On the Blink – Page 17 – Consider how my light is spent

Too Wonderful for Words

On a crisp weekday morning, I wander happily into the warmth of the campus Starbucks, craving a cappuccino. As I near the counter, I notice that only one customer waits at the register—a tall, middle-aged or elderly man. Unsure whether he has already ordered and paid for his drink, I hang back, waiting for a familiar cashier to call me forward.

“Hi, Emily, what can I get for you?” one of the regulars calls to me. I step forward, drawing my burgundy wallet out of my purse.

To my left, the customer waits on his cup of black coffee. Making me aware of his position, he says, “You get along pretty well.”

Unsure whether he is addressing me, I ignore his comment. I order my cappuccino and fish for my debit card. When I have accepted the card and receipt from the cashier, I replace the card in my wallet and fold the receipt. As I zip my wallet closed, the man repeats, “You get along pretty well.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” he insists. “If I hadn’t seen the cane, I wouldn’t know you were visually-impaired.”

I smile, thinking quickly. I want to seem gracious but disinterested. “Thank you.”

He continues, “I had two visually-impaired students last year, and they weren’t nearly as skilled as you.”

“Oh,” I continue to stare ahead, at a loss for words. What can I say to this man? I don’t know his two blind students. How can I accept his compliment and agree that his students are inferior to me?

Three days later, Crystal, Derek, and I enter another Starbucks.

“Hey, it’s Miss Independent!” exclaims the cheerful cashier as I step up to the counter. I chuckle awkwardly, trying to sound disinterested. I hope to order my drink without incurring more praise.

“Hi, can I have a tall hot chocolate?”

“Sure thing,” she replies, punching buttons on the cash register. I slide my burgundy wallet out of my bag, unzip it, and feel for my debit card. It’s easy to find; it’s the only card in the first pocket with upraised numbers. When I hand it to her, she rewards me by saying, “Wow, that is just so impressive…always self-sufficient. I’m going to start calling you Miss Self-Sufficient!”

This is a familiar exchange: I have bought coffee from her four times, and, each time, she praises my ability to conduct my transaction independently.

Again, I deliver a half-hearted half-laugh. I don’t really know what to say.

“Yeah I am really Superwoman, able to pay for multiple coffees in a single swipe!”

“Well, you know, it takes a lot of work—I have to put money in the account and then find the right card…I guess I have to earn the money first…”

“Thank you, ma’am—it’s so reassuring to know that your poor opinion of blind people leads you to doubt my ability to manage this simple transaction with ease.”

I write all of these things because I can’t say them. As irritating as I find her comments (and the low standards they indicate), I don’t want to make her feel stupid. I don’t want to shame her for her ignorance.

Keeping all this in mind, I don’t know what to say. What can you say?

I follow Derek to the small round table, and he adds an extra chair for Crystal. She stands at the counter and pays for her drink. Either my ears are deceiving me, or I imagine that I hear the phrase “self sufficient” in Crystal’s conversation with the cashier. When she joins us at the table, Crystal confirms this.

“She told me it it just warmed her heart to see you being so independent,” she says, grinning. “She said you came in looking so nice and doing everything for yourself. She was really impressed.”

Impressed? Really? I am wearing a light brown sweater with short sleeves and a square neckline with a pair of dark jeans. My hair is twisted back in a big clip, because that style takes 2 minutes to achieve. I am wearing no makeup, no stylish accessories, and no designer products. Yes, I dress myself and I match.

So, watch out, coffee drinkers! You never know when this whirling dervish of a blind girl will appear at a Starbucks near you! You’ll be sitting there, sipping your iced, half-caff caramel macchiato, and, suddenly—totally out of the blue—a blind woman will appear, cane flying, cape swirling, and…order a coffee. She’ll order a coffee. And maybe a croissant. Her clothes will be without stains, her dark hair will be pulled into a bun or a clip (as if some sighted person did it), and her back will be straight. She’ll speak in a clear, articulate voice (she knows English?!) and she’ll handle her debit card or folded paper money with relative ease.

You’ll be so impressed with her. You’ll want to check your calendar—is it Leap Day already? You’ll wonder if she’s part of that 2012 Mayan apocalypse thing; surely competent blind women don’t come around that often! Eventually, after watching her collect her drink and settle into a comfortable chair, you’ll settle back into your own seat and sigh. You’ll stop trying to do the math. Miracles like this don’t come around every day, so you want to enjoy this. You can’t figure her out, and you don’t need to. She’s just too wonderful for words!

November 23, 2012
Three Little Things

If you are a student in my freshman composition class, you will be asked to analyze the title of any given reading on the syllabus. I tell my students, “Titles mean a lot; writers choose them deliberately.” I don’t say this because I’ve read extensive theory validating this claim. I say it because I, as a writer, have agonized over almost every title I’ve created.

I tell my students that the title of a piece can act as a calling card, shaping a reader’s expectations before the text “begins”—of course, the text “begins” with the title. But often, titles are ignored, considered the product of that “Oh crap, I forgot to put a title on this thing” moment. Gently, I remind my students that their writing habits may not align perfectly with the habits of professional, passionate writers. It’s not that my students can’t be professional or passionate writers—or even that they don’t like writing—it’s that, so far, they aren’t as obsessed with the written word. Writers are on fire with love of language, and they meticulously arrange and re-arrange their words, which feel more like children, until they can claim proximity to perfection.

Certainly, a title can be the work of afterthought or hasty summation; it can be the suggestion of an overzealous editor or inspirational friend. It can be a preview of the text itself, or it can stubbornly refuse to conform to our confining idea of what a title should be. A title can be a maverick and refuse to relate to the impending text; it can stand apart, make no sense, be inscrutable. But it must be there.

Maybe by this point, you have forgotten what my title is. Or perhaps you’re the meticulous type who keeps scrolling up to remind yourself. “Three Little Things,” you quietly recite. You hope that this recitation will act as a unifying mantra that helps you internalize and understand the title’s significance.

Don’t worry, there is no magic here. I will place the three small things in plain sight; they are a hand, an open door, and an email.

The first, a hand, fits neatly over mine. During captivating conversations, it comes to rest warmly on top of mine, emphasizing the speaker’s words. With quiet, modest rhythm, the hand pats mine, conferring reassurance. Sometimes it lingers, covering mine for the space of four seconds; other times, it presses quickly and lifts away, exposing the back of my hand to an abrupt rush of cool air. The gesture suggests benevolence, intimacy, inclusion. I imagine that its warmth mirrors the sensation of making eye contact, a phenomenon I have never experienced. The hand willing to touch mine conveys the presence and attention of my companion. In the palm warmly covering my own, I read sincerity and a reaching-out; someone is willing to consider the nonvisual perspective. The gesture answers the question, “How can I let her know that I am here—that I am listening?”

I find the second object, an open door, waiting for me when I walk downstairs. As I approach the coffee shop, I feel the open door first. Long before I can see it, I sense air rushing through the large open space. As I approach, I can see straight into the uncrowded coffee shop, my view is not obstructed by the black bars that cross the glass-fronted door. The absence of these bars affirms my theory that the door is open. I imagine that the door is propped ajar with some kind of doorstop; it does not move and no one exits or enters. I cannot confirm this because a doorstop is too small for me to see. I step closer to the door and, following a flash of color, turn my head to the right. I can see a person holding the door for me. He wears a green or yellow shirt; it contrasts with the black of the doorframe. I thank him—and realize that he has been holding the door this whole time, waiting for me to approach.

The third object, an email, appears in my inbox a week after a quick conversation with a previously-unknown colleague. Before our chat, I had only heard of him by reputation. He talks to me about being a first-semester instructor, assures me that I will quickly learn the policies that best suit me, and promises to send me his syllabus. He reminisces about his early semesters and assures me that all instructors go through the bumpy phase I currently occupy. He promises to email me, and I give him one of my snazzy business cards (purple with white lettering). A week after our chat, I check my mail and find his message. I’ve customized the accessibility settings on my computer to enlarge most fonts to a comfortable size (18 or so) and, with my 10x magnification, most emails are easy to read. Unless a sender has deliberately chosen a different font and size, my email program will change their text to meet my specifications.

