Many of the blind people I know have an unspoken code of conduct, consisting of their opinions about how a typical blind person should behave. Most of us don’t expect anyone else to follow them, but we hold ourselves to these standards, determined by nothing more than personal preference. Even so, for as long as I’ve interacted with other blind people, various rules have been passed along to me, determining how a “good” blind person should behave. Besides the fact that it is restrictive and judgmental to try to tell another individual how to live his or her life, these rules are often a mass of contradictions, making it impossible for me to figure out how I’m supposed to reconcile so many conflicting views. To illustrate how ridiculous this can sometimes get, I have written out 10 “commandments” of sorts, which I’ve taken from one of the more extreme ends of the spectrum. You might call this the “independence, normality, and suppression” end of the spectrum. They are quite extreme, but make no mistake: people out there really do believe this stuff, and look down on those who don’t. Next week, I’ll give you 10 more (and completely contradictory) rules from the “dependence, abnormality, and major expression” end of the spectrum. Placing these posts side by side should demonstrate how utterly impossible it is to please the blind community at large. It all comes down to that time-honoured piece of advice: when you try to please everyone, you end up pleasing no one. I hope these make you laugh, but I hope they make you think, too; just remember, while you’re giggling over these silly commandments, there are people out there right now trying with all their might to follow them.
1. A good blind person should always be mindful that, first and foremost, life is a competition. Regardless of circumstance, the exemplary blind person will strive to be equal to or better than every other blind person they know. Should another blind person point out that it’s okay to find certain things difficult and that we’re all friends here, be sure to gently remind them that they shouldn’t go giving us all a bad name. We are all ambassadors, and must therefore take responsibility for impression management on behalf of the entire blind population.
2. A good blind person must attempt to be as normal as possible as often as possible. This begins with the relatively simple task of eliminating blindisms (i.e. any behaviour associated with blindness but not typical of the general sighted population), and should culminate in seeming as sighted as one can without actually being able to see. This will mean dressing, acting, speaking, and thinking in normal, generally accepted ways. For example, anyone found to be using “blind” in their internet usernames shall be considered deviant and will be encouraged to change their online handles to something more “sighted”. While one should accept that passing for sighted will never be achieved, one should still expend enormous amounts of time and energy trying. Should a fellow blind person deviate from the general standard of normative behaviour in any way, be sure to express the appropriate amount of scorn, lest they draw attention to their differences and make us all look abnormal.
3. A good blind person shall remain as independent as humanly possible. He/she shall seek to be an island at all times; asking for help is frowned upon, and attempting to be at peace with one’s disability in any sense is strictly prohibited. If one is forced to accept help under dire circumstances, one must display the proper level of embarrassment and despair. Despite the natural human need for interdependence, good blind people will rise above this weakness, showing the world that they don’t need anyone at any time for any reason.
4. A good blind person will be as active as possible in any blindness-related cause, campaign, community, etc. If one is not actively involved in as many blindness-related causes as are available, one shall be considered a detriment to the betterment of one’s own future and the future of others. Exceptions only apply where the cause, campaign, or community encourages dependence and/or self-acceptance. Outright disinterest in the blind Community at large will not be tolerated.
5. That said, a good blind person will take care not to become too close to other blind people beyond the level that is necessary to further the advancement of the blind in general. One shall make as many sighted friends as possible; one shall choose a sighted mate; one shall socialize with sighted groups whenever the opportunity arises. Associating with other blind people strictly for pleasure or support is frowned upon. Anyone actively inclined to surround themselves with other blind people will be considered an embarrassment to the Community as a whole. Sticking to one’s own kind is an affront to the Community’s efforts to assimilate itself into the world at large.
6. A good blind person will take on as many normal pursuits as possible. A good blind person is involved in several clubs, has tons of friends (preferably sighted ones), has a bursting social calendar, at least one college or university degree, a steady (ideally impressive and difficult) career, and of course the requisite marriage and children. Any blind person who finds contentment in a less than hectic lifestyle shall be considered unambitious and will therefore be a stain on the entire blind Community.
7. A good blind person should be unhappy with his/her lot at all times, forever wishing to be sighted, normal, and therefore on par with other humans. Any attempt to accept oneself as one is will be met with disgust and, if the attitude persists, outright exclusion from the Community. If any type of cure (or even a hint at a cure) should become available, one should jump at the chance to try it, and loudly dismiss those who are more hesitant, or who may be content with their current state of being. If necessary, a good blind person will point out that such people are a tragic drain on the system and ought to be purged from this world.
8. A good blind person should worship the sighted with due reverence and respect. They are, after all, our superiors, and ought to be treated as such at all times. One should forever strive to be exactly like them, so much so that any disability all but disappears. If one cannot emulate a sighted person perfectly, one should simply not leave the house ever again, lest they risk inconveniencing the sighted. Any sighted person trying to deny his or her superiority should be dissuaded.
9. A blind person must be perfectly competent in all that he/she does. This competence must be independent of one’s skills, talents, abilities, and knowledge. Regardless of one’s strengths and weaknesses, one must be an excellent cook, an immaculate housekeeper, a highly successful employee/employer, and an exceptional spouse/parent. Good blind people understand that they should hold themselves to a higher standard than do sighted people, meaning that they must settle for nothing less than perfection in every area of their lives.
10. A good blind person remembers that we live in a sighted world, and will, therefore, accept that they have no rights or privileges beyond what the benevolent sighted choose to allow them. Any request or demand for accessibility, if denied, should be immediately retracted with all grace. After all, the sighted world owes us nothing; we merely rent space here, and do not deserve to expect equal treatment, even when that treatment is guaranteed under law. In these cases, we must do what we do best: keep quiet.
Author: Meagan H. Houle
Exhibit A: On Getting Past The Novelty Stage
It’s natural to be fascinated by someone new. Our brains love novelty; new things and people tend to seem more interesting and attractive by default. So it’s no surprise that many of my most cherished friendships were founded upon at least a little novelty. People are always curious about the blindness thing: they have questions, concerns, etc. While it’s not the most ideal way to make friends, I don’t mind too much. I might do the same if I made a friend who was deaf, or in a wheelchair; I have no doubt that I would have plenty of questions to ask, and wouldn’t always be successful in curbing my insatiable curiosity. All normal, all healthy, all good. But… (and there’s always a but)…
…there are some friendships (and I use the term loosely here) that seem to thrive upon the sheer novelty of disability. People really get into the whole sighted guide adventure. They love coming up with new questions to ask me long after I’ve answered all the usual ones. They want to help me with absolutely everything, just to see how “it all works”. This becomes a little off-putting after awhile, because I’m left wondering whether they’d be my friend at all if not for the blindness. Is that my only selling point? Is that what they’re into? Because if it is, then where exactly does that leave me? What if I eventually lose my intrigue? Will they go off and find some new disability to coo over?
