Jon22: The Website of Jonathan Dobres

A few years ago, the MBTA introduced a new model of train on the Green Line.  For those of you who have never seen it, keep in mind that the Green Line is essentially a modernized trolley.  The newer train, the “Type 8“, was meant to supplement the aging Type 7s, which are still in use today.  One of the main problems with the old Type 7s is that they were built in the mid-80s, several years before the Americans with Disabilities act of 1990.  There are stairs inside every entrance of the Type 7 that make wheelchair access impossible.

The MBTA’s solution to the problem is what it calls a “Mobile Lift,” and what I call a Giant Metal Box.  It is, literally, an enormous metal box on wheels.  The process is this:  Wheelchair-bound patrons must grab the attention of the train’s conductor.  The conductor then loads the patron into the box, wheels it to the nearest entrance, elevates the box with a manual crank, and finally extends a clunky metal ramp with a loud bang.  Thus, the patron can roll onto the train.  To get off, the whole process is repeated in reverse.  This extremely graceful and meticulously considered solution to the accessibility problem can easily add twenty minutes to your train ride, provoke the ire of able bodied riders, and embarrass the hell out of the person in the wheelchair.

The Type 8 trains, in contrast, were built to comply with the ADA guidelines and are a vast improvement.  Two of the train’s entrances are built as close to ground level as the trolley system allows.  With the simple turn of a key and press of a button, the conductor can activate a small automated ramp that bridges the small gap between the entrance and the platform.  The whole procedure takes about a minute and is surprisingly efficient.  The new trains also have enough space for up to two wheelchairs and a special, handicap accessible stop request button.

So, we come to yesterday.  I was commuting home, sitting in my usual seat (which happens to be directly across from the more open area meant for the occasional wheelchair).  A man in a wheelchair easily boards our Type 8 train at Park Street.  I can’t determine his exact disability, but it is profound.  It appears that the man has just enough motor control to operate the stick that drives his chair.  He has tremendous difficulty speaking, but is able to vocalize enough so that the conductor knows that he needs the B Line. So far, so good.

We come to one of the above ground stops, and the man in the wheelchair begins to vocalize as the train moves on to the next one.  It is just before rush hour and the train is unusually empty.  Despite this, the conductor fails to notice anything.  I turn off my iPod and ask, “Do you need to get off?”  He nods.  I push the handicap accessible stop request button for him and wait.

Having bad balance myself, I have to wait for the next stop before walking up to the front of the train.  Many people are trying to get on, a few are getting off, and I push my way through them all to get to the conductor.

“Excuse me?”  The conductor doesn’t respond.  He’s talking on the phone system that’s built into the trains.  I don’t know what about, but from his tone I know it can’t be work related.

“SIR?”  Still nothing, and people are getting annoyed with me.  I’m wedged directly in the space that every boarding passenger needs to use to enter the train.  I’d be annoyed with me too.  In fact, I’d be fantasizing about ways to hurt me.  I’m not a very nice commuter if you’ve got two good legs and are in my way.

Finally, I have no choice but to break an unwritten rule of the city.  I touch the conductor, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.  “The man in the wheelchair needs to get off the train,” I say.  Without another word, the conductor moves to the man’s entrance and activates the ramp.  The man in the wheelchair vocalizes a quick thank you to me and departs.

The problems with this exchange should be fairly obvious, but here we go anyway.  The handicap accessible stop request button is just below waist height, which is good for wheelchair access, but it still requires that you have functional use of your arm, which this man did not.  How this limitation could be overcome, I’m not really sure.  A floor panel perhaps?  Furthermore, I have always been under the impression—as I think most people are—that the handicap button is special.  It has a special shape, a special icon, and is ringed with special lights, and so I had always thought that it sent a special signal to the conductor.  Despite the cosmetics, however, it isn’t much different from the yellow stop request strips that cover the inside of the train, and as far as I can tell it generates no special notice other than the standard “Stop Requested” light.  I’m sure this could be changed with some simple rewiring.  Lastly and most importantly, the conductor failed to pay adequate attention to a patron with special needs.  The train was not crowded, and the conductor could have easily spared a minute to ask about the man’s final destination when he boarded.  He obviously did not, and moreover, failed to devote the small amount of extra attention to the situation that would have solved all of these problems.

One could make the argument that perhaps a man as severely disabled as this one shouldn’t really be riding the T.  Nevertheless, he was, and I am appalled at the conductor’s failure to take responsibility for his passenger.  I wouldn’t even call it a lack of compassion so much as a lack of basic job competence.