When I open his message, I am greeted by large, bold sans serif letters. His font must be size 26 or more; it is much larger than my default setting. Because my computer does not default to larger sizes, I know that this text signifies a deliberate choice, a nod to my difficulties with small text.

My three objects come from three meaningful interactions: one with a friend of four years, one with a new acquaintance, and the last with a complete stranger. In each situation, someone extended to me an incredible gift, a palpable consideration for my perspective. In each case, the person stepped outside her or his own senses and thought about my experience of the situation. I doubt whether each participant can estimate the sense of value I find in these three gestures.

November 6, 2012
Cool Traveler

Crisp mornings change the shape of my traveling thoughts. As I head to my early class, I leave my office and take a left, then another, before pushing through the reluctant glass door of my building. I transfer my cane to my left hand and open the door with my right, holding the door ajar long enough to step through and take the cane with my right hand again. Outside, I take a left, walk a few steps, and take a sharp right. I begin to travel along a wide elevated sidewalk, splashed with predictable trapezoidal panels of 9:00 a.m. sunlight. This midmorning sun sleets through the space between the concrete wall bordering the sidewalk and the overhang—unlike its 10:00 a.m. incarnation, which hurtles down from above in unkempt patches to complicate my morning trek for coffee.

Traveling to class, I run through my plan for the day’s lesson. Have students discuss Stephen King’s “What Writing Is” and give them 3 free-writing prompts. Encourage them to share their creative writing.…Damn it’s cold out here. I realize, belatedly, that I’ve left my purple wool coat in my office. I suppose that I am just noticing the coat’s absence, because the first leg of my journey keeps me indoors.

On the way back from class, I do not miss the coat. I step through the door, which some obliging (quiet) stranger holds for me, and prepare to face the sunlit sidewalk from the opposite side. As someone whose visual understanding of landmarks depends heavily on light, my well-traveled route looks totally unfamiliar when the light falls differently.

When I walked this way earlier, the sunlight fell along the right side of the walkway, enabling me to close my right eye and rely on my weaker left one. I used to joke that my left eye was only good for keeping me in 3D, but now I understand its value. The left eye lacks the strength and poise of the right, the eye I use for reading—and almost everything else. But, since it’s weaker, it does not seem to be as sensitive to light, which means that I can rely on it in places where the right eye doesn’t function.

Now, because I’m headed in the opposite direction, the sunlight is falling across the space my left eye would normally cover. It’s too bright for me to make much use of the right eye. I decide that this overbright environment is the perfect place to test the mettle of my new sunglasses.

I slip off my large, familiar shades—the ones I’ve worn for the past four years—and pull the new ones out of my bag. They are slimmer, with the same dark lenses, and they fit securely over my regular purple-framed glasses. I put them on and begin slowly tracing the length of the sidewalk. I stop in the sunniest place, and I take an optical inventory of the surrounding, deliberately staring at the brightest patches of light. I remove the new shades and put the old ones back on; the view is the same. First round of testing, new and old shades tied. I put the old shades in my bag and wear the new shades.

As I walk toward my building, I slip away from a visual awareness of my surroundings—I stop trying to “see” with my eyes and focus on the feel of the ground beneath my feet and the air around me. The morning is cool and comfortable, and the air travels with me, helping me relax and breathe deeply as I walk. I enjoy the feel of this elevated, quiet area. It’s not that I’ve turned off my eyes—it’s more that my eyes aren’t really talking to my brain, or my brain isn’t really listening to my eyes. I’m not ignoring the visual information in front of me, but I’m choosing to attend to other senses: the quiet, the cool air, the distant birds, and the crisp, clean smell of midmorning. Dreamy and contemplative, I could walk along this path forever.

I can feel the air change as my building approaches, but this new information does not interfere with the state of my contemplation. In some shady corner of my mind, I remember that I should be turning left soon. Convinced that I will feel the turn when it’s time, I continue.

The crunch of my cane against concrete forces me out of my meditation. My cane tip connects with the brick exterior of the building. I have walked about 4 steps beyond the place where I usually turn. But this isn’t a problem—this is exactly why I use the cane. I can easily turn and continue my route.

However, the harshness of this auditory cue changes my attitude. An emissary of the “real” world around me, the sound reminds me of what is really there, rather than the seductive landscape of soft breezes and early-morning birds. The crunch of cane against brick contains the piles of papers waiting for grades, the blank days on the course schedule that need filling, and the series of calls and emails that need my attention. It’s a distinctly non-contemplative sound.

Normally, I am so aware of my surroundings as I travel; I don’t want to miss a landmark or a signal from the cane. I am surprised that I slipped so far away from the act of walking itself—away from my attention to the process of travel.

Then I begin to think that I didn’t step away from my senses. I slipped into them. Somehow, in the space of the quiet, cold morning, I fell so fully into the rushing stream of sensory input and forgot that I was a moving being. I understood myself as movement.

November 1, 2012
Transition Lenses

Several personal items sit atop my nondescript office desk: a red aluminum water bottle, a set of keys, my folded cane, a red cellphone, a silver and gray lamp, a box of tissues (nearly empty), a carafe of peanut butter M&Ms (almost empty), and my sunglasses. Of all these items, the sunglasses are easiest to find on the dark desk surface; their shiny lenses and large frames readily draw my eye. I wear them each time I leave the comfortable dimness of my office. I’ve forgotten my cellphone and keys multiple times, but I’ve never left the office without my shades.

The sunglasses are large, fitting over and wrapping around my prescription glasses to offer peripheral protection. They do not fit in a traditional glasses case. They are smooth to the touch, glossy, with occasional rough spots on the temples or nosepiece from their four years of wear. They complement my regular supply of cloche hats. Because I wear them over my regular glasses, they tend to make my face feel warm after an hour or so.

When I first started wearing the sunglasses four years ago, I hated the way they looked. I was convinced that they were too large to be attractive—sure that they obscured so much of my face that I no longer looked human. Despite family, friends, and strangers telling me that I looked like a celebrity, that big sunglasses were “in,” I felt awkward behind them. I felt that people treated me differently when I wore them. I blamed the sunglasses for effacing me, stripping away everything that I thought of as myself and offering A Stereotypical Blind Girl instead.

Only their extreme practicality redeemed the sunglasses for me. Reluctantly, I started wearing them inside as well as outside—in bright classrooms, grocery stores, and even onstage. Wearing them during chorus performances earned me the nickname Stevie, and, each time a chorus member affectionately called, “Come on, Stevie,” the sunglasses became more dear to me.

I started to experience the sunglasses as a creative, rather than destructive, force; they began to nurture my identity as a blind musician. I laughed when chorus members said that I looked like a rock star, wearing them onstage. I got excited when a saxophone player told me that my cane and sunglasses reminded him of Diane Schuur, a famous blind jazz singer and pianist.

However, these new feelings of positivity were “extras”—the objective circumstances of the sunglasses never wavered. Behind the shades, I felt intense and instant relief from any oppressive lights. They significantly reduced my level of eye fatigue. I felt able to function in unforeseen environments: bright sunny afternoons, classrooms where I couldn’t adjust the lighting, conference auditoriums, and countless stores lit with glaring fluorescents. I was able to dine alfresco without complaint or discomfort. I still couldn’t read menus outside, but I could enjoy the weather and listen to a friend read for me—an ideal compromise. Even when I detested the look of the shades, I couldn’t ignore these changes. The nagging refrain, “Life feels better behind the shades,” played in my head each time I prepared to leave my house. The measurable improvement in my quality of life incited me to pack the sunglasses—and choose different bags or purses to accommodate them.