I was once invited out for coffee by one of my instructors. I assumed we’d spend the time chatting about the course; I’d done quite well, and had more than a passing interest in it. Instead, it turned out to be an hour’s worth of Q and A. To his credit, once he figured out that there was more to me than spokesperson for all the blindies of the world, our conversations became far more interesting. Still, it was a rather disappointing experience.
There are even people who stick around after the novelty wears off because associating with me gives them the warm fuzzies. They think that helping me is the nicest, most Mother Teresa-like thing they could possibly do, and it reassures them that they are good people. (FYI, studies suggest that Mother Teresa was actually a little bit nuts, so maybe find a different role model.) I always appreciate magnanimity, but there’s such a thing as too damn much. People make me into a walking, talking source of validation, if you will. Beyond my need for help, I’m worth very little to them, even if they don’t consciously realize it. The more independent I am, (and I’d like to think I’m reasonably independent as people go), the less I matter to them. If I don’t need something, we don’t see each other, period. My value lies only in what they can do for me; beyond that, I’m not worth their time and energy, because they’re either out with more interesting friends, or busy saving other lost little souls. Invariably, the friendship ends when they become bored, and they move along to the next one. And there is always a next one.
Needless to say, I consider this type of friendship highly undesirable. I am fortunate in that I have had this happen to me only a very few times, but each time, it has hurt deeply. I befriend people because I like them; it’s as simple as that. To know that others befriend me because I’m some fascinating superfreak, or because I can help them feel good about themselves, is insulting, damaging, and depressing as all get-out. Friendship is supposed to be grounded in healthy, mutual interest and respect; I don’t want to be someone’s charity case or pet social experiment. I’m not a novelty object, and I’m not a living breathing pity party. If you want to be my friend, please do so because I make you laugh, or because you enjoy my company, or because I make delicious cookies (and I do), or because you think I’m a genuinely interesting person (you know, beyond the eye stuff). Don’t befriend me because you think it’s the “right” thing to do, or because you think you might be able to write a book about the experience later. You certainly shouldn’t befriend me solely because you want to blog about it; Blogging about my broken eyes is my job, damn it! PSA: Blogging/writing about me will not make you much money unless you’re good at embellishment; I’m not that interesting, just as a heads up.
In all seriousness, let me be a bit of a broken record and restate what I’ve been saying all along in these posts: disability in no way negates humanity. Treat us like people, not like objects, or circus freaks, or exhibits. We don’t exist for your personal validation. We love it when you help us, and if you are good friends to us we will adore you forever. Even if you’re not really friends with us, but you’re a naturally helpful person, we will still think you’re awesome. Just make sure that the friendship has a lot more to it than that, because on our end, it will be about way, way more than what you can do for us. If that does not prove true for you, find another friend, because no one deserves to be a walking support system.
For anyone who fears that a friendship is edging towards the danger zone, here are a few tips to nudge it back towards a healthier direction. I’ve used these for my own friendships, and I find them to be very effective.
Analyze the reasons you hang out with each other. If you find that the majority of your hangout time is devoted to helping your disabled friend, you may want to kill that pattern as quickly as you can. Feel free to be helpful to them, but ensure that you’re socializing with them just for the fun of it more often than not. The last thing you want (and probably the last thing your disabled friend wants), is a friendship built mostly upon your ability to be helpful.
Let your friend be of assistance to you in whatever ways they can. Everyone has something to offer; find out what your friend can help you with, so that you can break a potential cycle of mild parasitism. I’m not suggesting that you attempt to make your friend feel useful; I’m merely suggesting that you allow them to do for you what you do for them as a matter of course. Friendships in which one friend is of exponentially greater value to the other are destined for disaster, and can be enormously unfulfilling for both parties. Don’t assume that your disabled friend has nothing to bring to the table. I’ve been known to edit my friends’ essays, play counselor when they have profound issues they need to talk through, and make jokes when they’re sad. (You’ll have to check with them on the efficacy of that last, though.) It can’t be denied that I give fabulous hugs, as well, so there’s that. See? I’m positively brimming with perks!
Resist bringing disability into every conversation. It’s okay to be open about it, and if it comes up, then it comes up. However, there is such a thing as making it into something bigger than it needs to be. It shouldn’t be an integral part of everything you discuss, and it shouldn’t be the centre of attention at all times. Chances are, your friend is sick to death of talking about it anyway, and would love to chat about almost anything else. I admit that it can be cathartic to vent about my disability to friends sometimes, but it’s definitely not something I’d want to do every day. As an experiment, try spending a whole day with your friend without mentioning it beyond what necessity might dictate. If it’s hard to find things to talk about, you know you’re in trouble. On the flip side, if you catch yourself completely forgetting that your friend has a disability at all, pat yourself on the back: you’re doing just fine.
When introducing your friend to others, don’t dwell on the disability; make sure you mention cool stuff about them, like what they’re really good at, or what they’re interested in. Establish common ground, so that the focus can shift away from the novelty of their existence and toward things they might actually want to be known for. If you set the tone, others will follow your lead.
Assess your friend’s attitude towards their disability, particularly in the ways that affect your relationship with them. If you find that they are focused only on what you can help them with, not to mention how utterly tragic their lot is, it’s time to say your farewells. As I mentioned earlier, no one deserves to be regarded as little more than a source of help and comfort. Don’t let yourself be used, no matter how guilty you might feel. The majority of us would never do that to you, so don’t let the few of us who would get away with it.
Finally, reassure your friend that you appreciate them for more than their disability. I have actually caught myself making blind jokes because I felt like that was all the other person wanted to hear. I even found myself going out of my way to discuss it, because it was guaranteed to peek their interest in a way that nothing else could. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I felt almost self-exploitative, and was ashamed of both myself and the state of the friendship. Never let things get as bad as that, if you can help it. Even if it feels a bit awkward, make sure they know that you value them for themselves most of all. It may seem obvious to you, but it may not be obvious to them. For all you know, they’ve been spending hours trying to think of a delicate way to bring it up. I know I have..
My Blindy Senses Are Tingling!
“So…your hearing must be, like, really really crazy good, right?”
“Actually, no, it’s just that I know how to use—“
“…and your sense of touch? It must be amazing!”
“Again, it’s just that I know—“
“…you must have, like, super senses!”
“No, really—“
“Wait, are you like Daredevil?”
“Noooo!”
If you’re blind (or if you have any other disability, for that matter) then you’ve heard this one before. If you’re sighted, you’ve probably wondered about it. Today, I shall make it my mission to dispel the myths once and for all. Tell your friends! Seriously! This is bigger than IOS 8, and you won’t even have to put up with a U2 album!
