Hamilton, the Broadway musical. We’ve been waiting to see it for two years. Our daughter saw it in New York its first summer. We were in New York in May 2016 but couldn’t get tickets. The three of us, my partner, my daughter, and I, have been enjoying the sound track since it came out. I was thrilled by the interracial cast fighting the need to pigeon hole actors by race and gender. An Asian man can play Washington. An African American man can play Hamilton. Women of any race can play female or male characters.
When we learned it was coming to Portland, my daughter, Alex, who lives in Portland, said she would go on-line at the appointed hour and see if she could get tickets. She was successful last fall and scored four tickets for the April show for wheelchair seating as I require a wheelchair for distances of more than a block. We were all set to go.
Last year, I stopped being able to push my wheelchair to get around when I needed it. I didn’t want to get an electric scooter any more than I wanted a wheelchair all those years ago. Over the last year, not having some kind of wheeled conveyance became more and more problematic.
After making a exhaustive internet search and visiting a couple of local medical equipment places, I had made my choice of a light weight, foldable electric scooter. There weren’t any available locally. I had to buy it without actually seeing it with 14 days to return it. It came last month, and it was a revelation.
Suddenly, I could walk with my partner, Ronnie, and my dog on our neighborhood streets again. I could go into a mall. I could get into work without asking a coworker to come meet me in the parking garage and push me in. It is not better than walking. It is a whole lot better than sitting.
We took it to the ocean. I rode it on the hard packed sand. I took it in the grocery store. I took it in the pub for dinner. When Hamilton came this week, I took it to Hamilton.
I am 5’10” when standing. I am used to a long life of being able to see over folks’ heads in crowds. If you have never sat in a wheelchair or scooter in a crowd, one of the worst aspects is being low, low down. I can’t see out of the crowd. I have to pick a direction and gradually part the sea of humanity.
People react in a variety of ways. Some people are startled and jump a little when they see me. Some people say, “Excuse me,” when they are not actually in my way. Some people are gracious and make a way for me to pass often with a smile. I did not see any other wheelchair or scooter users. As far as I could tell, I was the only one.
The thing about being the only one is that I stick out. There is comfort in being just an anonymous member of a crowd. In a scooter, everyone who crosses my path notices me. I have to be brave and courageous reminding myself it is okay. “It is okay,” over and over again. “I am doing what I have to do to be here. It is okay.”
Recently, I was walking the dog with Ronnie. I asked her, “How do you feel when we walk together this way in public with me on the scooter?”
She paused and said, “I hate it.” I nodded. “Not that you are using a scooter, but that you have too.”
“Me too,” I said.
“Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful that you have it. I just wish it wasn’t necessary.”
“Me too,” I said. That is the truth of the thing. I am really grateful that I have a scooter to get around with. It was awful to only be able to go only where cars could go. Still, I hate it just like Ronnie does.
When we are motoring from the parking place to the theater, I’m zipping along the sidewalk. Sometimes, I’m behind Ronnie and Alex. Occasionally, I’m in front. I didn’t want them to drop me off at the theater. I wanted to walk with them from the parked car to the theater like a “normal” person.
Anytime I go somewhere on the scooter I have to make sure I locate the ramps. It simply would not do for me to go careening down the stairs. The ramps can be a bit out of the way. I know something about this from using the wheelchair. I successfully negotiated the entrance ramp to the theater.
The staff at the theater were all very knowledgable. They led us to the wheelchair seating. It was perfect. We were in the back on the orchestra floor where the chairs could be moved. This way a person could choose to sit in their wheeled conveyance or use a chair. The three of us went with another friend Alex invited because she had four tickets. Being in the back with movable chairs also meant I could stand, stretch, and move around without bothering any other patrons.
Hamilton was two hours and 48 minutes long with a 20 minute intermission. The information provided before the performance recommended going to the restroom prior to the show because the restroom lines were quite long during intermission. I went to the restroom at the restaurant at dinner earlier and hoped for the best.
The show was delayed by 30 minutes due to technical difficulties. We were so excited. When the show started, it was riveting. My eyes were glued to the stage. I have a lot of trouble sitting still due to pain. I did not sit still but my eyes did not leave the stage. I didn’t want to miss a single moment of the show. I didn’t even steal a glance at Ronnie to see her face which I knew was in rapture, because I didn’t want to miss even a second.
When intermission came, there was discussion about making a run for the restroom. I thought I had to go but the situation with the scooter was daunting. I can’t stand in a line. I have to use the scooter. My daughter pointed me in the direction of the accessible restroom for one near the elevators. Although there were other multi-stall restrooms, there was a significant line to the accessible one.
