Local opinion: Disability makes Tucson a challenging place to live

Since moving to Tucson three years ago, I keep meeting the same kind of person. You know the type: sun-kissed skin, muscular hiking legs, eyes aglitter with affection for the Old Pueblo. “It’s the biggest small town in America!” they say. These people sure love Tucson.

I am not one of these people.

On the surface, this might be confusing. I am a young-ish, well-ish paid professional working for one of Tucson’s largest employers. My work supports people in Arizona’s underserved communities, and I like to believe that I do a good job. I volunteer my time and expertise to many local organizations, which I deeply enjoy. How could it be that I dislike Tucson?

It’s because I’m blind.

I have a degenerative retinal condition, retinitis pigmentosa, which is characterized by night blindness, cataracts, and limited peripheral vision. Though I present as sighted, I carry a folding white cane at all times, using it when necessary. I don’t see well enough to ride a bicycle. I obviously don’t drive. In Tucson, that’s a problem.

In order to commute to work independently on foot, I am limited to where I am able to live. In my neighborhood, rental property is expensive — my partner and I pay $2,400 plus utilities per month, with an increase coming up in August — and surroundings are sketchy. When I walk home at night, I hesitate to use my white cane because doing so makes me a target for the ever-present cast of characters at the nearby Circle K. The lobby at the Starbucks less than a block away closes at 3 pm, according to an employee, due to past gun violence in the parking lot.

Public transit infrastructure — aside from the streetcar, which is a godsend — is largely unhelpful. I am ineligible for paratransit because I am able to use the base transit system independently. The base system, which is unreliable, slow, and inefficient. The base system, where one can wait up to an hour in monsoon rains or 100-degree temperatures at bus stops with no shelters. The base system, which does not even serve some parts of Tucson.

Street lamps, if they exist, are so dim that they may as well not. Sidewalks, if they exist, are broken, uneven, and chockablock with obstacles. Sidewalk maintenance is the responsibility of landowners, which I learned recently after falling on my way home from work and breaking my ankle. This is just one incident in a current that I must constantly swim against while cobbling together a life — and contributing to the tax base of a city that doesn’t seem concerned about whether I have a viable livelihood.

These issues may be invisible from the driver’s seat of the ivory Tahoe; however Tucson’s citizens with disabilities pay the price every day with their money, their time, and their mobility. It’s not enough just to exist; we need and deserve an environment where we can thrive.

When I share these issues with local leaders, they tend to suggest belongingness solutions for survival and safety needs. No amount of equal opportunities employment will create an easier commute. No happy hour mixer will make my rent affordable. No visit to a new restaurant will unbreak my ankle or prevent it from being broken again.

I happen to agree: Tucson is the biggest small town in America. For the belongingness needs of the majority, this is an open door. For the safety and survival needs of everyone else — when a diverse population is leaning on mainstream supports — it’s a cage.

Practical accounting for diverse experiences determines the greatness of a community. Disability is diversity. It’s time to stop checking a box and begin listening, reimagining, and producing results.