Let me start out by reassuring you that assuming we have heightened senses is both logical and not entirely false. There is evidence that the neurons normally responsible for helping us see would instead find other tasks to perform, since our bodies don’t much like wasting resources. There is also evidence that the visual cortex—so much larger than those devoted to our other senses—might rewire itself after awhile, seeking more urgent work to do. So, to expect that we might have better hearing or a more sensitive touch is not unreasonable. In fact, it may even be that the nerve endings in our fingertips become more sensitive the more we read braille; the fingers I use to do this are definitely more sensitive to fine detail than the fingers I don’t use much. So, do we have heightened senses? Maybe, but if so, the difference is not nearly as significant as some imagine it to be.
What we do have is a better understanding of how to use our senses, particularly hearing, touch, and smell. We can all hear echoes, but blind people are better at deciphering what those echoes can tell them about, say, where the nearest building is. We can all smell cafeteria food or coffee, but blind people will probably rely on this as a scent clue to help them locate a particular room. We can all feel bumps on a page, but blind people are particularly adept at figuring out just what those bumps mean without having to look at them first, as many sighted braille readers do. In other words, we don’t have “super senses”; we just know how to use what we have.
I’m usually very patient with people who think I can hear far better than they can; as I said, this is a fairly reasonable idea. I’m less patient with the more ridiculous assumptions people make, many of which border on the ludicrous. It’s gotten so bad that I have frequently joked about whether or not we can hear grass growing, paint drying, or the whispering of souls who’ve gone from this world. In fact, Gregg tells me that he’d like to inform you that all paint dries in the key of B flat, just so you know.
I’d like to share a tidbit with you that will illustrate some of the more incredible ideas otherwise intelligent people have come up with over the years. A few months ago, Carly Marno, (a Persian cat breeder), was interviewing at a cat show. At one point, she was asked whether she had some kind of “special bond” with her cats because of her blindness. She asserted that she did not. While she does intensively handle all of her cats for obvious reasons—and knows them all very intimately because of it—she does not feel she has some kind of special connection with them just because she can’t see them. In fact, cats are highly visual creatures, which makes the likelihood of a special bond even smaller. Undeterred, the interviewer kept probing, insisting that she really must have some kind of special blindy superpower that linked her with her cats. Carly is very successful, so perhaps the interviewer was grasping at straws, trying to figure out how a blind person could do so well. Who knows? Either way, she refused to give in, and the interview was never published. Coincidence? You decide.
I think people desperately want to believe that we have super senses, because it explains how we can be so competent at times. People simply don’t understand how someone without sight could possibly get around as well as we often do, so they rationalize it by deciding that we’re just blessed with superpowers. Not so! Being as competent as we can be takes a lot of hard work, practice, and copious amounts of trial and error. I have even heard people put forth the idea that greats like Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles were as talented as they were because they had an advantage over sighted people. It couldn’t possibly be because they were, you know, particularly talented. No, people had to justify their success by claiming they had God-given superpowers to compensate. Sorry to say, but we blind people don’t get some kind of consolation prize in return for the loss of our sight. We aren’t given superpowers in other areas to make up for it. All we have is what everyone has, and a particular drive to make use of it. In fact, the idea that we would need superpowers to be successful at all is a bit insulting, no? Instead of assuming we can hear gaps in the sidewalk or, I dunno, smell a person’s emotions, ask us how we do the things we do. Most of us will be very happy to tell you.
I’ll draw this post to a close; I have to go and sort my laundry using only my sense of taste! Did you know that white clothing tastes very distinctly of lemongrass? It’s quite a treat!
Further reading:
Below are a few articles about the link between blindness and heightened or altered senses. The last link is a blog post by CrazyMusician, which further explains how hearing can help us navigate, and what can happen if our hearing is impaired for any reason. You should also visit Carly’s cattery: She has cat pictures! Everybody loves cat pictures!
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/superpowers-for-the-blind-and-deaf/
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2012/05/120508152002.htm
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC544930/
http://blindbeader.wordpress.com/2014/09/18/did-you-hear-that/
Don’t Get Grabby: Respect The Personal Bubble
I’ll be the first to admit that my personal space is quite small as they go. I’m apt to hug strangers (assuming they’re okay with it, obviously), I love handshakes, and I have no trouble taking someone’s arm in order to be guided—or just to be companionable, because why not? That said, one of the things I have to be hyper-aware of is the personal space of other people. Just because I’m comfortable with casual touch doesn’t mean that everyone is. So, out of simple respect, I refrain from touching, grabbing, or manhandling people without their permission. Seems obvious, right? Not really.
Ever since I can remember, I have been casually touched and/or grabbed by complete strangers, usually without any kind of warning or preamble. Sometimes, it’s justified enough: I’m headed straight for a pole, and someone panics and grabs me to keep me safe. I can understand that, even though I’m often aware of exactly where I’m going, and know that my cane will strike the pole before my face will. I can forgive that kind of protective instinct. It gets a little problematic when people decide to grab or otherwise touch me for very flimsy reasons, the most common of which is because they seem to think that people with disabilities—especially blind people—don’t have a personal bubble in need of respecting.
I’m not the only one who has noticed this, either. Just about every blind person I’ve ever spoken to at any length has mentioned that they’ve been frequently grabbed, touched, or otherwise physically manipulated either against their will, or at least without permission. This might start out sounding a little silly: what’s the big deal, right? So someone grabs you to keep you out of the way of some obstacle? What could possibly be wrong with that, in this otherwise apathetic society?
Here’s what’s wrong with it: many of us have a large personal space, and we don’t appreciate being grabbed, nudged, or prodded without warning, especially if the reason is anything less than “I thought you were going to get yourself killed”. Here are just a few scenarios (because I like lists, sue me), in which I’ve been grabbed or otherwise touched in a way I disliked, with explanations as to why I object. In all cases, speaking to me first would have been the best option. Perhaps, by the end of this little post, people will be a bit more willing to keep their hands to themselves unless the circumstances are especially dire. Here goes …
In my first year of university, quite early in the term, I was headed for one of my classes. Just as I was nearing the door, I felt an arm wrap tightly around my waist, and I was steered bodily towards a hallway I had no intention of going down. I was so shocked I couldn’t say a thing; I just turned my head towards the person who had hold of me, and gaped. Eventually, after a few awkward steps, I was given an explanation of sorts: “The hallway is this way”. “I don’t want to go down the hallway.”
“You were about to run into a door.”
“No no, I was headed towards the door on purpose so I could open it…”
“Look, where are you trying to go?”
“Room 6-262!”
“Oh!” he cried, sounding indulgently exasperated, “it’s right here!”
