Thunder Dog

by Michael Hingson

  These days Roselle is a senior citizen. The IMT has gone into remission. She’s still joyful and loving, with a gleam in her eye, but her joints are beginning to get stiff with age, and she spends most of her time napping in the sun streaming through the sliding glass door at the back of our house. She always jumps up to greet visitors with her wagging tail and body and a kiss. And if I were you, I wouldn’t leave any socks lying around where she can get to them.

  13

  SHAKE OFF THE DUST

  Interdependence is and ought to be as much

  the ideal of man as self-sufficiency.

  MAHATMA GANDHI

  Many of the key moments of my life have revolved around airplanes.

  The most obvious example is the hijacked 767 that destroyed my building ten years ago. But there have been others, and these airplane encounters always seem to propel me in a brand-new direction.

  I grew up beneath the wings of jets roaring in and out of Edwards Air Force Base, where my father worked. The base sprawled out across Rosamond Lakebed, a former bombing and gunnery range chosen for its big, flat surface and the cloudless weather perfect for flying. During the early 1940s, the military began flight-testing the country’s first jet fighter aircraft, the Bell XP-59A Airacomet. Later, the rocket-powered Bell X-1 was the first in a series of experimental airplanes designed to test the boundaries of flight, and on October 14, 1947, fearless test pilot Chuck Yeager became the first man ever to break the sound barrier, in the X-1. This dustbowl in the high desert was the center of aviation research and advanced flying. Test pilot Scott Crossfield called this jet playground “an Indianapolis without rules.”

  By the time my family moved to Palmdale, about an hour’s drive away, the test pilots were riding these rocket planes over 100,000 feet in the air and exceeding Mach 3, or about 2,000 miles per hour. Fighter jets such as the F-100 Super Sabre and the F-102 Delta Dagger streaked and boomed through the skies. At the very same time, I was riding through the streets of Palmdale on my bicycle, testing my own speed and sound boundaries under the shadow of their wings. I grew curious about the science of flight and how engineers used the laws of the universe to blast these pilots up into the edge of space.

  I didn’t get to ride in an airplane until I was fourteen, on my way back from Guide Dogs for the Blind with Squire. Somehow he wedged his big golden retriever body under the seat in front of me and spent the next hour cozy and asleep, his head on my feet. As the plane lifted off, I remember thinking, Now I can do most anything I want to do. I felt free and alive. Having a guide dog for the first time was like breaking the sound barrier, and I knew my life would never be the same.

  After college, I flew all over the country for business, and airplanes became as familiar as trains or taxicabs. I loved flying, until a plane tried to kill me. I was booked on American Airlines Flight 191 from Chicago to Los Angeles on May 25, 1979. But I finished my work a day early and exchanged my ticket for an earlier flight. The next day I was in a Los Angeles cab when I heard the report. Flight 191 had crashed shortly after takeoff, killing all 271 people on board, plus two on the ground. The left engine had fallen off the plane, and the aircraft had rolled over before crashing in a huge fireball in an open field less than a mile from Chicago O’Hare International Airport. The accident is now considered one of the ten worst airplane crashes in history. I should have been aboard.

  After that, I began to look at life a little differently. My family became more precious. I took my faith more seriously and pondered my purpose in life.

  A little over a year later, I was thrown off of an airplane. In the early ’80s, some airlines had begun harassing blind passengers, segregating them in bulkhead seats, taking away their white canes and stowing them in overhead bins, and forcing them to demonstrate their capacity to buckle and unbuckle seat belts. Blind people felt uncomfortable and in some cases were ejected from planes for refusing bulkhead seats.

  In September 1980, I was refused boarding on a plane to San Francisco because the bulkhead seats were already taken. I waited for the next flight out and tried to board. Again, I was ordered to sit in a bulkhead seat. I refused. After discussions with the flight attendants, the captain, and the supervisor of ground personnel, I was forcibly ejected from the plane. My left arm was bent behind my back, my thumb was injured, and my watch was broken off my wrist. It was humiliating.

  Most of the time, I prefer to defuse uncomfortable situations with humor, engaging people and trying to help keep every interaction positive. For example, airport security personnel often don’t know what to do with a guide dog and cause unnecessary delays by putting us through extra security checks. I have a choice to make. I can seethe with anger at the injustice, but if I went that route, I’d be angry most of the time. The truth is, I face discrimination every day. But persistent anger isn’t productive, and it isn’t fair to people who just don’t know any better. So I choose engagement. When security puts us through the wringer, I make light of it: “Go ahead and frisk Roselle. She loves it. Frisk her more!”

  But that day on the airplane, my approach didn’t work. They were treating me like I was weak and helpless, and it was time to take a stand, just like my parents did when I got kicked off the school bus. Most people have no clue how blind people survive and function every day in the light-dependent world. When you are blind, most everything is risky. The world isn’t set up with us in mind. But we can and do cope. We use work-arounds, technology, creativity, persistence, and intelligence to overcome the barriers put in our way.

