Maybe it’s time to rethink what ‘walkability’ really means
Standing downtown at the northern corner of San Jacinto and Capitol streets last week, I waited for a green light to cross San Jacinto on my way to the old U.S. Custom House building’s post office.
A two-step curb separated me from the street, while the other three corners had a ramp. How does someone in a wheelchair cross here? They have to detour? Turn around and hope a curb ramp is at Fannin? Turn left and hope a curb ramp is at Texas?
I live in downtown Houston, close to this post office and a few coffee shops, bars and restaurants. The Walk Score is a 97. Downtown’s recent rush of new residential high-rises could not be happier with this A+ rating. Walk Score, a company now owned by the real estate brokerage firm Redfin, categorizes my walkability as “Walker’s Paradise,” where my “daily errands do not require a car.”
But their methodology, based on your proximity to amenities like restaurants, parks, schools and shops, assumes you are an able-bodied pedestrian. It doesn’t factor in often impassable sidewalks that are blocked off by construction fences or the cracked unevenness of ones that aren’t. A Walk Score helps you find out how quickly you can walk somewhere, not how easily. So how does the score change for a blind person headed toward a two-step curb to mail a letter? Are they still in walker’s paradise?
Recently, I was in the tunnels that maze below downtown and came to a stop in front of a short set of stairs with an unmarked destination. I later talked to a downtown worker about the tunnels’ inaccessibility. He replied with all sin-
cerity, for those in wheelchairs, that “they do have workarounds.” And my chest got tight. Several years ago, in what now seems like another life, every day I would drop off and pick up my then stepdaughter from school. At Lanier Middle School, built in 1926, there was no accessible ramp at the front entrance. There was instead a street curb, three stair steps to a landing, then four more steps to enter the front doors, then another set of stairs to reach the first floor of the school.
My 14-year-old stepdaughter was developmentally delayed to the level of a 2-year-old, wore a diaper and had lost most of her speech from refractory epilepsy, a condition where seizures are not controlled by medicine. So, each morning I dropped her off to an aide, explaining any seizure activity that morning or the night before and how it may have affected her sleep, any toileting issues or medication issues or if breakfast was accomplished.
She would then be wheeled up the only ramp at the school, at the back entrance, through a small custodial office.
I had heard too many times during those three middle school years the word “grandfathered.” The old school building, built in a time before inclusivity was thought about, stood like a protected landmark against the rights of all children to enter through the same doors. Councilwoman Ellen Cohen responded to my concerns that, “without question, ADA accommodations should and must be provided for.” In nearly a century, had no one taken disabled children’s needs and rights seriously? It’s sadly not that much different for so many other parts of Houston, its buildings and sidewalks, both public and private.
There’s so much buzz now about “walkable cities.” Realestate developers and apartment management companies boast about their project’s proximity to parks and public transit, using the Walk Score as the measuring stick for walkability. Even my own building touts its score, that “everything you desire is incredibly close.” Proponents of walkability say places with higher scores translate to better health, cleaner air and environment along with the overall vibrancy of the neighborhood.
But closer, better, cleaner and vibrant for whom? What about people who don’t have the ability to walk? Or don’t have a voice to ask: Why are my sidewalks not only unwalkable but impassable for me, for my parent, for my caregiver?
Roads are not built for one type of car. Sidewalks should be designed, constructed and maintained for more than one type of pedestrian. Not everyone can hop over crumbling concrete or skip without thought down two steps to cross a street. Pushing my stepdaughter’s wheelchair, her whole life — our whole lives — was a workaround.
A few days ago, I was walking in Woodland Heights, a charming neighborhood north of downtown, and came upon a volcanic sidewalk formation. A tree root with more power than concrete had pushed the sidewalk up, splitting it into three huge plates that made me, an able-bodied pedestrian, detour into someone’s front lawn.
Then at the corner of Highland and Michaux streets, the sidewalks converged and divorced themselves from the street, separated by a foot of grass. I looked at the other three corners and saw the same grassy barrier with sidewalks that either crumbled or abruptly stopped. I thought of an elderly man with a walker taking an evening stroll with his wife. What is he supposed to do here? I thought of my stepdaughter.
And my throat got tight.