The sunglasses became a point of pride, an implement of my independence and identity. I quickly learned to wear them when I needed them, a lesson solidified by positive reinforcement. Sunglasses on: discomfort gone! However, learning to wear them as a statement of identity took more time; it involved a process of self-acceptance that wasn’t written on the product packaging. Wearing the sunglasses without shame, without an oppressive need to “look normal” or avoid “looking blind,” involved a change in my own thinking. I had to accept my need for the shades and discard the idea of “looking normal.” I had to understand that “looking blind” wasn’t really about blindness; it was about stereotypes of blindness.

If you were a blind person who looked blind, that meant that you stumbled, wore mismatched or stained clothing, gazed vacantly at people, and groped for objects in front of you. As I got to know myself as a blind woman and met others in the blind community, I came to realize just how little truth resided in these ready phrases. Like processed convenience foods, the ideas of “looking normal” and “looking blind” didn’t offer any substance; they couldn’t nourish the woman I wanted to become.

Four years ago, the style of sunglasses I needed came in one size, the size I currently wear. Now, that size is called Medium, and the exact same lens color and shape comes in a Small. I have the chance to downsize, and I am going to try it. As long as the new smaller shades will offer me the same protection, I can’t resist the convenience of being able to pack them in a traditional glasses case. Since they’ll cover less of my face, I’m hoping they won’t be as hot to wear over my regular glasses.

I also can’t ignore that the look of my shades will change. These new ones will be closer to the “normal” end of the sunglasses spectrum—perhaps not as obvious as a symbol of blindness. To be excited about the new “more normal” look feels like a betrayal of the struggles I experienced, learning to love my sunglases and myself. To be sucked into the idea that these new shades will “look better” takes me out of my own perspective and puts me in the eyes of someone outside, looking at me. Is this the perspective I want?

From behind my current shades, I say no. I say that it’s important to focus on function, not form, here. I say that I need to use the tools that help me to feel most like myself, regardless of their fit with current trends in fashion. I do not want to throw away the self-acceptance I have earned. I certainly took a long time finding it, and it was not an easy task.

October 24, 2012
Deliberate Communication

Subtitle: A letter for Henry

I have decided to break out the Perkins braillewriter. Henry and I are going to exchange braille letters with the hope of improving my braille skills. As the novice, I must write the first of these missives. Henry says this will force me to remember my skills, but I suspect he wants me to write first, so he can chuckle over my garish braille spelling.

I’ve cleared a space for the machine on my desk and pulled out four sheets of thick braille paper. The paper measures 8.5 x 11 inches and already has holes punched along the left margin. I flip back the two levers on the brailler and slide the first sheet of paper between the long, thin rollers. I flip the levers forward, securing the paper. I begin to turn the knobs on either side of the machine, causing the paper to retract into place.

There’s nothing glamorous about a Perkins brailler. It’s a sturdy, no-nonsense machine, built for endurance. Made of a dull, bluish-gray metal, it offers two rows of three keys, much like the Home Row on a print keyboard. Just before these rows sits the space bar. The “backspace” key sits in the “shift” position to the right of the two rows, and the “next line” key sits in the “shift” position on the left. To go to the next line, I press down on the small carriage and slide it to the left, across the front of the brailler. It dings just like a typewriter, but the click-click of the braille keys is lower, deeper, more sonorous.

The first row of three keys corresponds to dots 1, 2, and 3 of the braille cell. The second row of keys embosses dots 4, 5, and 6. Since the keys are arranged horizontally on the brailler and the dots are arranged vertically inside the braille cell, typing the correct letters requires a specific set of cerebral gymnastics.

With my paper in place, I begin my letter. October 9, 2012. I press dot 6 for a capital sign and dots 1, 3, and 5 for an o. Perfect, this is easier than I thought. Thinking of the word “October,” I type a t (dots 2, 3, 4, and 5)—and realize that I’ve already missed a letter. Immediately, I remember Henry’s stern commandment:

“You must think in braille, not in print.”

I realize that I have been thinking about the holistic look of the word October, not how it feels, letter-by-letter. I reach over the keys and feel the o, perfectly embossed, and the t, which shouldn’t be there. Carefully, I use the nail of my left index finger to scratch out the extraneous dots (2, 3, and 5). Then I press the “backspace” key and emboss a dot 1. Now, I have a c (dots 1 and 4), but, as I type the rest of the word, I remember another piece of our conversation:

Henry, grinning with the enjoyment of his superior knowledge, tells me not to bother with a braille eraser (a small wooden tool with a blunt tip for rubbing out extra dots). “Just press all 6 keys over your mistake,” he says calmly. “That will cross it out.” His tone becomes admonishing, “Don’t you dare try to scratch out your mistakes with a fingernail! I’ll know—I’ll be able to feel that for sure!”

Well, I am certainly not going to cross out a word on the very first line of my letter! I’ll leave the fingernail marks in there, just to see if he’s paying attention.

I continue with the letter, trying to imagine each word in braille before I type it. My fingers hesitate over the two rows, the balls of my fingers nestling into the indentations on each key. I feel like a four-year-old at the piano, excited and reticent all at once. As I move into the first paragraph, I am amazed at the effort needed to press each key. My fingers start to ache, and I’ve only typed three sentences!

However, the brailler offers certain aesthetic compensations. Each time I complete a line, I am rewarded by the musical ding of the brailler bell—which adds a strange spatial awareness to my epistolary efforts. I find myself choosing different words because I know their size and contractions. I choose shorter words when I’m nearing the end of the line. The hesitation and deliberation over each letter forces me to meditate on the words I emboss. When my thinking becomes too fast, I slip back into print and make careless mistakes. I type an sh (dots 1, 4, and 6) instead of an -ing (dots 3, 4, and 6). I must think word by word—breaking each word into phonemes, or sound-components.

In the middle of the second paragraph, I realize that I am typing much more quickly. Contractions I learned years ago are dancing into my conscious mind; I easily recall the shorthand for the, have, this, and just. The click of the brailler keys synchronizes with the rhythm of my thoughts, and the melodious ding at the end of each line keeps me aware of my place on the page. My mind fills with the notions of space and texture, and I occasionally check my progress with the index finger of my right hand.

At the bottom of the first page, I decide to stop. My hesitant thoughts have given way to cramped fingers. I feel a sense of relief, amazed that the braille seems so familiar after only a page of embossing.

I cannot ignore the contrast between my slow, deliberate embossing and the rapid, intuitive process of typing on my familiar laptop keyboard. Something is blossoming in my consciousness: an awareness of the effects of the medium on the process of writing. It is not that the brailler makes me think more slowly or choose different words; using the brailler, exerting more physical effort when I write, changes the shape of my thoughts.

Now, I want to attempt a writing task using different media—pen, computer, brailler, and even slate and stylus (the pen and paper method for braille) to see how each would change the timbre of my writing.

October 11, 2012
Enlightened Interactions

On this especially foggy morning, Dad drops me off at the sidewalk by the library. I walk forward, finding that I move more easily through fog than glare, and I trace the path that slides past the library. Narrow strips of brick interrupt the smooth surface of the sidewalk, and my cane catches awkwardly in each groove. Quickly I switch from dragging to tapping. so the cane’s tip won’t get caught up in the sidewalk and slow me down.

My route leads me past the scattered bistro tables and through the back entrance of Starbucks. As I file into line, I notice how the building echoes with emptiness. The music, a blend of obscure indie tunes and blues lyrics, overfills the large, cavernous space. I stand by the pastry case, waiting for my turn and listening to the comforting hum of the cooler. I glance to the right, where the overhead lights cast a distorting glare on all the enticing pastries.

Hearing the woman two places ahead of me order her drink, I move my attention to the woman in front of me. She wears a dark striped shirt, easy for me to track. I listen attentively, waiting for her to place her order. This is the easiest way for me to know when it’s my turn to order.

Stepping forward, she orders a tall iced coffee with one packet of Splenda. Then, she walks around another customer, to the second register. Now, I must shift my attention to the other customer, who stands at the register I will use. As I watch her gather her things and move toward the counter to wait for her drink, I start to move forward. Before I can approach the register, the barrista’s voice sails over the pastry case, shrill and cheerful in the big, empty space. “Hi, Emily! Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte?”

