Any one who's heard this piece about car dealerships knows that they need to make a monthly quota, and at the end of each month the salespeople go bananas trying to sell their cars. So with three days left in February, I got the call. She asked for me by name and tried to sell me a car. "Where'd you get my number?" She told me it was through Capitol One, a credit card company that sends me all kinds of junk mail. I cut to the chase: "Do you know that I'm blind?"It was a ridiculous question and a somewhat extreme way to phrase it. I'm not completely blind, just blind enough that I should never be driving a car anywhere ever. And of course she didn't know that I'm blind, or else she wouldn't be calling me to try to sell me a car. But this isn't the first time this dealership has called me, and I've told them this before and asked them to take my name out of their database.
The most intense part was her reaction. How do you respond when you call someone, assuming that they can drive (and that they can see) and then suddenly, SHAZAM—they're blind! "Oh, I'm so sorry," she moaned. From her perspective, it was a great tragedy—I'd lost my vision in a matter of seconds and it was all her fault. If only she hadn't called. Now I felt bad too. "That's okay," I said, "Now will you please take me out of your database?"
People with disabilities do not live in a constant state of tragedy, nor do we want anyone's pity. Unless we are provoked. Then yes, do apologize, but only if you can back that apology up with action, i.e.: take all of us off your mailing lists. At least until the self-driving cars are ready to roll.
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