of the car and held the door open for me. “It’s okay,” I said. “He’s going to jump out right there. You can back away so he isn’t close to you. I’ve got him on his leash, see?”

“It’s safe. I’m safe with him, I know,” he said, smiling. “He’s nice. He’s quiet. What’s his name?”

“Ferdinand.” I slung my backpack across my shoulders, and Ferdie wagged at the driver in greeting but pulled on me. He was hungry, it was his dinnertime, and his house was right there!

“Thank you,” the driver said in Arabic. “You were very kind to me. I apologize. Thank you for teaching me and understanding why I was so scared.”

“You don’t need to apologize for being afraid. You were willing to listen and be brave for me, and that is a great kindness. It’s a law, but the kindness goes further tonight. I understand. I’m glad I could help you learn and help you understand my side of the story.” We parted with a firm handshake and a smile, and I called back: “Enjoy your new little son soon, Baba!” Baba is the Arabic word for father.

That simple encounter changed us both a little bit. It made me a better, more aware and empathetic and responsive advocate. And it taught my driver about guide dogs and that there are plenty of people who love having men like him here in this country, no matter where they come from, because they are kind and brave.