Turning my head to throw my voice at her, I reply, “Yes ma’am!”

Presumably she disappears behind the counter, because I do not hear her reply. I pay for my drink and move to the counter at the other end of the line and wait for my drink. I rummage in my overstuffed bag for my crocheted coffee sleeve.

A few minutes later, another barrista—whose voice is low, masculine, and familiar—sets my drink on the counter and says, “Tall Pumpkin Spice Latte for Emily.”

I see that he has already placed a sleeve around the cup; it contrasts easily with the whiteness of the plastic. “Thanks!” I ask the same question I’ve been asking for the past week, “Do you have a stopper?”

“Already in,” he says cheerfully. “Have a great day!”

“Thank you!” I retrieve the cup and, indeed, a small green stopper plugs the hole at the top. I can’t believe he remembered! Now, I won’t spill hot coffee on myself as I walk to my office!

I emerge from the front entrance of Starbucks and follow the sidewalk past more bistro tables, a few bushes with contrasting flowers, and a series of precarious mini-columns. I take a left, then an abrupt right. I begin to follow the line of a building that will lead me to the elevator. (Even with a stopper in my latte, I do not brave stairs with hot coffee and a heavy bag on my arm.)

When I’m about a foot away from my elevator, someone calls, “There’s the elevator, just in front of you!”

I turn to my left to find a maintenance worker, whose voice sounds familiar, standing there, holding some boxes. Immediately, I feel the need to compensate for the impairment he sees in me. I smile brightly. “Thanks, I know my circumstances pretty well.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “So…are you totally blind or do you see shadows?”

I am impressed that he knows about the degrees of blindness, that the white cane can indicate different kinds of vision loss. “I have low vision—limited fields and sketchy depth perception.” I press the (unlabeled) button that calls for the elevator. I am surprised by the ease of my spontaneous disclosure—how natural it feels for me to amend the anomaly that people see in me.

“Oh okay.” He pauses. “The other night on TV, there was this program where they gave a guy his vision back. So there’s a cure out there somewhere!”

I shift my bag on my shoulder and turn to face him, my smile still in place. “You know, it’s funny—I guess for people who have lost their vision later in life, a cure would be a good thing. But for those of us who have grown up with our vision, it’s just another part of us. It’s not something I need cured.”

“Right!” he says excitedly. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

“It’s not scary or weird,” I continue. “It’s just about getting to know the body you were born with, the gifts you were given.”

“Yes,” he says thoughtfully. “Well, you have a nice day, ma’am. Oh, and your elevator didn’t wait for you!”

“Yes, I heard it leave me.” We both laugh as I press the button again.

October 5, 2012
Green Tea, Green Time

I am sitting in a heavy, hard-backed chair, at a small bistro table, a few feet away from the stairwell. Tucked into the corner of the elevated sidewalk that hugs my department building, the table provides an ideal place for listening to the sounds of the courtyard below, the passing students, and the occasional birds. My large dark blue schoolbag sits by my feet, my cane lies folded across the table’s lattice top, and my bright blue thermos stands in front of me. With its subtle hourglass shape and sturdy handle, the thermos holds about 20 ounces of green-ginger tea. The early autumn breeze flicks the dangling tea tag against the side of the thermos, a soft shff shff shff in the quiet afternoon.

I pop the top and enjoy the resonant click of the plastic lid. The tea is piping hot, surprisingly welcome on a warm, breezy afternoon. Green-ginger has become indispensable to me; its spicy, fragrant flavor soothes my sore throat and relaxes my body. It’s a good tea for contemplation.

As I place the thermos on the table, I wonder how soon I should return to my office. Can I justify a half hour of quiet meditation out here? I decide that I can. After all, the green time will make me more productive.

Since I’m wearing my sunglasses, I begin visually exploring my surroundings. I can clearly see the stairwell, the rails, and the elevator doors to my left. I look to the right, where something dark and scraggly nuzzles against the side of the sky, its shape uneven and coarse. It must be a tree. I turn my head, and the corners of another building come into focus. Strong right angles and a medium unknown color set off the building’s roof.

Both the tree and the roof draw my eyes to the contrasting sky, the pale, translucent backdrop that makes each separate piece of this landscape so visible to me. I tilt my head back so that the sky fills my entire visual field. Through the dark glasses, I see that the sky is comprised of two textures: something sheer and slightly darker and something puffy with a shiny brightness. The puffy material stretches across the sky in patches—or does the sheer, smooth material stretch across the opposing texture? One of these textures must be clouds, but I can’t decide for certain which one.

I think about how often we invoke clouds in literature, film, and other art—how often we reference clouds in everyday speech. I remember countless scenes in novels and movies where two people—friends or lovers—lie on their backs in the bright green grass and find significance in the sky.

To me, the sky looks like an optical illusion, the kind where two images exist inside one frame. Is it the single vase or the two faces? Do the clouds lie along the sky or does the sky push through the clouds?

September 28, 2012
Dear Christina

Dear Christina,

I don’t know quite how to begin, so I just will.

It’s really hard not having you here. I miss you so much. On most days, I can smile, remembering all the fun we’ve had, but today, I just can’t make it work. I’m crying as I type this, blowing my nose on crummy brown napkins I took from the campus Starbucks. Even the napkins remind me of you. I remember the hundreds of times we went for coffee: to revive ourselves between classes, to end a stressful day, or to take a break from studying. There’s a table by the door that bears the lines, “This table is reserved for our disabled students.” That was our spot—a long, rectangular table, a few inches higher that the rest, where we’d pull up, you sitting closest to the door. I’d whisk a chair away for you, and you’d place our lattes on the tabletop. Then I’d sit opposite you, prop my elbows on the table, and tell you everything.

Of course, you remember this, a ritual of our life together, like shopping, cooking, or even cleaning the apartment. I’ll never forget the time you had just mopped the floor and I slipped down the ramp by the bathroom. I fell on my butt, kicking over the toilet paper rack, trash can, and cleaning materials. You laughed so hard I thought you would fall out of your scooter.

I think this week is especially hard for me, because I can’t celebrate my birthday without remembering your enthusiasm for birthdays—or any holiday, really. Any excuse to be festive and make someone feel special. You insisted on surprising me with the traditional Gregson birthday cake (yellow cake with chocolate icing); you found ways of making me feel so important to you. When your birthday rolled around, I tried to reciprocate, to make you feel as special. Usually, it was a combination of dinner at the Cheesecake Factory and a fancy pedicure, you know, the one with the warm towels and 20-minute massage. And a bag of dark chocolate truffles. Those were our birthday props.

But you know this too. Why am I telling you this?

I guess I’m just writing to say, I wish you were here. Every time I sing with my chorus, I think, “Christina would love the concert in October.” We’re singing this song called “At the Beginning,” about two people who started life’s journey together, who proved to be an incredible source of support for one another. How could I not think of you, sing it for you?

This isn’t the first time I’ve spent the quiet morning hours crying in my office, because I hate that you’re not here. I want you to see me teach, to laugh at the crazy stories I bring home. I want you to be proud of me. I love you so much. I can barely stand the thought of new experiences without you.

It’s so hard, Christina, being here without you. And somehow, I think you know this too. You know that my tears are a sign of how amazing you are. If you weren’t so wonderful, I wouldn’t miss you so much!

Well, I’d better stop here, because I’m out of tissues. I just need you to know how much I miss you.

Love,
Emily

September 26, 2012
Literary Resonance

Unfolding my cane and donning my dark glasses, I leave the Writing Lab and walk to the lobby to collect our next tutoring appointment. I stand at the mouth of the lobby and call the student’s name. I wait, listening for the rustling and zipping that indicates a student gathering his or her things and moving toward me. When I can distinguish a tall, lanky boy coming my way, I say, “Come on back, what are we working on today?”

