1. When introducing yourself, use loud, exaggerated speech. Since we’re blind, it’s safe to assume we’re a little dim, too.
2. Don’t speak directly to us. It’s always best to talk over our heads like we’re not there at all, especially if you are offering a service. Example: “What would she like to order?” Be sure to ignore our attempts to answer for ourselves.
3. Grab or otherwise manipulate our bodies whenever and wherever you deem necessary. For example, if you intuitively perceive that we’re going the wrong way (even if you haven’t asked where that is) just snatch the nearest limb and lead on, Macduff!
4. If you aren’t in a position to grab us, you can always shout instructions in the hope that we’ll know what you’re talking about. If we look baffled, just keep repeating the instructions in an increasingly frantic tone. We’ll clue in eventually.
5. Remind us often how grateful we should be that people are willing to provide accommodations for us. While it’s unlikely that we will ever, ever forget this for more than five minutes at a time, it’s a good idea to slam the thought home when we’re not expecting it. It builds character.
6. Stage loud conversations about us while we’re in the room, because we won’t hear. If we hear, it’s okay, because we won’t understand. If we understand, it’s okay, because we won’t care.
7. Keep all conversation firmly focused on blindness. If we try to interject by discussing our education or interests, just redirect us. We get carried away trying to be all normal, so it’s helpful to keep us on track!
8. Be sure to describe all the other blind people you’ve ever met, in extravagant detail. We couldn’t be more fascinated by that blind guy who skied, and that other blind guy who went to school with you, and that blind girl you met on the train once—the one with the cute puppy…
9. Make a habit of asking us why we’re “here”. If we’re on the bus, ask us why we’re out alone. If we’re at work, ask us how we got the job. If we’re in class, ask us why we’re in university. If we seem offended, ignore us: deep down inside, we really enjoy presumptuous interrogation!
10. Dispense advice about how we should live our lives; the less you know us, the more valuable your feedback will be. If you need a good starting point, you can begin by analyzing our mobility tool of choice (cane or dog) and emphatically demanding that we switch. We love that.
11. Involve yourself in our love lives, specifying exactly the type of person we should date and why. If you think we should date a sighted person because they’ll be able to take care of us, we’ll want to hear all about it. If you think we should date a blind person because we should “stick to our own kind” we will be all ears!
12. Give us things—money, coupons, whatever—because you pity us and want to make our day better. Don’t be fazed by any apparent expressions of confusion. (“Oh, that’s just my gratitude face!”)
13. Stop us on the street and thank whomever we’re with for helping/taking care of/being so kind to us. It’s not as though we have real friends who genuinely enjoy our company. No: if we’re out with a sighted person, they are fulfilling a purely charitable role. They will appreciate your praise, and we will feel extra extra grateful!
14. Place your hands on us in any public place and pray. If we gently explain that we don’t want to be prayed for, rest assured that it’s just the secular cynicism doing the talking. When our sight is miraculously restored, you’ll be the first to know.
15. Make as many potentially dangerous practical jokes as you can think of. A few good ideas include warning us of imaginary obstacles (“Watch out for that tree-just kidding!”), concealing our possessions, and encouraging us to “find” you while you run gleefully around us in circles. These were a staple of primary school, and I treasure many pleasant memories from that era. Do me a favour, and bring back the nostalgia!
16. Refer to us as “that blind person” even after you know our names. Blindness is so integral to our identities that our names are really just decorative, so there’s no need to remember or use them. If we fail to answer to “Hey, blind girl/guy!” just keep trying. We’ll learn to love it.
17. Assume that our default status is “Help!” If we reassure you that we’re okay, thanks, don’t fall for it. Insisting upon rescuing us every time we cross paths places us into a position of dependence, which is exactly where we belong.
misconceptions and Myths
#AbleistScript: Pointless Venting, Or A Sign Of Hope?
For the uninitiated…
If you’ve been hanging out on Twitter lately, you’re likely to come across the #AbelistScript hashtag. The hashtag is meant to gather tweets from all kinds of people, detailing all the ways the able-bodied have said hurtful, offensive, and discriminatory things. It sounds sort of pointless and bitter, doesn’t it? It’s a bit of an outrage fest, no? Well…
The tweets are incredibly disturbing
This hashtag has revealed far more than the typical “Hey, Helen Keller, where’s your dog?” nonsense. It has revealed deeply unsettling stories—stories most of us would rather ignore. Some “ableist” people are innocent, but misguided.
https://twitter.com/rusty_coyote/status/663461868279754752
Some people are shockingly presumptuous and uninformed.
https://twitter.com/msmejanine/status/663700459065114624
Some lack tact and respect, even when dealing with loved ones.
https://twitter.com/sheep_purple/status/663691511528349696
Some, of course, are downright offensive.
Scary, isn’t it?
It’s more than mere outrage fuel
It’s viral, and for good reason: it is a medium through which we can come together and express the things that make our blood boil. It’s an opportunity for us to release some of the tension, helplessness, and frustration many of us have been bottling. Some of us have kept quiet out of courtesy, or the fear of burdening people. Others are afraid to be perceived as whiny or high-maintenance. Still others feel ashamed of their anger. Do they have any right to be upset? Are they being unjust? Is their suffering legitimate? Are they just “easily offended,” “thin-skinned,” or “obsessed with political correctness?” I’ve no doubt that some people are, but there are too many of us to dismiss our feelings entirely.
