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Notes from Metropolis: Inclusion
A great American idea can still guide us in the twenty-first century.
By Susan S. Szenasy
Editor In Chief
August/September 2002
There's only one man in a wheelchair inside the cavernous Schimmel Auditorium
at Manhattan's Pace University and he's behind the last row of seats. He's
attending a public hearing along with 700 other New Yorkers on an evening
in May. We've gathered at the invitation of the Lower Manhattan Development
Corporation (LMDC) who want to hear (or so they tell us) what we think about
the future of the World Trade Center site.
After the opening niceties from the mostly white, middle-aged men seated
on the stage--"we're embarking on a remarkable journey together,"
intones Daniel Doctoroff, New York City's deputy mayor for economic development
and rebuilding--the crowd, kept in line by an expert facilitator, opens
up. The first barrage of comments is a call for independence for the
disabled and a need to include this often neglected constituency in the
LMDC's transportation committee. The city and the building we're in, notes
the speaker, "is difficult enough to navigate on two good legs,"
adding that nowhere in any future development plans is there a mention of
universal design principles.
Universal design has been the law of the land since 1990, when the Americans
with Disabilities Act (ADA) was passed by Congress to protect the civil
rights of millions whose daily lives are frustrated by their environment.
Setting out to right the wrongs perpetrated on the public by designers,
architects, and their clients, the ADA has spawned some clumsy adaptations
to buildings. Sometimes when I see those awkward ramps and clunky railings
and gratuitous signs in braille in places that no blind person will ever
find, I think the design community is protesting government's tyranny
over their freedom of creative expression. It's hard to argue with such
protestations, especially since the ADA administrators seem to show no inclination
toward artistic interpretation.
Instead of pointing fingers, however, it might be more productive to
remember that creative freedom comes with responsibility. The designer is
ultimately responsible to the greater public--to that wonderfully complex
entity of unique individuals who call themselves Americans. And while the
audience that night was certainly more inclusive than the LMDC--Chinatown,
for instance, was represented by garment workers, union members, and other
men and women all speaking through an interpreter--the setting, the public
transportation, and the streets that brought them there all deprived those
with disabilities from being heard.
I thought of this exclusion that evening as I ran up the stairs to the mezzanine.
The steps themselves would have been impossible to negotiate by someone
walking with a cane, but the design of the auditorium presented even bigger
problems. Upon entering, I recoiled from the steep incline of the floor.
The idea of walking--or plunging!--down those steps sent me back downstairs,
where it seemed less vertiginous. Who but the fearless student population
could feel comfortable in a room so aggressively insensitive to the needs
of anyone over 21?
Was this exclusionary design recognized as an object lesson by the LMDC?
Facing TV film crews, flashing cameras, and relentless criticism,
some members on stage looked stunned, others seemed bored (one was apparently
asleep). Will these political appointees think of the public--all of the
public--when they make plans to rebuild downtown?
Real issues like how to build the twenty-first-century city and make
it accessible, environmentally sensitive, poetic, inspiring, secure (for
users as well as for their protectors, like firefighters and police)
were on the public's agenda that night. But three days later our newspaper
of record reported something else about the long and colorful evening. "At
Hearing, A Resolve to Rebuild Twin Towers," read the New York Times
headline. Though that idea was met with thunderous applause, so were many
other ideas that were more constructive. Such hasty and inaccurate reporting
makes me pause. I can't help but wonder how we can hope for a serious public
dialogue on real issues if our most influential paper doesn't recognize
them?
But the idea of inclusion dominated the evening, as everyone who was there
knows. And it must inform any rebuilding plan. The silent hole in the ground--now
that the noisy recovery and clean-up effort is over--compels us to remember
the acts of humanity performed on that heart-breaking day. We heard of strangers
guiding blind men to safety and others who carried a woman in a wheelchair
down hundreds of steps without even knowing her name. Let those actions
inform and inspire the great ideas that will shape the twenty-first
century. |
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