I was checking into a Minneapolis hotel fifteen years ago. I can’t remember the year exactly, but I was checking in with my dog and suitcase and my steadfast hope dignity would attend me, for as all disabled people know, when you’re in public dignity is fickle. Maybe the doorman will grab you by the arm, believing he’s helping you. He’s sincere. But as soon as he grabs you you’re leached of 15% of your dignity. Again, all disabled people know every day is a dignity leaching measure.
But in this case it wasn’t the doorman who de-dignified me. Nor the desk clerk. The job was reserved for two very drunken college girls who appeared beside me as I was approaching the front desk in the conditionally respectable Marriott.
“Hey,” said girl one. “Can we touch your face?”
“No, stupid,” said girl two. “He’s supposed to touch our faces!”
Roller skate laughter. Heavy odor of gin.
“Hey,” said girl one, “Wanna touch my face?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” said girl two. “We’ve got great faces!”
“I’m not Helen Keller,” I said. “And I’m not Patty Duke either.”
“He won’t touch our faces!” said girl one.
“Please leave me alone,” I said.
The desk clerk was immobilized. And useless.
“C’mon,” said girl two. “Touch my face!”
Around this time a security guard appeared. He said: “Come with me ladies. It’s time to go.”
They were compliant which surprised me.
But as they walked away, I could hear girl one saying: “He wouldn’t touch my face!”
You can’t make this stuff up.
What are you going to do? I checked in. I estimated I was down 85% on the dignity scale.
Up on the seventh floor I said aloud: “I like my life. I am full of ideas. My dog and I don’t get lost. This is a good day.”
Planet of the Blind 