Where do you suppose he led me? Back up the hallway, and right to the door I’d originally been heading for. He then acted as though I should have been grateful for the guiding. Think again, buddy. You do not just grab a strange woman, especially when she can’t see you, and lead her off somewhere. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?
In the same university, I was heading past a staircase, intending to go down a different path. Suddenly, a woman appeared at my shoulder and locked my left arm in a death grip, locking both my elbow and wrist so that I couldn’t disengage without considerable effort. “Where you want to go?” she demanded, in a frighteningly strident voice. “Um…where I was headed…” was all I could mutter. “Stairs?” she asked, ushering me towards the staircase. “No, no! I’m okay, thank you!” … It took a long time to get my arm back, and I booked it away from her as quickly as I could. I understand that she meant well, but having my arm immobilized by someone so determined to take me down the stairs to some unknown fate was a little on the unnerving side.
My final scenario is one which, while the most benign, terrified me the most. It is illustrative of exactly why you should treat blind people like normal people and respect their personal spaces. I was walking along, quite lost in profound thought (probably imagining what I’d have for dinner or something) when I was grabbed out of nowhere. I could immediately tell that it wasn’t the typical “you’re about to walk over a cliff edge” grab, and it wasn’t the “I want to guide you somewhere” grab either. It was more of a “stop walking” grab, and while I didn’t tell him so at the time, I was absolutely terrified for a split second. Luckily for me, it turned out to be a good friend, and I was very pleased to see him. He’d just wanted to get my attention, and I guess he decided that he really really wanted me to join him over by the wall. Instead of calling my name, though, he chose to simply grab me and move me towards where he wanted me to stand. While I understand why he did it, I still think calling my name would have been far more polite. He really scared me for a second there.
If this comes off sort of bitchy, please try to understand me when I say that this is a very common complaint. It is mostly just annoying, but it can be dangerous at times. Many of the blind people I know have recommended that I take self-defense classes, not just to fend off those who mean harm, but also to free myself from well-meaning strangers who decide to get grabby. I once heard that one poor blind girl was grabbed by a stranger who was absolutely convinced that she wanted to go down the escalator. Escalators are a bit dangerous at the best of times; they’re made even more so when you can’t see where you’re going and have a stranger dragging you alongside them. I have heard of blind people being pulled into streets they didn’t want to cross because someone was trying to be helpful. I have heard of blind people being dragged off somewhere because people decided they wanted them to go there. I have had people grab my hands and been made to feel things, because it was assumed that being blind means you want to touch everything in sight. I have even been hugged and kissed by people who knew me, but who didn’t think to introduce themselves first or even warm me that they were nearby. It’s not okay.
You would never ever dream of touching the average person in this way, so why on Earth would you think it’s okay to randomly grab a blind person? Disability makes us no less human, and we have boundaries, just like you do. Please, for the safety of us all if nothing else, respect them.
Let It Snow! (Just Keep It Away From Me)
So, as many of you may be aware, we lucky Albertans have already seen our first snow. Yes, the calendar says it’s still summer, but Canada has always been something of a free spirit: it shuns all constraints and does what it damn well pleases. Conclusion? We have snow. And soon, it will stick to the ground, pile up in drifts, and hang around being a general nuisance until May or June.
Normally, this is little more than an annoyance: it’s harder to travel, whether on foot or in a vehicle, and we’re forever shovelling it aside. For a blind traveler, however—especially one who uses a cane—it can be an absolute nightmare. As silly as this may sound, enough snow can actually make the entire environment seem hopelessly unfamiliar. Not only does it turn the entire world white (as those of us who can see contrast always notice), but it also makes everything feel and sound different. Most sighted people probably don’t realize that snow changes the way a car sounds as it travels down the street. Instead of being crisp and clear, the sound is muffled and a little quieter than it should be. Cars themselves are quieter than they’ve ever been, so it’s even harder to hear them coming. Scary stuff!
Then, there is the snow’s uncanny ability to hide vital things like sidewalks. I’m lucky enough to live in an area where constant foot traffic insures that the sidewalks are cleaned regularly, but sometimes even I can’t find the sidewalks when I need them. Once, while bumbling around like an idiot, looking for the right path to take through all this new white fluff, I asked a passer-by, “Where did the sidewalk go?”. “There is no sidewalk,” he replied, in a forlorn voice, “…not anymore. Just keep walking in that general direction and you’ll be fine, I think.”. Comforting, indeed.
It’s also a bit of a trial to travel during a snow storm, at least for me. It’s hard enough to feel and hear where I’m going without wind and snow driving into my face on a consistent basis. Even if I close my eyes, put my head down, and charge on bravely like any good Canadian would, I still have to contend with the distracting barrage of harsh, icy flakes hitting my vulnerable little face. I find it difficult to protect my ears as well, because covering them makes it so much harder for me to hear properly. I can’t really win. This holds true for torrential rain as well. I once got lost during a tornado warning, and the rain was so disorienting that I completely missed a sidewalk and ended up lost for ages before I was rescued. Using an umbrella while juggling a cane can be a bit tricky, and that also messes with sound. Remember what I said about not winning either way? … Yeah.
Gregg tells me that when he was growing up in the suburbs of Hamilton, Ontario, his route to school involved walking down a road with no sidewalks. This wasn’t usually an issue, as he’d just hug the shoulder and keep an ear out for cars. When it was snowing, though, he could only really walk in the tire tracks, so if a car was coming at him, he had to book it out of the way before he became little more than paste on the roadway. Luckily, he has yet to turn to paste, so I guess there was lots of luck involved. As I mentioned earlier, the snow makes it even harder to hear oncoming traffic, so it really was a harrowing walk to school on occasion. You know you’re serious about education when …
Just when you thought you’d reach the end of the nasty obstacles snow can create, think about the two-foot drifts which line sidewalks and streets. Mostly, they’re fine: I trail my cane alongside them so that I can feel where I’m headed; in this way, it’s a lot like following a grass shoreline in summertime. The problem arises when I try to cross the street. It’s not a little nerve-wracking when you’re trying to find the sidewalk, and encountering only snowbanks because you’ve veered a bit. Guide dog travelers are lucky in this respect, but we poor cane travelers end up searching frantically for the illusive sidewalk, all the while stuck standing in the street as cars whoosh past behind us. Even though I’ve done this hundreds of times by now, it still scares me senseless every time.