  Later, I discovered the airline that ejected me had no blind seating regulation and that a blind person with a guide dog was allowed to sit in any seat on the aircraft. I was asked to testify about my experience at a public symposium with representatives of the Federal Aviation Administration and Delta Airlines.

  Twenty years later, I was at work in the World Trade Center when four planes were hijacked and used to attack our country on September 11, 2001. The country has never been the same. Neither have I. There is grief and loss. There is also an opportunity for change and a chance to move forward. But to do that, we need to work together. That’s how the terrorists succeeded, with nineteen people functioning as a cohesive unit and demonstrating teamwork by planning, coordinating, and working together in secret to carry out the deadly attack.

  To fight back, we must work together or suffer from our lack of unity and compassion for others, especially those who might look or act different from us. A wise man once said that all of us have disabilities; it’s just that most of them are invisible.

  I am often asked if I believe that blind and other disabled persons are better off today than in the past. In some ways, I believe that we are. For example, Braille is easier and cheaper to produce now. Technology offers new ways to access information, travel more independently than ever, and, in general, live life with less difficulty than before.

  But on the other hand, are blind people more socially integrated into society than we were fifty, twenty, or even ten years ago? I think not. I will know that I am truly integrated into society when people are interested in me because of something I accomplish rather than some routine task that appears daunting just because I am blind. I will know that I’m a real first-class citizen when I can walk into restaurants with friends and the servers ask me for my order rather than asking my sighted colleagues, “What does he want?” I will know that I have arrived when I can go to meetings or conventions where all the materials given to sighted people are automatically available to me in Braille or another accessible form. True and full integration is not easy. It starts with desire, continues with education, and comes full circle grounded in trust.

  On that fateful day ten years ago, I trusted Roselle. And Roselle trusted me. We survived through trust and teamwork.

  Recently I flew to Amsterdam to speak at a guide dog school. The event planners splurged and booked me first class. When I boarded, I relaxed down into the comfortable, padded recliner. I leaned back
and put up my feet. My new guide dog, Africa, was curled up under the seat in front. But when I reclined, she lifted her head. I knew what she wanted. I patted my knees. “Africa, come!” Quick as a flash she unfolded her long legs and emerged, then hopped up in my lap. All sixty-five pounds. I stroked her head. So much wisdom.

  Guide Dog Wisdom

  What I Learned from Roselle on 9/11

  1. There’s a time to work and a time to play. Know the difference. When the harness goes on, it’s time to work. Work hard; others are depending on you.

  2. Focus in and use all of your senses. Learn to tell the difference between a harmless thunderstorm and a true emergency. Don’t let your sight get in the way of your vision.

  3. Sometimes the way is hard, but if you work together, someone will pass along a water bottle just when you need it.

  4. Always, but always, kiss firefighters.

  5. Ignore distractions. There’s more to life than playing fetch or chasing tennis balls.

  6. Listen carefully to those who are wiser and more experienced than you. They’ll help you find the way.

  7. Don’t stop until work is over. Sometimes being a hero is just doing your job.

  8. The dust cloud won’t last forever. Keep going and look for the way out. It will come.

  9. Shake off the dust and move on. Remember the first guide dog command? “Forward.”

  10. When work is over, play hard with your friends. And don’t forget to share your Booda Bone.

  14

  IT’S ALL WORTH IT

  God does not present insurmountable problems.

  Instead, he gives us challenges, waits for

  us to overcome them, and then rejoices.

  MICHAEL HINGSON

  There were several moments on September 11 when I didn’t know if I would survive. When the building tipped and I thought we were going to fall to the street, seventy-eight stories below, I didn’t think I was going to make it. When Tower 2 collapsed, I thought I was going to be crushed by flying debris or by the tower itself. And when the dust cloud swept over us, I felt sure I would drown. But I did not. Somewhere deep inside was a tiny fragment of faith that if Roselle and I worked together, we would be okay. And somehow we walked out of that cloud and survived. There are days I still can’t believe I’m alive.

  I walked away from Ground Zero a much different man from the one who unlocked the office door that morning. I survived, and I’m okay, but I’ve changed. I don’t think there is one person who witnessed the events of 9/11 who wasn’t changed. There are those who have lost hope, who have grown bitter, angry, intolerant, and hateful. I am not one of those people. I still believe in dreams. I still think that if we work together, things will turn out all right. I still feel that if we each treat each other with kindness, dignity, and respect, we will live happily ever after. I have hope.

  Not long ago, I was in line to go through security at the airport in Oakland, California. As soon as I got in line, another passenger said, “We’re going to lift the rope and let you go up to the front of the line.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” I said.

  “Well, it’s going to be easier for you.”

  “What could be easier than standing in line? I do it every week. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, it’s easier on your dog.”