The student takes a seat at our round table and pulls out a notebook and papers. He hesitates as I fold my cane and place it beside my large blue water bottle. I take off the shades and repeat, “OK so what are we working on?”

“A paper,” he says quietly. “Um we are supposed to analyze this…this short story and talk about how the character changes…” Tentatively, he places a hand on top of his printed pages.

“Cool, what story?”

“Um…The Cathedral, by Raymond Carver.”

Who’s Raymond Carver? What is “The Cathedral” about? Well, I haven’t read it, but I’ve read analyses of it. Georgina Kleege mentions the story in Sight Unseen, her book about cultural representations of blindness. Thomas Foster cites it in How to Read Literature like a Professor; he discusses the famous meatloaf scene where the unnamed narrator sees Robert, the blind character, using a fork and knife like a normal person. The quick-and-dirty version of “The Cathedral” runs like this: a bigoted, narrow-minded drunk confronts his stereotypes of blindness (or “the blinds” as he calls them) when his wife’s blind friend, Robert, comes to spend the night. Robert and Narrator share the experience of eating a fantastic meatloaf, smoking dope, and drawing a cathedral—collectively, these experiences show Narrator that Blindies Are People Too!

(Please note, I am not knocking Carver at all. Actually, “The Cathedral” isn’t a bad story; it’s just responding to a cultural need.)

So the student sits across from me, fidgeting and fumbling with his school supplies, and I try to imagine the awkwardness of his inner dialogue. “I came to the center to get help with a paper about a guy confronting the negative stereotypes of blindness…and I got a blind tutor. Thanks, Fate! I wonder if she likes meatloaf…”

Slowly, I nod and smile at him. “What are some of your concerns with your essay?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I gently prompt, “Style? Grammar? Structure? Do you have the rubrics or assignment instructions?”

“Grammar, I guess. No, I don’t have the rubrics.”

“OK, then we’ll just read through and look at everything,” I assure him. I slide his paper across the table and pick it up. I bring the pages close to my face to read the small, double spaced lines.

Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve come cane-to-cane with cultural representations of blindness. As a lover and writer of poetry, I’m always running into Homer and John Milton. As a singer, I’m forever meeting up with Stevie, Ray, and Diane Schuur. Know any blind painters? I can’t think of any. Good thing I’m not much of a painting enthusiast!

There’s a blind girl in a Dickens story that irritates me. She and her father live in poverty, but, to soothe or entertain her, he tells her false stories about their living conditions. Here, I think, Dickens, you didn’t know any real blindies, did you? I wouldn’t fall for a hoax like that! Couldn’t she tell their house was cold?

Literature is full of blindies who don’t act like blindies—characters probably written by people who couldn’t tell braille from Morse code! So I’m thankful for Robert, because he enjoys his meatloaf. I’ve enjoyed meatloaf before. All blindies have.

I’d certainly prefer to meet Robert in a student’s paper. I was once editing a novel-length work for another student, when she dropped the aphorism, “Blind people’s lives are so much simpler, because they can’t see the material concerns of the world.” Ah, that sounds rather like Dickens and his angelic little blind girl! She doesn’t care that Daddy can’t afford food or coal, because she’s blind! And blind people can’t see food or warmth, so they don’t worry about such things.

I took my revenge when I met my client face-to-face. Prior to our meeting, we corresponded only by email. She had no idea that her editor, recommended by English department faculty, was blind. When she approached me in the lobby, I stood up to greet her, unfolding my cane. Her initial silence and subsequent awkwardness were quite rewarding.

So, this is a thank you to the God of Literary Representations of Blindness. May He continue to cast the users and abusers of these caricatures into my path, because they bring me much laughter.

September 25, 2012
Blind Student
Before time pulls a fine, shimmering mist over my academic experiences, I must write from the perspective of the blind student. Though my studies pass beyond each graduation, I find myself in a new role, the teacher’s role, and my ideas about students are changing.

So, meet me at the door of all my classrooms, and let’s wander through the experiences of a student like me.

First, you’ll notice that I arrive early. I’m here a few minutes before you, running my fingers over the braille at the classroom’s entrance. Paranoid that I’ll enter the wrong class, I want to appear competent. Let’s walk through the door that our instructor has just unlocked. I’ll want to find a seat close to the front of the room. I’ll fold my cane, place my large schoolbag under the desk, and pull out my notebook and pen. Depending on the classroom’s lighting, I’ll either remove my shades or keep them on. I’m hoping for dim lighting; I’d rather take off the shades.

No doubt, our instructor will begin passing out a syllabus. Two things about this process will make me anxious: 1) I won’t be able to tell that the instructor is handing me a paper unless he or she announces this, and 2) I won’t be able to read the syllabus, since the instructor has probably printed it in size 11 or 12.

Of course, each circumstance has its exception. When I choose classes with an instructor I’ve experienced before, I can count on some measure of accommodation on the first day. In one such case, a Rhetoric & Composition professor printed my syllabus in size 24! When he placed it before me, I felt surprised and gratified. I immediately flipped through it, delighted that I could hold the paper farther from my face.

In most cases, however, I endure the first class without accommodation. I cannot expect instructors to intuit my needs before I introduce myself. After that first class, I hurriedly shove my books into my bag, whip out my letter from the Disability Resource Center, and attempt to catch the instructor in conversation.

Most professors are kind, willing to assist, and welcoming. I’ve never had an instructor refuse me accommodations. I tell them, “If there’s something on the board, I won’t be able to read it.” I say, “If you’re calling on me, you have to use my name—otherwise, I won’t know that it’s my turn to speak.” I explain, “Any materials you pass out in class need to be enlarged for me, to size 18, Times New Roman.” (I tell them how I hate Courier New, that it was handcrafted in Satan’s workshop as the bane of all visually-impaired students.) Finally, I tell them that I am excited for the class and that I readily speak up for myself. “I won’t let you ignore me,” I insist with a smile.

My professors ask me for basic reminders and offer benevolent disclaimers:
- “Could you shoot me an email the night before the exam, so I’ll remember to print yours?”
- “You’ll have to remind me to call on you—I might forget! And it will take me a while to learn everyone’s name.”
- “I’ve never had a blind student before. I’m happy to help, but I might take a while to get used to what you need.”
“Don’t worry,” I want to assure them. “I’ll actively participate in class! I will be so talkative and engaged that you won’t be able to forget I’m here. I’ll muster enthusiasm for texts I don’t enjoy, attend carefully to your lectures, and attempt to make brilliant observations—all in the hope that you won’t forget to enlarge my tests or use my name.”

But of course, they forget. They show up on exam day with an armful of copies printed in size 12. They look at me with confusion or embarrassment and ask sheepishly, “Is there any way you could just use the regular copy?” Inclined to say yes, I learn to say no. I answer, “I’m sorry, that would be really difficult for me to read.”

When they don’t forget to enlarge my copy, they forget to bring it. They say, “Oh gosh, I left your copy in my printer! Let me just run to my office and get it!” Meanwhile, they don’t collect the copies they’ve already passed out. Around me, students begin the exam, and I wait for my test. My anxiety mounts—I’m painfully aware that other students are completing their exam while I don’t even have mine. I’m aware that it will take me longer to read the test. I worry that I won’t finish on time, not because of my reading speed, but because my instructor takes 20 minutes to dash to her office and return with my exam.

In these moments, I cannot panic, pontificate, or patronize. I cannot say, “Why don’t you put a sticky note on your computer, reminding you to print my exam in size 18?” Just between you and me, I can read size 14, but I’ve since learned this valuable lesson: when you ask for size 14, professors try to give you 12. They say, “Well, I mean—it’s close, isn’t it? Can’t you just make it work for today? I’ll print your next one larger, I promise. I won’t forget.”

Occasionally, the forgetfulness sparks a creative solution. A professor who forgets to enlarge poems for me begins reading them in a slow, sonorous voice. When he reads, I don’t miss the print copies; I easily follow the poem. His reading precipitates an excellent discussion and furthers my blatant preference for the oral approach to poetry.