I motored up to the elevator and asked the attendant about restrooms on other floors. He pointed to the accessible restroom with the line. He said, “You have priority for that restroom.”
“I know. I don’t feel comfortable with that.”
I motored in the direction of the back of the line. The woman in the front of the line kindly said, “You can go ahead of me.”
I responded with embarrassment, “No, that’s okay.” I went to the back of the line and pondered the fact that I would never get to the restroom before the show started.
As I was pondering, another usher saw me and came up to me saying, “You have priority and can go to the head of the line.”
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that.”
She just said, “Follow me,” and started to the head of the line. At this point, I felt compelled to follow her because I didn’t see any other way out of this mess. As she went, she told those in line the bigger restroom lines now had shorter lines. I got to the head of the line, apologized to the woman at the head of the line, and waited for the occupant to come out. They came out quickly, and I scooted in.
Now, I was confronted with a whole new problem. I have urinary hesitancy which means simply I don’t pee easily even when there is plenty of time. I am aware of all those people in line. I sit and try to relax. I hear words over the loud speaker about how much time is left. But, I have no clue exactly what was said. This is why I prefer multi-stall restrooms. I can hang out there and no one is specifically waiting for me other than my family.
I can’t relax. I can’t pee. It seems like a very sad confluence of events. I don’t try very long because I am aware of the futility. People are waiting. The show must go on. I get up, quickly redress, and motor on out of there. The line is suddenly very much shorter. I go back to my family and confess that I couldn’t pee. I say, “I just wanted my shot” which is a not so subtle reference to one of the great songs in the musical. “I’ll have to go before we leave.”
We sit through another glorious 80 minutes. Since I had an opportunity to pee, I am now comfortable in that regard. Towards the end of the show, there is a sad part. I hear Ronnie sniffling and maybe also Alex crying. Tears are running down my face but I do not look away or at either of them. I am not missing a single second of the greatest musical I have ever seen.
Ronnie told me later that she reached out to take Alex’s hand and then my hand. She was aware we were all holding hands together, crying, and not looking away from the stage.
When it is over, I realize that I still can’t pee. So, we gather our things and leave with the throngs. I am zipping around. We go up a hill. The scooter stalls a little because it is wet and it is front wheel drive. This means I lean over the front wheel to get traction, and I’m off.
I am still aware that I both love and hate the scooter. We get to the parking lot, and I zip ahead to the car. This is one thing the scooter can do. It can just go which is wonderful and freeing. On the way back to Alex’s, we are excited and thrilled. We talk about the show. We get to her house. I am able to pee. All is good.
The next day on the way home from Portland to Olympia, Ronnie drives, singing and dancing to the soundtrack of Hamilton. Tonight, I am sitting here listening to various Hamilton songs in my head. I say to Ronnie, “You know what’s going on in my head, right?”
“Yes, I know what you’re hearing but I don’t exactly know which song.”
“That’s okay. It’ll change in a minute anyway.”
Our daughter texts us, “Hamilton still in my head.” We are pretty much all in the same boat. This may go on for several weeks. We are lucky to have gotten to see the show. I am lucky to have gotten in to see the show. On reflection, I’m not hating the scooter right now. Rather, I know I am extremely lucky to have it.
Hamilton demonstrates the strength and courage this country showed in breaking free of a dominating power. It makes this statement by including the importance of immigrants, newcomers, idealists, and those with vision outside of the norm. Those with passion and courage who were willing to chase the hope of self determination.
There were clashes between factions. There was negotiation and painstaking resolution. There were different alliances. Watching Hamilton is to realize the incredible change made by those who were willing to give their lives for an idea of freedom.
In a small way, my relationship with the scooter is a statement of freedom and acceptance. If I’m out there in public, motoring my way along, I am demonstrating that it is okay. Not just in my mind but also in the minds of everyone that sees me. They may not agree. They may not think I’m okay. I am still present and accounted for.
There are many dynamic songs in Hamilton. The lyrics of one goes, “Raise a glass to freedom. They’ll tell a story of tonight.”
My story of this night is that I got there. I felt the freedom. I was different, but I was okay. I’ll keep going to the theater and any place else that the scooter can go. It’s my right. It’s my mission. It’s my personal freedom.
L’Chaim.
Joceile
4.4.18
[Picture of Hamilton official merchandise information card and Hamilton stage.]