Sometimes, those pesky drifts can make sidewalk travel—assuming you can even find the sidewalk, that is—a bit treacherous. I was once walking down a very narrow sidewalk, trailing the side of a building. When I came upon a very high pile of snow that completely blocked my path, I simply stopped, not knowing what to do. I had to resist the urge to burst into song: “Can’t go under it…can’t go through it…can’t go around it…I’ll have to go over it!”. Some kind soul came along and I asked him if there was any way for me to get around the drift. Without a word, this gentleman took my hand and literally lifted me right over the snowbank, depositing me gently on the other side. Normally I’m not big on people carrying me around without my consent, but in this case, I was more than grateful!
Perhaps the scariest thing about snow travel is the foreignness of my entire environment. Even if I know the area well, the whole world seems strange and frightening because everything feels and sounds so different. I’ve gotten lost a few times simply by veering a few feet left or right. The biting cold doesn’t help, either: getting lost in summertime is bad enough, but getting lost while you’re freezing is even worse. Remember those legendary prairie blizzards so fierce that you had to use ropes to get from your house to the barn and back? Remember poor little Laura Ingalls Wilder waiting hopefully for her Pa to come home because he was lost in the blizzard outside? Yeah, that’s going to be me one day. I’ll have to petition the city of Edmonton for some ropes leading to basically everywhere. (Don’t frown at me: you know you’d use them, too.)
Back when I lived in a rural area, winter was a good thing! The snow was a magical source of endless fun. In the city, though, it’s my worst enemy. As much as I love Canada, I do implore it to be kind to me this year, and keep the cottonfluff storms to a minimum. Will it listen? Stay tuned to find out! (I wouldn’t count on it, though.)
The Dreaded “Can’t” Word
Before I get started today, I must first emphasize that this post is not intended as a poorly-disguised roast of a certain individual (who here remains nameless). The situation was unfortunate, and I have my own opinions about that as you’ll see, but this is not a roast. There are many who know a lot of details about this situation, including the professor’s name, the course she teaches, and the program she is involved in. While some of this may be guessed at, and while I am not bound by anything in particular, I ask those of you who have this information to keep it to yourselves. I discourage any spreading of information that isn’t already in this blog post. I don’t want unjustified backlash to hit this person, her program, or her institution.
Now that that’s out of the way … on we go!
The word disability implies that there will be some things a person will be unable to do if they have one. If you’re blind, being unable to do certain things goes with the territory; you get used to it early on, and maybe if you’re lucky you manage to prove a few people wrong along the way. In general, though, some things are going to be beyond us … and that’s okay. I’ll never be able to colour-coordinate my outfits; I’ll never pick out my own wedding dress (simply liking how it feels isn’t enough, sadly); I’ll never be able to be a photojournalist. (Okay, so I’m at peace with that last one.) And guess what? I’m fine with that.
What I’m not fine with is being told I’m unable to do something when I am, in fact, very able. This type of statement usually comes in two forms:
1. “You can’t do this at all, because you’re blind. Sorry.” Or,
2. “You can’t do *all* of this, so you shouldn’t do any, sorry.”.
First of all, unless we’re talking about the painfully obvious stuff (photojournalism, anyone?), no one is a better judge of what I’m capable of than I am. I know myself best, and as long as I know what I’m signing up for, I’m usually right. This goes for things I can’t do, as well: if I insist that such-and-such a task is absolutely impossible, it probably is.
Being told I can’t do something when it’s actually true is tough to hear, but I can deal with it. This is the hand I’ve been dealt, etc. etc. However, life isn’t always so kind. A few days ago, I was just beginning my third year in a university program I really, really love. I took this program with fairly specific goals in mind, and third year is when I get to realize some of these goals. I was very, very excited. And then …
I got an email right before the class I was looking forward to most; it was from the instructor teaching the class. I was expecting a “welcome to the class” sort of message, but that’s not quite what I got. In effect, the email informed me that the instructor was sure I would be partially, if not totally unable to do the work required for the course; she thought I had probably been ill-advised, and that I should consider alternative paths. After finishing the email, I swear I felt my whole world shift beneath me. It didn’t quite crumble, but it thought about doing so. I was instantly in tears. “There goes my future…” I thought to myself. The class was a core, required prerequisite to other classes I desperately wanted to take. I had paid for it. I had been accepted into the program, and promised that I’d be given the chance to do as much as I possibly could to be on par with everyone else. And yet, here I was, being barred from one of the most important courses in the entire degree. That would all have been devastating, but acceptable … assuming the instructor had been right. Sometimes, there are bits I simply can’t master, and that’s perfectly okay with me.
I understand where this instructor was coming from: she wasn’t sure how much time it would take to accommodate my needs on a regular basis. She wasn’t certain of how to go about teaching me differently than the other students. She was hesitant about having to mark me somewhat differently than the others. The list goes on. She was very polite, very gracious, and very sincere. I knew then (and know now) that she was not trying to be discriminatory, or malicious, or any of the other descriptors others have thrown at the situation since it got started. If I have her as an instructor in future, I will be very fortunate: she really knows her stuff. About this, though, I think she might have been wrong.
First, I have since discovered that the course can be taught in very different ways: another professor at this same university teaches the entire class on computers, making it very accessible for a blind student. Second, I have discovered that the method this instructor was using was not so standard as to be the only viable way to go about things. I would still be employable, even if I was unable to do the work exactly the way her sighted students can. Deciding not to teach me at all, therefore, put her insistence on sticking to a certain method above my ability to do the work at all. Without boring you, suffice it to say that it came down not to my skills or abilities, but rather to the fact that I can’t use a pencil. That’s it. That’s all it really was, if you look at the big picture. Such a tiny, insignificant detail! And yet it was enough to keep me from pursuing my goals in this program.
I accepted everything she said with as much grace as I could. I agreed to audit the course (I’d still pay some tuition but get neither the credit nor the feedback) and went on my not-so-merry way. I thought then (and still think), that she was probably doing the best she could. Maybe I didn’t like the result, but I knew better than to take it personally. While it is my opinion that she should be prevented from doing this to future students unless it’s truly necessary, I do not and will not endorse any roasts, rants, or other negativity aimed at her personally. If you see any of this, know that I neither approve nor validate any of it. I have not included her name, so those of you who know it should please keep that information to yourselves. My quarrel is with the situation, not the individual herself. Let no more be said on that matter, in particular.
Here’s the thing, though: her refusal to think outside the box very nearly impacted my degree. I got lucky (another professor stepped up to the plate, brave soul), but others don’t get lucky. Others have professors who mark them down on purpose, trying to get them to fail out of the program. Others are denied entrance into a program on the basis of blindness or other physical disabilities for very flimsy reasons. Others are told that the only things they’ll ever be good for are basket-weaving and maybe some beadwork if they’re truly enterprising. Yes, people are actually told these things. Today. In 2014.