Another professor rushes across the room to narrate scenes of a film for me. He crouches by my desk and whispers (not very quietly) into my ear, describing an important scene. I assure him that this isn’t necessary – the classmate sitting beside me excels at audio description – and, reassured, he hurries back to his desk.

When I feel frustrated with my professors’ absent-mindedness, I remember the inclusive efforts of a certain Dr. Rae. She treats me so well that I take five courses with her. After the first day of class, and across those five courses, she forgets to enlarge one assignment. ONE assignment. When she realizes her mistake, she insists on typing the homework, a piece of Old English prose that we must translate, by hand. I find it waiting in my inbox just two hours after class.

She doesn’t tell me, “You’ll have to forgive me—I’ve never done this before.” She doesn’t say, “Oh dear, I’ve left your copy in my office.” She says, “I have a disabled sibling; I know what it’s like. I’m going to do my best for you.”

She spoils me for other instructors. When they forget to accommodate me, I remember that she rarely forgets. I begin to measure them against her, thinking, “If she can remember, why can’t others?” Surely, she has the same workload, amount of courses, lists of names to memorize, and piles of articles to read. But I never have to fight for anything in her class. I never receive a sigh of frustration, confusion, or embarrassment. When the rest of the class easily navigates a text that hasn’t been enlarged for me, she understands my acute feelings of exclusion. And I suspect that she gets my bravado as well. She helps me feel the value of my whole self, mind and body connected.

I intend to model myself on Dr. Rae. Already, I have adopted her circular classroom arrangement and short response papers. Now, I am waiting for my population of disabled students, so I can extend her fervent consideration to them. I cannot wait to accommodate!
September 20, 2012
Wax On, Wax Off

(In this entry, I am going to shamelessly use Javier as a narrative catalyst. He drives me where I want to go, describes some events and expressions after the events take place, and has 1-2 lines of significant dialogue. I can’t tell the story without him, so I hope he’s OK with being a rather necessary cameo.)

Javier and I step through the open door of the nail salon, across the brightly-patterned tile floor, and up to the desk. A small Asian woman in a bold striped shirt greets us and asks what we need. “I need my eyebrows waxed,” I explain, and she tells me to sign my name in the guestbook. I scrawl a very blurry Emily, and Javier and I step off to the right to await service.

A few minutes later, the same Asian woman returns and indicates that I should follow her. Her soft, unassuming tone accentuates the faltering fluency of her expressions. I ask, “May I have you arm?” and she stares at me with confusion.

“Can she hold your arm?” Javier corrects, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, can I hold onto your elbow?”

“Oh!” she exclaims, comprehension blossoming across her face. “Yes! Here is my arm!” She smiles brightly at me as she extends her right elbow. I take it, and she leads me deeper into the salon, between the two rows of massage chairs.

For someone only minutes into the realization that I have limited vision, she guides me expertly. She keeps her arm tucked against her body and shifts her body dramatically when we pass an obstacle. (This surely beats the time I was here before—when the shop owner attempted to guide me by picking up the end of my cane and walking forward!)

When we get to an empty chair, she pats the seat and says, “Here is chair! You sit here.” I obey her, folding my cane and placing my pink quilted purse on the floor to my left. “You relax—I be right back,” she assures me, before trotting away. I lean back and prop up my feet.

She returns with her tools and presses the button that reclines my chair. As the chair leans back, I remove my glasses and wait. She leans over me, turning my face so she can see each eyebrow. I close my eyes and listen to the metallic tinkle of her tiny tools.

I feel a spot of cold metal touching the space above my right eyebrow. She announces that she is going to trim them for me, and I hear the quiet, crunchy snip of the tiny trimmer passing across my eyebrow. Each time, its metal length lies across my skin and then angles slightly as she snaps it shut. The trim is painless.

I smell the hot wax, and she leans over me with a q-tip. She uses the q-tip to paint warm wax on the underside of my left eyebrow. She presses something soft and flat against the wax and smooths it down with her fingers. With one hand, she takes the end of the thin cloth, and the other hand braces against my eyebrow. She lifts the cloth, and—rip!—she tears it off! “Hurt?” she asks, as I feel tears pooling at the edges of my eyes.

“A little bit.” I laugh. “So worth it – they’re really grown out!”

“Yes,” she continues, painting wax above the left eyebrow. “I have wax every few weeks, and still cry every time!” She rips it off. “But worth it. Will be so pretty. After hurt, it is so beautiful.”

“Oh yes! And they grow so fast!”

She laughs, continuing to paint wax onto my right eyebrow. She paints across the space under the brow, rips the wax off, and repeats the procedure on the space above the brow. The above-brow wax hurts less, because the bone behind the brow supports the skin as she pulls. Each time my face scrunches in pain, she repeats, “After hurt, so beautiful!”

When she has waxed the two eyebrows, she steps away, presumably to throw out the small pieces of cloth. She announces her departure, saying, “I be right back,” and her return, “Now I am back.” Again, I feel the cold metal against my skin as she tweezes stray hairs. As she plucks, she begins to ask me questions about my vision.

“When you come in, I see you sign your name. Did not realize…you have…”

“Limited vision?” I supply.

“Yes, yes, so you can see a little bit?” she asks, painting wax on the space between my brows. As before, she lays the cloth over the skin and rips it off. I wince.

“A little bit,” I explain. “I can read and write, but I can’t see to drive…Or pluck my own eyebrows!”

“Ohhh, no worry! I get coworker to do mine!” She laughs, using a small brush to smooth the hairs of my right eyebrow. “See, you fine! Even good vision and I don’t do mine!”

She asks why she hasn’t seen me at the salon before. I explain that I used to live nearby, but now I live about 20 minutes away. She asks if I go to work or school, and I say that I am teaching English. She gets excited and tells me about her major. “One year left!” she exclaims. Continuing to pluck, she says, “I gonna make you so sexy!”

As we talk, she smooths a soothing gel over my waxed skin. “Not very red,” she explains, indicating that my eyebrows don’t look irritated from the hot wax. Now that she has finished, I ask for a mirror. She hands me the mirror and watches as I examine my reflection.

“Thank you, they look so much better!”

“Yes, hurt worth it!” I hand her the mirror and gather my things. She stands by the chair, her arm outstretched. “My arm right here.”

She guides me to the front of the salon, where I pay. When she gives me back my debit card, she says, “Here is your card.” She hands me the receipt and says, “Here is your receipt.” She thanks me for coming in and says cheerfully, “I hope see you again next time!”

As we return to the car, I discuss the situation with Javier (I told you he was going to make a few appearances). He informs me that, once she realized what I needed, she lit up. “You should have seen her face,” he laughs. “She looked so excited to help you.”
I left the salon, feeling excited. I not only have two separate eyebrows again, but I made a connection with someone who intuitively helped me. Aside from telling her I needed her arm, I did not ask for any of the assistance she gave. I never told her to tell me when she left or when she came back, never specified that she should tell me when she was handing me things or where her arm was. She just…GOT it!

September 18, 2012
Meditations on a gray day

“It’s the blind leading the sighted,” Karen cheerily remarks, as we push our way through the door whose automatic OPEN button rarely performs its duty. She doesn’t need me to lead her to Starbucks – she knows where it is – but I want to lead her there. I want to choose the path we will take and the pace of our journey. We exit the building and round the corner, descending a small ramp. We head for the elevator.

The sky is working up a good gloom today, laying soft gray blankets over every surface. Dark, ominous, overcast: these are the words of people who prefer the crisp brightness of sunlit mornings and the full, yellow ebullience of summer days. When a gray filter is laid across the earth’s large lens, I see a world in crisp and unwavering clarity.

