Paying Full Fare

Here’s a dilemma few people face and perhaps even fewer recognize as a dilemma.

When my parents lived in Connecticut, I used to take the New Haven train from New York’s Grand Central Terminal to Stamford, where they’d pick me up and drive to their home a few towns north. I’d set off from home with my white cane, but inside Grand Central I’d need to wait for a thoughtful passerby to direct me. I’d stand, put on a perplexed look and hope my cane would invite an offer of assistance. Invariably it did, if not always right away.

Once the good Samaritan appeared, the first step was to find the departures board and determine the platform for my train. Second step: find that platform. Both steps accomplished, I’d thank the person because I could handle the third step on my own: walking along the platform in search of opened doors. I could also handle the fourth step, entering the car. But then there was the fifth: locating an empty seat.

It was a relief when someone said, “The seat there is free.” I could only guess where “there” was, but between my turning in the possible direction and a verbal correction from the helpful passenger, I’d finally sit down.

Deep breath. Uncertainty, combined with the inescapable necessity of obtaining aid, contributed mightily to my anxiety around independence.

The dilemma arose when the ticket collector announced his arrival at the back of the car. I kept my cane unfolded for this moment to make sure he knew to address me in a way I’d recognize. (Yes, it was always a man.) When I said I hadn’t yet bought a ticket, he’d ask where I was going. Then he’d say the fare for you is such-and-such. It was substantially less than full fare.

“I’ll pay full fare,” I’d say.

There might be a pause. The man might ask, “Sure?” Or he’d say nothing, and I’d feel awkward. I imagined my fellow passengers gawking in incredulity. No one said anything, and I was in no position to assess the looks any of them gave me. Maybe I was merely was projecting.

Why was I making an issue out of a simple transaction? Why wasn’t I, like everyone else, eager for a break? Why was I pushing back against good intentions? Why was I ungrateful?

If I knew a store was going to put something I wanted on sale the following week, I’d wait the week to buy it. If a flight was cheaper one day of the week than another, I’d fly on the cheaper day. But on the New Haven train, I was making a public assertion that disability alone didn’t require special favors.

Still, I had misgivings. I could afford to pay full fare, while many other disabled people were denied jobs. I was among the reportedly twenty percent of blind people who were gainfully employed. From that point of view, I was making a statement about myself, not about disabled people in general. Could my stand be construed as claiming I was better than most disabled people?

Often as not, the ticket collector would say something like, “Okay. No problem.” Sometimes, I sensed through his tone of voice that he got it. I’d hand him the money and he’d put my ticket in the ticket pocket at the top of my seat. I’d feel tension drain out of me. Then I’d fold my cane and put on headphones to read a book.

Perhaps what I’m writing about is less independence than dignity. When all else fails, dignity is there if we choose to summon it. An injured player carried by stretcher off the field asserts their dignity when they wave reassuringly at their fans. An old man hobbling around on a walking stick restores his dignity when he engages neighbors in friendly conversation. After a beloved spouse dies, the one left behind regains composure on resolving to move on in life. A farmer who grows too old for the work finds a new purpose for the land in environmental preservation. A political candidate reasserts their dignity when they bow graciously to the democratic process.

When President Franklin Roosevelt and Congress created Social Security in 1935, they feared the program’s being later dismantled if the benefits applied only to people meeting income requirements. For that reason, they made everyone over 65 eligible so that even wealthy people would grow accustomed to the extra money and wouldn’t want to lose it.

By contrast, transit fare discounts for elderly people in, for example, New York, require those eligible to make a choice. Public transportation is a necessity for many elderly people, whether for making hospital appointments or maintaining social connections, and many, if not most, need the benefit. Perhaps to be consistent with my personal stand on disability-related discounted fares, I have not applied for it. Yet why turn down anything that makes me better off? After all, my taxes are paying for these discounts. Knowing my logic is wobbly, I don’t judge others, even friends who could readily afford full fares.

I still ask myself whether, back in my New Haven railroad days, my full-fare stand could have indirectly hurt the image of other disabled people. Was I right to declare that I sought only the assistance I needed?

In the end, looking back on those train trips, I’m proud of my younger self for acting on principle.

BB