Because others are not so lucky, I feel obligated to speak for them. I am fortunate, but others were not, and are not, and will not be. People will be turned away, and set aside, and pushed out of where their dreams take them, all because of laziness, or stubbornness, or fear of progression, or lack of understanding, or any other sad excuse anyone is willing to name. I wasn’t turned away. I was able to go where I wanted to go, and found people more than willing to take the journey with me. Most importantly, I am being given the chance to find out whether that instructor was right or wrong. Maybe she is right, and maybe I’ll fall flat on my face in a heap of exhaustion two weeks into the course. Maybe. … But what if I don’t?
Ultimately, I was able to respond to “you can’t”, and “you won’t”, with “I can”, and “I will”. Let’s help others do that, too. If you see any instances of discrimination, whether intended or unintended … whether well-meant or malicious … whether seemingly justifiable or blatantly ridiculous … say something. Please. The victim may feel that the discrimination is justified. They may feel bound by confidentiality agreements, or politics, or fear of retribution, or serious backlash. I myself was hesitant about speaking up, because I was afraid to damage my relationship with the university, the program faculty, and anyone else who might want to weigh in on the situation. Most of all, I was afraid to endanger the tenuous relationship I could have with the instructor who turned me away. The last thing I want to face is difficulty in future because I advocated for myself.
If they can’t speak (and sometimes they just can’t), then who will? Sometimes, we can’t do things…but most of the time, we can. And we will.
Things That Go Buzz In The Night
Summer is drawing to a close, and to make myself feel a little better about the autumn chill in the air, I’m going to take this opportunity to discuss creepy crawly buzzy creatures you only find during the otherwise idyllic summer months. Who knows? It might just make you feel better about the impending cold, too!
Insect phobia, also called entomophobia, is one of the most common phobias worldwide. Its effects can range from irritating to crippling. Some people won’t even leave their houses for fear of encountering even the most inoffensive of insects.
I didn’t always identify as insect phobic, reasoning that my fears did not impede my life enough to qualify as bona fide phobias. I’ve since changed my mind, and use the label quite freely. I am irrationally afraid of many different types of insects, and being blind can add a further dimension to this fear, making it harder to cope with and more severe.
Sometimes, coping with insects when you’re blind is no more difficult than it would be for a sighted person: as you’re lying in bed, drifting off, the insidious whine snaps you back to alertness. Then, you search vainly for the mosquito, intent upon murdering the insolent little nasty before sleep is possible. Turning on the light doesn’t help; the mosquito usually vanishes until darkness returns. Mosquitoes are easy enough for blind people to kill. They’re usually too stupid or too slow to escape a swat once they’ve landed. (I’m not yet at an emotional point where I’m fully capable of letting mosquitoes get near enough to land on me at all, but I’m working on it.)
Unfortunately, it’s another matter altogether where bees, wasps, hornets, and other bugs are concerned. There are generally several tasks that blindness makes more challenging. First, you have to identify the insect. What are you dealing with? Is it a mellow bumblebee, high on nectar and enjoying life? Is it a slightly more threatening honeybee, looking for a snack but not unwilling to attack if frightened? Or is it—horror of horrors—an evil little wasp, just waiting to launch its vile assault?
Second, where is it? Sometimes, insects that make especially loud noise can seem closer than they actually are. Is the bug near enough that any sudden movement will disturb it, or is it far enough away that escape is possible? And do you dare find out?
Third, how should you go about eliminating the threat? I’m as big a bleeding heart as anyone I know, so my first instinct is usually to put a harmless spider or lady bug outside rather than ending its little wee life. I’m not near as philosophical when it comes to creatures that buzz, however. My fear of insects is sometimes so acute that the mere sound of an insect—even a house fly—will set me so on edge that most thought processes simply stop. I want to either escape, or see the creepy-crawly slaughtered (hopefully by someone who isn’t me).
I’m not alone, either. Alicia tells me that she finds the mere idea of being trapped in an enclosed space with an unidentified insect terrifying in itself. If there’s an insect in her house, she’ll avoid it rather than trying to kill it or put it out. Even worse, she hates the knowledge that she may not know a bug is around until it crawls on her, at which point she has no warning, no sense of what the bug might be, and virtually no time to evade it.
Once, while alone in a car, I noticed that there was an awful lot of buzzing going on directly behind my head, right against the back window. I knew there had to be at least four or five different insects there, but I wasn’t entirely sure what they might be. They sounded like they could be flies, but they also could be bees or wasps for all I knew. Positively quaking with fear, I hunched down, put my head between my knees, and stayed curled like that until my friend turned up. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, opening the car door, “There are about six bumble bees in here!”. … I still shudder at the thought.
I’ve been by turns laughed at, scoffed at, sympathized with, and coddled because of my all-consuming fear of big buzzy things. While a lot of the fear is quite normal and part of being human, some of it is directly related to being blind, and I wanted people to understand that feeling as much as possible. It starts to make a tad more sense once you step into my shoes for a moment. Keeping in mind that not all blind people react this way (my boyfriend, for instance, feels little more than irritation with most bugs), I beg my readers to cut me some slack when it comes to things that go buzz in the night.
The Trouble With Transit…
Public transit is a truly wonderful thing, especially if your city has a good system. It’s particularly wonderful for blind people, who have no alternative except expensive taxis and carpooling. It’s a bit hard on the pride to continually ask for rides, and it’s even harder on the wallet to take taxis everywhere you go. For routes that I travel often, the bus (or LRT train) is the best way for me to get around.
Unfortunately, traveling with public transit isn’t all roses, as even experienced blind travelers will tell you. Having grown up in a rural area most of my life, I’m still getting used to how transit works. Everything from finding the right bus, to locating a seat, to getting off at the right stop is a challenge. Last summer, I had my first job, and I had to figure out the ins and outs of public transit in a few short days. It was … interesting to say the least. Below are just a few of the things which make bus and LRT travel so difficult for me. They make great stories, but I can’t say they’re some of my fondest memories.
Once, I asked the bus driver to drop me off on 109th avenue and 149th street, indicating a specific bus stop. When we got close, she said something very ominous: “I’ll just drop you off over here.”. Being hopelessly green, I didn’t think to say “Wait! Wait wait wait! Where, exactly, is ‘over here’?” I got off the bus, thanked the driver dutifully, and tried to get my bearings. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble. I was on an unfamiliar sidewalk, along an equally unfamiliar street. I walked to the nearest intersection, whipped out my phone, and tried to get my GPS to tell me where I was. It wasn’t helpful at all. I then called CrazyMusician, whom I was staying with at the time, but she couldn’t help much at first, either. I must have stood there for fifteen long, long, long minutes before she finally figured out where I was and got me back on track. When a blind person memorizes an exact route in an unfamiliar area, you can’t knock them even a little off course. If you do, their entire concept of where they are is changed. If I know the area, you could drop me off a block or two away and I’d figure it out eventually. If I don’t know the area, though, my destination could be 1000 miles away for all the success I’d have searching for it. Maybe other blind people are much better at mapping than I am (I expect I’ll be hearing from them, indignantly accusing me of misrepresentation), but I need to know exactly where I am to get anywhere with any kind of grace. Drivers who drop me off “over here” probably don’t realize that they’re endangering my entire sense of orientation. From then on, I insisted that I be told explicitly where I’m being dropped off.