Benches, walls, stair railings, students, and doors emerge from the gray morning, asserting themselves more boldly than they would on a fine, bright day. In this softer, darker palette, I move confidently, observing the contours of things I cannot touch. I see paths sweeping away before me, turning at unexpected points. Trees thrust their dark branches upward, and the grass ripples and undulates in greenness. This is a different world, a mystical space where sight feels prophetic and strange. It’s as though I’ve dipped beneath the surface—or been pulled away from the surface—and shapes beyond my reach solidify and fit together. There’s so much here; I could never take it all in.

Conversation comes with surprising ease as Karen and I walk together. Talking on the journey is a true luxury for me, especially when I travel in unfamiliar areas. I need my senses for observation and calculation – I can’t afford to lose any cognitive energy in socializing. When people greet me as they pass, I must stop my mobility-centered thoughts, decide who they are (if they don’t announce it), and prepare a response. But with Karen, identities are established and the route is a familiar one. I can relax into a verbal interaction that keeps pace with the sweep of my cane and the forward motion of our feet.

We weave between clusters of short columns, dipping under the covered walkway that alerts me to the nearness of Starbucks. “I’ll get the door,” Karen announces. She opens the door, and we walk inside. Immediately, I am aware of the increase in noise. The background music, students’ voices, and hiss of the milk-steamer collaborate with the uncarpeted floors and high ceilings, breeding a formidable cacophony.

Since I am leading the way, I call, “Excuse me,” as I attempt to thread through the students waiting in line. Because of the noise or their own distraction, most students fail to step out of my way. I find that I must be centimeters away from them before they even notice my presence. I pitch my voice above the din – I want to sound insistent but not frantic. “Excuse me! Thank you!”

Karen and I file into line and wait. It’s around 10:46am, a popular time for coffee. The 9:25am classes have just finished and the 10:50am ones will start in seconds. The long line gives us the chance to continue our conversation. I notice that the student in front of us is staring at her phone. She does not appear to notice that the line has shifted, that she should move forward. I wonder how many minutes will pass before she notices.

I order my drink and pay for it, eagerly handing the cashier my braille Starbucks card. I’m determined to use it until there isn’t a trace of magnetic strip left. I collect my Pumpkin Spice Latte at the end of the counter and slip my crocheted coffee sleeve around the piping hot cup.

As we head toward the exit, Karen repeats, “I’ll get the door.” Bless her, she knows how to make things easy for me! Since she tells me her intention, I don’t have to think about opening the door or aim for the large OPEN button. I don’t have to switch my cane to my left hand and tuck my latte in the crook of my arm. I don’t have to guess who will open the door because she tells me the plan.

But as we walk toward the door, someone opens it from outside. Our plan changes and I must call a hasty, sincere, “Thank you!” to the anonymous student who opens it for us. I walk forward, passing the bistro tables and emerging from beneath the awning.

Sadly, the look of my world has changed. Previously cast in the grays that best suit my vision, the path before us overflows with sunlight. Sidewalk and grass become indistinct — all I see is an expanse of brightness. I must travel the rest of this sidewalk by feel. I walk forward, explaining to Karen, “We’re looking for a left turn up here.”

She moves into the lead position, and I follow her voice. We negotiate the turn in a few steps, and, with the sun behind me, I can make better visual sense of our path. I see the brick building and round its sharp corner. I recognize the glass front of the building that leads us back to the elevator. I distinguish the elevator’s dull metal doors and strange (braille-free) control panel. I take the lead and Karen follows, a half-step behind me.

September 13, 2012
A little help

I am standing at the front of the classroom, a black dry-erase marker clutched in my hand. As the class settles down, I pop the marker’s cap on and off, enjoying the satisfying click of the plastic. My colleague, Chris, has just handed the lesson over to me. The room fills with the sound of rustling paper as students pull out the text we are going to discuss.

Before coming to the front of the room, I sat at a long desk close to the door, my cane folded in front of me. When I stand up, I leave the cane folded – I am only traveling a few feet over even ground. I step around the desk and find the panel of light switches on the wall. I flip three of the four switches, bringing my educational space into cozy dimness. At this point in the semester, our students understand my preferences: dim lighting, no hand-raising, and lots of auditory cues.

Like the students, Chris understands my need to alter the classroom’s atmosphere. During the lessons I teach, my needs have become “rules,” and he collaborates with me to enforce them.

As the students quiet down, Chris rearranges some papers on his desk, sends the projector screen to its resting place in the ceiling, and prepares to walk to the back of the room. He passes in front of me, stopping by the light switches, and asks, “Do you want me to turn off the lights?”

“No thanks, I already did that,” I reply calmly. I find myself wondering how he hasn’t noticed that the room is 75% darker. This is a life-altering change for me; perhaps others are not as sensitive to changes in light.

“Oh okay,” he passes in front of me again, stopping at the whiteboard this time. “If you need anything written on the board, I can write it for you!” He picks up a marker and stands, poised for dictation.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” I answer calmly. “I can do it.” Again, I wonder what it must be like to be fully-sighted. I am holding a marker in my hand – can he not see it? I think about the way my fingers curl around the marker and realize that very little of the marker shows. OK so maybe he can’t see the marker…

“Are you sure? I’ll write for you!” His tone is eager, helpful. He raises his hand with the marker ever-so-slightly, as though he wants his body language to read, “I’m ready and waiting at your disposal.”

“NO. I want to write for myself!”

My tone sounds strong! I revel in the assertion of my own authority, until the students utter a long, meaningful, “Oooooooh!” and I realize…I may have been a bit harsh.

Chris takes a step away from the board and says, in a slightly deflated tone, “I was just trying to be helpful.”

“You were being over-helpful,” I insist. “I want to do things for myself.”

“Okay…” Chris leaves the front of the classroom and finds a place toward the back. Giggles from our audience tell me that the students find our exchange thoroughly entertaining.

As the lesson continues, I take the lead, and Chris fades into the background, occasionally venturing a comment or clarifying a point in the text. I answer students’ questions and ask for their observations, reminding them to give me their names when they speak. I use the whiteboard minimally, though I continue to click the marker’s cap during quiet moments. It’s not that I can’t write on the board – I prefer to focus on the discussion at hand. I write only when I need to spell something for the class.

Near the end of the discussion, we reach a contentious point in the material, and I have to defer to Chris. His comments are extensive, and, in working through them, he declares, “I’m going to write this on the board…AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME!” He dashes to the board and hastily scrawls something – a book title, author, quote – I have no way of knowing what he writes. The students laugh as I feign annoyance.

After class, Chris and I discuss the situation. I explain how much I appreciate his willingness to assist me, but that I must learn to do things for myself. I must try to write on the board, so that I can assess my own abilities. If he writes for me, I’ll never know whether I can really do it. And unless he intends to follow me to every classroom in my teaching career, I’ll need to master these skills.

I also explain that it’s important for his students to see that I can do things. I may be their first experience of a blind instructor. What will they think if I can’t even write on the board? Turn off the lights for myself? Recognize which student is speaking? I need to radiate competence.

I tell Chris about the spectrum of assistance I’ve encountered – from my friend Javier, who had to learn that his chivalrous technique of pulling out chairs didn’t really help me (“Um, Javi, where did the chair go?”), to Crystal, who continues to come up with helpful solutions to daily frustrations. (She’s the one who wouldn’t let me buy the orange oven mitt because I couldn’t see it.) I explain the principle of asking before doing, actually checking with me to see if I even want the kind of assistance you’re offering. I tell him, “Sometimes you’re so busy offering your assistance that you can’t even hear my refusal…and you’re not alone in that.”

He understands and attempts to internalize. He readily gives me permission to write about the experience. And I continue to calmly refuse his assistance when I don’t need it.

I begin to see signs of progress. Now, when Chris offers to assist me, he waits half a second and then says something like, “Oh you probably don’t want help with that.” We stand outside my office door and I fumble with the electronic key. “I hate these stupid keys,” I mutter, and, right on cue, he asks, “Do you want help?” Before I can respond, he answers himself, “You probably want to do it yourself.” Yes! I have to resist the urge to cheer – I am so excited that he has come to this conclusion.