  “No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  As we inched forward, three other people tried to move me up to the front of the line. They were insistent, and before long they became so angry when I chose to stay in place that I was convinced we might come to fisticuffs.

  I know they had the best of intentions. I know they were only trying to help. But I didn’t need to go to the front of the line just because I am blind. I want to stand in line. I want to move forward like everyone else. I don’t want to be set apart. I want to interact with people, talk to people, and be with people.

  I look forward to the day that I can go to the airport, stand in line, and not receive grief.

  I look forward to the day when I want to cut in line and someone says, “Well, who made you king?”

  I look forward to the day when blind people will be treated as equals in society, when we are truly accepted as first-class citizens.

  Since 9/11 I’ve been asked to talk about what happened to me that day, and I made the decision to speak about it for three reasons. First, if it would help people better understand blindness and the fact that the handicap is not being blind but rather the attitudes and misconceptions people have about blindness, then it would be worth it.

  Second, if it would help people understand how the guide dog relationship works, it would be worth it.

  And third, if it would help people move on from 9/11 and discover some of the important lessons to be learned, then it’s worth it.

  Several years ago, I flew to New Zealand to tell my story. My second week down there, I spoke to a group of students in South Island who were active in the Royal Foundation of the Blind. After I spoke, one of them shared this story. He and a group of blind friends had recently gone on an adventure expedition. At the end of their trip, they had been sitting around a campfire when their guide got up and said, “I have to tell you a story. Before we left, I was going to call your leaders and tell them the trip was off because I did not think there was any way I could guide a bunch of blind people without someone getting killed. There was no way blind people could do river rafting and rock climbing. But then I watched a television interview of this blind bloke who survived 9/11 and came over here to show us what blind people can do. It changed my mind. I’ve had the best day of my life. I’ll guide you guys anytime.”

  If this was the only thing this “blind bloke” ever accomplished by telling my story, it would be worth it. It’s all worth it.

  Later that year I spoke at Temple University, and a woman came up to me. She had a friend who perished in the attack on the Pentagon, and she was devastated, stuck, unable to talk about the tragedy. “I have had a hard time dealing with the loss of my best friend,” she said. “But listening to your story and hearing what you learned and how you survived has helped me. You are right. We need to continue to dream, and we need to learn how to work with each other, and I’m going to do it. I can talk about it now, and I’m going to move on.”

  We can’t let fear paralyze us. We must carry on. The best way we can honor those we lost in the fires of September 11 is by moving forward and building a better society through trust and teamwork. We can make it happen.

  We need to dream, to dare, and to do. I lived a nightmare at Ground Zero, but even a nightmare can turn into a happy ending if we refuse to give in to fear. Out of the ashes and rubble of 9/11, we can create building blocks for the future. Don’t let your sight get in the way of your vision. Join Roselle, Karen, and me. Let’s shake off the dust and move on.

  Forward.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MICHAEL HINGSON: So many people, blind and sighted alike, went into making this book possible through their involvement with my life that it is hard to know where to begin to name them all. While many of them are mentioned throughout the book, some deserve special attention.

  First Susy Flory, my author colleague, has spent countless hours in learning about the world of blindness in order to help me articulate my story and to give you a more accurate picture of what it really means to be blind, which is much different from the traditional stereotype held by most people.

  I wish to thank my parents, who stuck to their guns and didn’t allow society to dictate how they should raise a blind child. Without the philosophy they gave me, I never could have survived and thrived in this quirky world that doesn’t understand that it is okay to be different. Thanks also, Dad, for the many hours of stimulating spiritual talk and for reading me the Baird Spalding books and other stuff.

  I wish to acknowledge Richard Herboldsheimer, whom I met in my sophomore year in high school. He showed me that teachers are people too. Herbo, you are as muc
h an inspiration to me now as you were in 1969. Your discipline and strength have stayed with me.

  I wish to thank the late Dr. Fred Reines, my college academic physics adviser. Dr. Reines, you helped me see and prove that blind people could succeed at the study of physics just as much as anyone else. I am glad you finally got the Nobel Prize for Physics; you deserved it.

  Thanks to the three great presidents of the National Federation of the Blind, Dr. Jacobus tenBroek, Dr. Kenneth Jernigan, and Dr. Marc Maurer, for your inspiration and strength in leading the NFB and so many of us into a better place.

  I wish to acknowledge Ginger Crowley for her efforts to help me become a better public speaker and storyteller.

  I also wish to thank Joanne Ritter, director of marketing and communications at Guide Dogs for the Blind, and her cohort in crime, Morry Angel, for making all this possible by seeing the value of telling my story to the world after 9/11.

  I wish to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of all those who gave of their time to be interviewed for this book. Your contributions are great!

  Thanks to all who read and commented on the drafts of this endeavor. You have made this a better story, and you have taught me a lot.