I used to have a very, very grumpy driver in the mornings on my way to work. Every day, just to be cautious, I’d confirm that hers was the bus I was looking for. There’s nothing worse than getting on the wrong bus and discovering it later. Every day she’d respond, sounding more and more irritated. One morning, she finally allowed her exasperation to show through. She, of course, was tired of saying “yes” every single time I asked. Probably, she thought I was a little on the slow side or something. I explained to her as politely as I could that it’s very important to check which bus I’m on. Annoying drivers for the rest of my days is worth being secure in the knowledge that I’m where I’m supposed to be. If I annoy you, well, I’m sorry, but I’d rather risk annoying you than end up somewhere other than my destination.
Locating a seat can be a bit of a challenge. The more a blind person rides buses, the more comfortable they will be with finding things. As I’ve said, though, I’m not overly comfortable with much of anything yet, so I definitely have a few stories about fumbling for a seat. For the sake of brevity, I’ll stick with this one: I was searching for a seat, reaching out with my hand like a good little blind person to feel what I was about to sit on. Instead of finding the rough material of the front seat, I encountered the lap of a very startled gentleman! I don’t think I’ve ever apologized so profusely before or since. I just hope he didn’t focus on the implications of such an intimate moment …
Perhaps my favourite story is the one where I tried to ride the LRT train with my friend Jess. Jess is a wonderful guide, but sadly there were no empty seats available, so we had to stand. I, having no balance whatsoever, was swaying so drunkenly with the movement of the train that I had to use her as a support pole, being unable to find one myself. Luckily for me, she’s a very steady person, so I just wrapped my arms around her and held on for dear, dear life. I had a similar incident on a bus one day. It was standing room only, and since I wasn’t sure where the nearest pole was, I simply fell towards the left side of the bus. Again, I was fortunate: a large crowd of passengers all rose at once and caught me. It was actually a bit surreal. I thank the universe every day for good people. They’re everywhere, they really are, and they’ll help you out of almost any sticky situation.
My final tale is one that’s a bit more serious. It happened while I was with CrazyMusician, so I’ll let her tell it:
“I was thrilled to have Meagan come and visit me. We laugh and talk like sisters sometimes, and bring out the hidden girliness in each other.
On Saturday, we went out for brunch at a mall near my house, and the timing and weather was just perfect enough to take Jenny, my black lab guide dog,
for a run in the park to expend some of that Labrador energy.
This path is a wonderful straight line of concrete where we could walk, and runners and bikers can exercise, and strips of grass on either side where Jenny
could run, frolic, and generally have a great old time, resulting in one very VERY tired dog.
After our lovely walk/run, we made our way to the bus stop to go back to my house. there are two buses that stop there – one that gets us home and one
that doesn’t. Two blind people sitting on the bus bench – one of whom is with a guide dog – are not exactly inconspicuous…
We were sitting and chatting, and I think one of us (I don’t know who) looked at her phone, when a diesel vehicle just came flying past the bus stop.
As it shifted gears, I turned to Meagan and asked, “Wasn’t that our bus?”
I don’t think either of us would’ve been surprised if the bus had slowed down, we didn’t indicate our interest, and then kept going, but at the speed it
was flying down the avenue, there’s no way it could’ve stopped safely. As a result, Meagan, jenny and I were waiting on the bus bench for another thirty
minutes in the growing – though not unbearable – heat.
I did call in a complaint to the transit company, if for no other reason than the driver should have slowed down at the very least. Had I been sighted,
perhaps I could’ve seen him at the corner and been prepared; perhaps not.
I am married to a bus driver. After chewing me out for not calling him to pick us up (the thought never once occurred to either of us), the first question
out of his mouth was, “Did you call in a complaint?” I know how bus drivers are supposed to do their job, and that driver did not do it well, period.
All this to say, as a blind person I am very visible; most blind people are. Glasses, canes, guide dogs, magnifiers, squinting at signage and sometimes
bumping into things make us, by our obvious difference, noticeable. It is sometimes a source of aggravation to me, especially when people seem to think
that I am only defined by my blindness; sometimes a big help because I get to meet new people I wouldn’t otherwise get to meet. It is unfortunate that
on that hot summer Saturday, two blind people seemed completely and utterly invisible to that bus driver.”
All in all, I’m deeply grateful for public transit. We’re lucky enough to have a reasonably efficient system in Edmonton, and for many folks, blind or sighted, it’s a real gift. As I’ve shown, however, there is a certain amount of risk and hassle involved, and the results can be disastrous at times. Next time you take a bus, just be grateful that you haven’t gotten on the wrong one, groped a stranger’s intimate bits, or been dropped off on some random street you don’t know.
I know some other blindies out there have some juicy bus stories to tell. Share them in the comments below, so we can all have a laugh at (…I mean with…) you!
Running In Circles: Superblinks And The Quest For “Normalcy”
Today, Gregg and I have teamed up to address a topic which troubles us both. We hope that this offers some insight, even if you do not agree with our general stance. Enjoy!
Anyone reading this article is apt to have seen at least one so-called “supermom”. She’s the sort of woman who’s involved in everything her kids do, while still managing to cook, keep house, balance the family accounts and take time for herself to pursue a hobby or three. Many of these women are wonderful people, but the worst among them can be frustrating, condescending and infuriating by turns if others don’t do as they do. This particular phenomenon isn’t limited to mothers, however. A small group of blind people are guilty of much the same thing, and we commonly refer to them as “superblinks”.
Being good at a lot of things doesn’t make you a superblink. Trying to help other blind people get better at things you can already do quite well doesn’t make you a superblink either. There’s nothing wrong with either one of these things, as long as you exercise caution with the latter so as to avoid coming across as a know-it-all. Superblinks are defined by a rather strange paradox. They do as much as they possibly can, in as “normal” a manner as they can manage, to stop people from thinking they’re inept; being blind, however, means they’re going to stand out sometimes no matter what they do, and since relatively few superblinks exist, they end up seeming more abnormal than ever. Their desire to blend in makes them stand out. Central to the idea of the superblink, as well, is the insistence, to any and all around them, that their way is best. This often manifests even if the superblink in question has trouble with the task at hand or cannot fully understand why they need to do something a specific way. Many superblinks are excellent at the things they do, but some are not; for those latter individuals, doing something well becomes secondary to doing something normally.
