Where Are People in Your Community Struggling?

(Source: Flickr/Kevin Dooley.)

A few weeks ago, I found my kids engrossed in an online Myers-Briggs personality test—something that I, myself, had been completely fascinated by as a young person. After a few excited exclamations of “that’s TOTALLY you” and “wow, this is SO me,” I found myself sucked in, too. 

When the test result came in, I nodded in recognition, remembering that I got the same one years ago. But a few days later, I found myself wondering if it really was the best description of me. Hadn’t I changed in all those years? Before long, I was repeating the same test and trying out others to see if I would get different results.

When I was a kid, my nickname was Emma Dilemma; to this day, I think it’s pretty apt. Whatever my personality type, I guess it’s part of my nature to think twice, give the benefit of the doubt, and try to look at things from all sides. I don’t always act on these musings, but I sure spend a lot of time internally agonizing over them!

This instinct comes in handy when thinking about the city from other people’s perspectives. When I try to see things through someone else’s eyes, I quickly realize that we all have different struggles, depending on age and gender and race, abilities, resources, and lived experience. 

I had one of those “aha! moments” the other day. I was riding along on my bike over a bumpy cobblestone surface, which had likely been installed in some well-meaning placemaking attempt many years ago. Pedestrianization efforts often include novel street treatments like different colored brick or stones, and it’s true, the cobbles on this street did make it seem quaint and gave it some character. 

But they were also not in great repair, and my second thought after noticing the poor state they were in and how bumpy and unpleasant it was to ride over them on a bike, was what a total nightmare it must be to traverse this very uneven surface for anyone walking with a cane, a walker, or even someone who was just a little unsteady on their feet. I could easily picture excited kids running and tripping.

All Uphill

I started to think about other instances of seeing the same thing through a different lens. The first one that came to mind was a new-ish active transportation bridge in my neighborhood in Winnipeg, Manitoba. It spans the Red River at the site of a previous vehicle bridge. When the time came for the old bridge to be replaced, the city built a new vehicle bridge right beside it, and the piers of the old vehicle bridge were incorporated into the new active transportation bridge. It’s smooth and wide, has decent lighting and public art, and best of all, is completely separate from fast-moving traffic. The active transportation community was ecstatic about this new piece of infrastructure. What could there possibly be to complain about?

Well, it turns out that reusing the piers gives the new bridge a pretty steep slope. It doesn’t look that steep, and press releases at that time noted that efforts had been made to reduce the grade, but I struggle with it on my single-speed bike, especially when pulling a trailer. If you’re a really fit person with a 10-speed bike, this might not bother you. But it only took my 6-year-old one too-fast descent and crash into the barriers at the bottom for me to realize that this bridge really was not welcoming for all ages and abilities. I often see people slowly puffing away up the slope, or like me, just getting off and walking. The thought of someone using a wheelchair on it is terrifying. Same bridge, completely different experience.

Double Standards

Here’s another example. It doesn’t feel great to admit this, but before I had kids, I’d get kind of annoyed when I’d see parents (usually young mothers) with big strollers on the bus. They took up so much room, and this made it hard for more than one person with a stroller or using a wheelchair or walker to get on the bus. Why do they need such a big stroller? I’d wonder. I got quite a reality check after becoming a parent and experiencing first-hand what it’s like to go anywhere with a baby. When you’re driving, you don’t think about it. The infant bucket seat clicks into the back seat, the stroller gets folded in the trunk, the diaper bag gets thrown in alongside whatever other stuff you need for yourself, your errands, etc. (And sealing the comfort deal, you’ve got a cupholder for your travel mug of coffee, too.)

No one takes the bus with an infant for fun; they’re trying to get somewhere or do something. And when you take the bus, you still have all that stuff, but are expected to somehow not actually take up any space. I could go on about this: how those big clunky strollers you see on the bus are often the budget models (i.e., what the parents could afford), and how compact umbrella strollers are useless for infants under six months (and if there is any snow on the ground outside). Worse, the spatial needs of parents with young children are pitted against those with mobility challenges! My point is that until you have walked in that parent’s taking-my-young-child-on-the-bus shoes, it’s impossible to understand what their struggles are.

Night and Day

A while back I wrote about this busy multi-use path that runs along the edge of downtown. It’s a useful connector, and to get to it, I need to take the active transportation bridge I mentioned above, and then a gravel path through a quiet riverbank forest. The first time I took that route, I thought, “this is great—so peaceful!” as I made my way through the tranquil area on a sunny afternoon. But my assessment changed quite dramatically after I rode it in the dark, and realized that it had zero lighting, and was actually alarmingly isolated. Those 300 yards through the forest felt much longer than they really were.

I feel safe riding there by myself during the day, because there tend to be a lot of other folks biking and walking, as well. But even with a group, I don’t feel comfortable biking there at night, and others I’ve talked to feel the same. Yes, lighting would help, but it doesn’t solve the proximity and people problem: If you ran into trouble, it’s hard to say whether anyone would hear or notice or come to help.

Part of what attracted me to the Strong Towns conversation was this nagging feeling that I was experiencing the city in negative ways that seemed invisible (or worse, irrelevant) to most. I love the invitation to humbly observe where people struggle, because it validates my feelings that there is something wrong; there is a struggle. 

But the humility part is equally salient. Just as I now see that my judgment of moms with strollers on the bus was unfair and unhelpful, I would hope that when I say my kid still hates going on the active transportation bridge because of their crash a few years ago, others will see that even if they personally can manage it just fine, it might be challenging for others.

There’s always more than one way to see or experience things. When thinking about infrastructure, spaces, and systems, it can be enlightening to try to put yourself in another’s shoes. How would this path, this bridge, this bus feel if you were someone other than you? How does this feel different if you walk or bike instead of drive? Is it comfortable? Easy? Welcoming? Safe?

Better yet, invite someone who’s different from you to take a walk with you, and ask them about it. You might be surprised at how differently they experience the same space.

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