One of the stops my husband and I wanted to make during our California adventure was the Santa Barbara Courthouse. While doing research for the trip I discovered that you can go to the tower atop the building and get a 360 degree view of the city. Also, there is a Mural Room whose walls are covered with renderings of the history of the coastal community.
When we arrived at our destination we drove around in search of a parking spot as there is no parking lot and street spaces were at a premium. We found one a few blocks away, so I grabbed my trekking poles (“Trekking With Poles“) from the back seat. When we came to the grounds of the Courthouse the path leading to the structure, which was set quite a ways from the sidewalk, was made of cobblestones. Even with the aid of the trekking poles this was difficult for me so I moved to the grass and continued to the entrance via that route.
“We have to go through security,” Mister Rain told me, upon looking through the open door and seeing the metal detector.
“Okay,” I replied, just happy to have made it without breaking an ankle. Taking the few steps to the entryway I approached the table positioned right inside.
“You can’t bring those trekking poles in here,” one of the security guards told me.
“Oh, okay,” I answered. “Will you hold them for me here? We just want to go up to the tower.”
“We can’t keep them. If you leave them here we will throw them away,” I was informed.
My husband and I just looked at each other for more than a beat. “You go ahead up and I’ll wait outside,” I instructed him. “I’ll be able to see better with the pictures (than live) anyway.”
Mister Rain was not having it. “I’ll take the poles back to the car,” he said as he reached for them.
“How will I get back to the car without them when we leave?” I wanted to know.
“I’ll go get the car and pick you up out front.” He took the poles from me.
“How will I even get to the curb?,” I questioned.
“Just take your time and you’ll be fine.” Now he was the one giving the instructions. He exited the Courthouse.
I turned to face the two security guards. “Would I be permitted to keep my white blind cane?”
“No, nothing that is straight. You could have a rounded cane, like this.” He retrieved a grandma cane as I think of them and then, wait for it, tried handing it to me saying, “You can use this.”
I did not take it nor did I speak for several seconds. “I would like the name and phone number of your ADA Coordinator please,” forming, with great restraint, the non-confrontational words.
Pointing into a distance I could not see, “You have to go across the street.”
“I can’t go anywhere without my cane or trekking poles. I just need a name and a phone number please.”
Again, “You have to go to the other building.”
I began to cry silent tracks down both cheeks fueled by anger. “Please, a name and a number.”
One of the guards walked away into the grand hall of the Courthouse. Not knowing what he was doing, I asked the other uniformed man if I was okay to go into that area too.
“As long as you’ve been cleared,” was the terse retort.
Was I cleared? There’s only one way to find out. I walked into the expansive open hall. There were large tiles on the floor, also hard for me to navigate without either of my trusty aides. I made out a bench along one wall and went and sat there. I was still crying.
A third security man seated at a table in this area approached me. “Ma’am, you can’t have anything in here that is straight. It is a Courthouse, you know.”
“I don’t want to discuss this again please. All I want is the name and phone number of your disability representative.” I hated the pleading in my voice and the betrayal of my tear ducts.
He walked away from me. “I’ll ask the secretary but she may be at lunch.” He rounded a corner, I heard the opening and closing of a door.
I forced myself to calm down and look around. It was truly beautiful with the high ceiling and multiple arches. Trying to enjoy the setting I sensed someone next to me. It was my husband. Offering his arm, “Let’s go.”
“I have to wait for them to get me a name and number.” The security guard had returned to his chair, when he overhead me he got up and repeated his earlier path. I could tell my mild-mannered partner was seething and would have been quite happy had we just left when my trekking poles were denied access. If I am being honest, I was over it too.
The guard reappeared, handing me a post-it note. Quietly thanking him I wiped my face with a tissue. Standing up I placed my right hand on Mister Rain’s left shoulder. He led me to the elevator, its doors decorated to match the overall aesthetic of the Courthouse.
Reaching the tower, a cool breeze refreshed me. I took a deep breath and walked to the four sides of the rooftop lookout Despite the gorgeous view of the mountains in one direction, the ocean in the other, our hearts were not in it. After my husband took some pictures, we got back in the elevator and then the main level. “I don’t need to go to the Mural Room,” I declared. “Let’s just go.” And so we did.
I wrote to the Santa Barbara Courthouse upon our return home, recounting my experience while also assuring them that I understand and fully support the need for security at a courthouse. I also shared that I could concede to the the trekking pole policy but absolutely not the cane. I quickly received a kind reply from the ADA Coordinator apologizing for being told I could not use my white cane in the Courthouse. It went on to say they have been working with the security vendor to increase their awareness of disability accommodations and will continue to do so.
It was the only stain on an otherwise monumental trip. The remainder of our time in California was fantastic. Whatever they take away from you, I swear that they cannot take away your ability to rebound, so help me God.
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