Most of the time, it’s easy enough to let “superblinks” be. True, they can sometimes be irritating, just like supermoms who drive everyone else crazy with their insistence upon being the very best at absolutely everything. Unfortunately, there is a certain subset of superblinks who can be downright damaging to themselves and to other blind people.
It can be very taxing to associate with someone who tries with all their might to seem “normal”. They are so unwilling to accept their blindness as part of them that they do everything in their power to behave as much like a sighted person as possible. For these people, appearing “blind” in any way is undesirable. I’ve even met some people who refuse to carry canes because they don’t want to “look blind”. These people are a danger to themselves and occasionally, to others. These are the superblinks who march out into traffic without caution, explore new routes without a clue where they’re going, and refuse to acknowledge that they are different in any way. Needless to say, this lifestyle is absurd at best and dangerous at worst. No matter how hard you try, your blindness will never go away. We’re not suggesting that one has to embrace their blindness with open arms and adore that part of themselves; it’s perfectly normal to feel a little subpar sometimes. But to ignore it completely? That’s wrong on so many levels. To value normality above all other things is a grievous mistake, considering that no one really knows what normal means.
Those who dismiss their blindness can be trying enough, but still worse are the superblinks who define themselves by their disability. These are the types of people who are inordinately proud of their accomplishments in the context of their blindness. For example, someone might be very proud of their cooking skills, employment-related skills, etc. That’s perfectly fine. Being proud of one’s accomplishments is sometimes underrated. What isn’t so nice is when someone is proud of these things because they are blind and still manage to do them. Sighted people do this to us all the time: “Look! This guy is a singer/skier/teacher/lawyer … and he’s blind! Isn’t that just amazing? What a hero!”. There are people who defy the odds and take on tasks that are difficult for the blind to do. This is admirable, certainly, but there is really no need to go around singing one’s own praises. Be proud, by all means, of what you have achieved, but don’t contextualize it all the time.
I’ve known blind people who are so intent on defining themselves by their blindness that it’s almost as if they think they have “blindy” superpowers. “Look at me go! I’m blind but I can do this, this, this, and that!”. It sends the message that we’re special or heroic or worthy of adulation simply because we do what sighted people do anyway with particular skill. Certainly sighted people might admire us, and that’s not in itself a horrible thing, but we should know better than to adopt the practice ourselves. In fact, for someone who is so intent on seeming “normal”, defining all of one’s accomplishments by the difficulties caused by blindness is awfully counterproductive.
The main reason that these types of superblinks are a problem, though, is the judgmental behaviour they often exhibit towards other blind people. They assume that, just because they can do certain things well, every blind person should be able to do them equally well. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you do this? I can. There must be something the matter with you.”. I’ve already discussed the dangers of comparing blind people to one another, and superblinks really should know better. There’s a difference between being supportive (“You can do this!”) and being judgmental (“Why can’t you do this?”). Call me a dreamer, but I think the world would be a much better place if people spent less time judging and comparing, and more time supporting and encouraging.
“I’m Right Here!”: On Treating Us Like People
Before I begin the meat of my post today, I’d like to stress a few things: one is that I understand that not everyone knows how to behave around people with disabilities, so they do whatever they can think of at the time. The second is that generally, people mean well, even if they do things that make me angry or hurt my feelings. Third, despite the somewhat ranty nature of the following, I accept that not everyone gets it right the first time. I’m here to help you get it right in the future. Of course, “getting it right” is subject to my views; other blind people may have opposite opinions. Try and read this with an open mind, and understand that while I feel strongly about this matter, the last thing I mean to do is offend.
I literally cannot count the times I’ve gone into a restaurant, store, or other public place, and been treated more or less like a child. If I’m with a friend, for instance, servers will sometimes ask what “she’d like to order”, as if either I can’t decide for myself, or I can’t hear the conversation at all. Other times, people will talk about me at great length, sometimes when I’m just a few feet away; it’s as if they believe that deafness (or at least lack of awareness) inevitably accompanies blindness. This is, of course, true in some cases, but my ears are in excellent working order, and I hear everything going on around me most of the time. Just recently, I went into a Starbucks with some friends, only to find that the group at the next table were having a loud conversation about how nice it is that people help “the poor blind people of the world”. I chose to laugh the whole thing off, but it bothered me. Why do people insist on talking about me when I’m right there, just because I can’t see them? Do they think I’m deaf, or do they honestly fail to consider that I might overhear (and care about) what they’re saying?
The thing is, I’m a human being—a highly functional one who can hear and understand things. The other common mistake people make is assuming that, while I may be able to hear them, I won’t understand. I have had many people talk to me in excessively loud voices, speaking slowly and clearly as though to one who barely speaks English. Worse still, some people will speak to me in a high-pitched, sickly sweet voice, as though addressing a child. A few years ago, I went into a salon to get my hair cut. The hairdresser, who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than I was, said “What can I do for you today, sweetie?” in a singsong, overly motherly tone. This would have been okay if she talked to every customer this way, but I soon discovered that she only spoke this way to me. It was infuriating. I have seen people do this to blind people who are much older than them, and I simply don’t get it.
Then there are those who try to speak for me. I’ll go somewhere with them, and when I’m asked what I’d like, they answer for me right away, as if I can’t do it for myself. This is often done by family members who used to do it when I was very young, but who haven’t grown out of the habit over the years. It’s easy, I suppose, to do this without thinking, but it’s really not necessary. You wouldn’t speak for any other nineteen-year-old, so why speak for me? I have command of the English language, and I certainly have the autonomy to decide things for myself.
Don’t believe me? Try watching an elderly person with a walker sometime. They’ll be patronized; they’ll be called “sweetie” by people half their age; they’ll be spoken to in slow, singsong tones; they won’t be taken seriously, or they’ll be treated like children. They’re just old, and they have a walker. This does not automatically transform them into someone completely subhuman (or inhuman). Unless they have some form of serious dementia or similar condition, speak to them as the capable adults that they are.
I can both hear and understand what’s being said to and about me. I am an adult who is capable of speaking for myself, making my own decisions, and having normal conversations with people. There is no need to speak for me, or to speak to me like a child (or worse, act like I’m not even there). While I realize that most of this is entirely unintentional, I want people to realize how it feels, and understand why they should try not to speak this way. It’s patronizing, and even hurtful at times. I’m used to it, so I tend to let it roll off me, but it saddens me that I even have to. There are enough barriers, real or perceived, separating blind people from the “rest of the world”. There is no need to add another one. People with physical disabilities are still people, and they ought to be treated as such.
Where's Your Dog? 