I do not expect everyone to memorize the situations in which I want assistance. My abilities are fluid and the quantity of my usable vision changes depending on the environment. There is one constant: if I am able to do something for myself, I want to do it for myself. I do not want to be banished from my own experiences, just because it looks like I am struggling. Remember the struggle is something you see, not something I feel.

Instead, I insist that you ask before doing, and that you respect my refusal.

September 9, 2012
Walking

“In my afternoon walk I would fain forget all my morning occupations and my obligations to Society. But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head and I am not where my body is–I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?”
-Henry David Thoreau, “Walking”

Wearing my sunglasses, I descend the front stairs and Dad offers me his arm. Already, Ozzie pulls at the leash in Mom’s hand. We traverse the small sidewalk that bisects our front yard and reach the curb. “Curb alert!” Dad says cheerfully. He steps off the curb and waits for me to do the same. When we are both on the road, he turns to the right, and we begin the first lap.

Mom leads the stroll, holding Ozzie’s leash as he tries to investigate everything at once. Shortly, we arrive at a small grassy area, where Dad and I wait in the shade as Ozzie explores each tree and bush. When he is finished, we resume, following the curve of the road as it rounds the neighborhood. Dad narrates various characteristics of our surroundings, commenting on the state of the trees, the construction of the houses, and the weather. With my hand firmly wedged into the crook of his arm, I glide forward, appreciating his commentary. My cane scratches along the level pavement, and I don’t have to think about where we’re going. Relying on my guide, I can relax into ambulatory reflection.

I am excited by the certainty of my steps – the rush of confidence as each foot obeys the commands of proprioception – and the comforting sensation of warmth as my muscles come to attention. I feel the ground through my feet, and the invigorating pressure of each step dispels the drowsiness in my legs. A small breeze, not powerful enough to rustle the leaves, cools my face. The sun seems to exude less heat; the air is not oppressive. I can smell the beginnings of autumn – an unlikely aroma on a September day in Florida. For us, fall is rarely a season of dramatic foliage and crisp air, but some strange hint, some spicy undercurrent, recalls the inspiring nature of autumn afternoons.

In a remarkably short time, I notice how our strides have aligned. Dad and I easily fall into an identical pace, keeping an equal distance behind Ozzie and Mom. Our small pack seems cohesive, determined, and relaxed. Traveling with this group – social ambling – calms and comforts me. I am soothed not only by my own steps, but by the audible footfalls around me and the sound of Ozzie’s small legs persevering along the road.

I think about the nature of strolls and the muscles we use to create them. I wonder how much of the stroll is made in the legs and how much of its emollience comes from the walking-place. Walking by myself, I rarely have the luxury of reflecting as I move; I deploy my cognitive resources and sensory observations in the task of traveling safely. Among the group, I can abdicate these duties and appreciate what I imagine Thoreau appreciated in his familiar woods and fields.

It takes some practice and more leisure to become the kind of walker Thoreau describes. It is not enough to engage in the mobile preparation, to possess the ability to move and direct your own course. I believe that Thoreau’s kind of walking, the spiritual experience of movement through the world, demands a level of sensory commitment and mental calm. You must know the path you’re traveling – you must be able to travel it with relative ease so that you can lose and find yourself in the walk. Without the foundation of sensory familiarity and muscle memory, the walk cannot take place.

If I say that I walk more with my mind than my body, I run the risk of dismissing my sensory, physical experiences of the world. So I will not say it. I think that the mind and body make the walk together, so that walking itself does not depend on legs, but on the idea of them. It depends on a person’s willingness to stroll by any means, to embody the mind’s need to rove.

September 6, 2012
Braille Fail: On the Blink Investigates the Dotty Placement of Elevator Embossment

Now that I am traveling independently on campus, I am responsible for opening doors for myself and calling for my own elevators. I do not mind these tasks; I use them as an opportunity to rejoice in my own autonomy. I reach eagerly for the high-contrast chrome door-pulls and jab resolutely at the glossy roundness of the elevator buttons.

If I find that I’m alone while waiting for an elevator, I employ the time in exploration, letting my fingers slide all over the panel in search of the familiar braille text that labels each button. The elevators on campus seem to be short on dots – I have real trouble finding the braille on the panel of buttons that covers the wall to the right of the elevator doors. Where is the braille? I ask myself over and over. It should be here…

I am feeling for the braille in a sensible place. Like the braille that accompanies the print text on signs outside classrooms and bathrooms and the similar braille on drive-up ATMs – you know, the braille that makes most sighted people ask, “Why would you have BRAILLE on a DRIVE-UP ATM???” – the braille that labels the elevator controls should be located just below the pictures or the buttons themselves. In fact, once I get inside the elevator, I feel for the 2 button, and (what a relief!) the button has braille text below “2.” I feel the number sign (dots 3, 4, 5, and 6) – it resembles a backwards L – followed by a lowercase b. Comforted by the endearing embossments, I ride up to the second floor and wander into my office. The elevator’s interior meticulous labeling dissipates its exterior negligence.

But perhaps you are distracted by my “number-dropping” and talk of l’s and b’s. Perhaps you really do want to know why there’s braille on drive-up ATMs. Maybe you just want to know why I don’t take the stairs. Very well, I will explain.

Braille is a writing code, not a language, and each character occurs within a braille cell. The braille cell is made up of 2 columns, each with 3 dots. The dots are numbered 1-6 and the configuration of a braille cell looks like this:

1 4
2 5
3 6

So why the number sign and the b?: Naturally, with only 6 dots, you can make a very limited number of patterns. In braille, numbers 1-10 are achieved by placing the number sign (the configuration that looks like a backwards L) in front of the characters for a-j. Similarly, you capitalize a letter by placing a dot 6 before it. There just isn’t room in braille for a separate set of patterns for upper and lowercase letters.

And why the braille on drive-up ATMs?: True, we are not yet in a society where blind people can drive independently, but our day will come! In the meantime, we do take taxis and employ many other ways of getting around. A drive-up ATM does not have to be used by the person driving the car. A blind person can easily access the ATM from the backseat, thereby rendering her/him independent – able to draw cash on-the-go!

Just take the stairs!: Well, I do – regularly – but there’s no braille on them.

Returning to our tale…

Because braille heralds the approach of most important locations, I know it must be somewhere on the elevator. The elevator sits a few inches inside the wall, its metal doors edged in several inches of the same dark, glossy material. By chance, I let my hand slide along the edge of the elevator-shaped indentation – the edge is rounded by its metal sheath – and I discover familiar dots. Just inside the alcove, only inches deep, on the wall perpendicular to the elevator entrance, a small embossed “2” and its accompanying braille text comes under my fingertips. And now, I echo the droves of sighted people who ask of ATM braille, “Why is that there?”

Clearly, this elevator label was not Designed with the Blind in Mind – it is not in a sensible location. What blind person would risk damage to her fingers by groping into the elevator’s alcove to search for the braille label? Why is the label in a different location from the panel of controls, which is placed at a safe distance from the rapidly opening and closing elevator doors?

Placing the braille accompaniment to print text in an impractical or perilous location is just as foolish as putting the dots out of reach. What good is braille if we can’t reach it? What help is a braille sign if it’s in a location that doesn’t make sense?

Perhaps these estimable sign-placers don’t realize that braille is primarily used by the visually-impaired. A sighted person can easily scan the elevator area to find a poorly-placed braille sign, but a braille user’s hands cannot travel quite so far.

Here’s an easier way to think about it: If you’re looking for braille, you’re doing it wrong.

On the Blink

September 1, 2012

Emily K. Michael

Emily K. Michael is a blind poet, musician, and writing instructor. She serves as the poetry editor for Wordgathering at Syracuse University. She is also a poetry mentor in AWP’s Writer to Writer program. Her work focuses on music, embodiment, teaching, and ecology. Emily is passionate about birds, medieval history, singing, and guide dogs.

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