I’d like to think our suffering really is legitimate. Life can be very lonely, especially if your disability is particularly rare. That feeling of isolated desolation is emotionally crippling.
We are bombarded by unwanted opinions. Stop taking those medications and deal with your problems. Use the power of positive thinking. The only disability is a bad attitude. Suck it up, buttercup; it can always be worse. Be grateful that you have as much as you do. What you have is more than many can enjoy, so keep your chin up.
This is so much more than a hashtag
You may well ask what we could accomplish with all this public, viral venting. Besides the undeniably cathartic benefits, there are more concrete, long-term goals we can achieve if we reach enough able-bodied people. Much of the “ableist script” can be altered or eliminated. We can clear up misconceptions and debunk myths. We can explain why certain ideas are genuinely harmful. We can foster empathy. We can educate. The internet does a lot of harm, but in this case, it’s a remarkably useful tool. Viral attention can be an asset, and I think we need to pounce on this opportunity.
Some are already feeling hopeful, which is a very welcome sign.
https://twitter.com/saffronbread/status/662810712658608132
We need more than an echo chamber. We must do more than blow off steam. We should strive to advocate for ourselves, but we should not do so at the expense of clarity. We can’t allow our anger to distort our messages or alienate the very people we are trying to persuade. We are capable of intersectional solidarity, and we can put it to good use. Don’t dismiss this purely because it’s a hashtag. In this case at least, it has enormous potential. We mustn’t waste it.
I Put My Trust In Strangers (And It’s No Big Deal)
Nearly every time I show a stranger how to use sighted guide, they view my trust in them as admirable and brave. “I mean, I could be anybody! I could walk you off a cliff or something!” Some guides are so nervous that they get distracted by the burden of responsibility; this usually results in decreased awareness. I try to encourage them to relax: a nervous guide is usually a dangerous one—or at least an inconsistent one. Even the best guides, though, seem somewhat uncomfortable with the amount of people I need to trust in day-to-day life. I trust guides not to walk me off cliffs, it’s true, (though using a cane in conjunction with sighted guide helps—not everyone does this), and I trust people to be generally decent. I assume that most people will not deceive, manipulate, or harm me. And you know what? Most of the time I don’t give these assumptions a second thought.
All this trust bothers sighted people, though. Perhaps it’s because they are acutely aware of how much they rely on sight to keep themselves safe, so the idea of going without terrifies them. Perhaps it’s because they recognize their own fallibility, and they imagine my inherent vulnerability must far exceed theirs. The most likely explanation is that people worry about me, and want me to be okay. I’ve encountered peers who expressed horror and anxiety when I told them about all the times I’ve nearly been run down by drivers who didn’t feel like obeying general crosswalk etiquette. Fear is becoming a staple of most Western cultures, and that fear multiplies when disabled or otherwise vulnerable populations (like children, for example) are involved. We can’t let kids play out of their parents’ sight, and God forbid we allow them to climb a tree or walk to school on their own. This general anxiety invariably extends itself to shroud any and all disabled people, to the point where the able-bodied are far more afraid for our lives than most of us could ever be. Most of these risks are genuine, and the resultant anxiety has its roots in sensible instinct. I don’t intend to trivialize the very real dangers vulnerable demographics contend with. I don’t blame you for feeling a little overprotective of your children or disabled friends. It’s perfectly natural.
Everyone has to trust sometime, of course. Any time you get into a taxi or board a plane, you’re entrusting your very life to a stranger, whom you hope is well-trained and trustworthy. If you can’t operate a plane, you trust a pilot. If you can’t navigate a brand new area with complete confidence without sight, you trust a sighted guide. It’s that simple.
Now, I can’t discuss trust without emphasizing the need to have that trust honoured. If I trust you enough to let you lead me somewhere unfamiliar, particularly without my cane, you’d better not leave me stranded. If I trust you to obey the basic rules of traffic, you’d better not run me down. If I trust you to describe my surroundings, you’d better remain truthful. These are the basics.
If I’m trusting you to respect me, please don’t use my own blindness against me, particularly in public where opportunities for humiliation are numerous. If I’m trusting you to be my eyes, don’t exclude or invent details just because you can get away with it. If I’m trusting you to treat me like any other human being, please don’t make a spectacle of me. (Disguising your voice in an effort to trick me is not cute.) Finally, if I’m trusting you to keep me safe, don’t warn me of fictional obstacles, or subject me to similar practical jokes. They’re hardly ever funny and they can be more dangerous than you know. When in doubt, ask which ones I’m comfortable with, and if you’re a stranger, assume they’re unacceptable until you’re told otherwise.
This is not to say that I rely on others for every little thing. My readers, in particular, will understand how highly I value independence. If I can do something safely and well on my own, then I’ll avoid asking for help I shouldn’t need. Still, to pretend I never need help is misleading. So, yes: I do put my safety in other people’s hands on occasion. It’s almost never an issue.
I’m at peace with having to trust people, even strangers. I have little choice but to count on human decency, and so I do. In the vast majority of cases, my trust is valued and my faith rewarded. Nine times out of ten, I don’t even think about it, because it’s so intrinsic to my lifestyle. So don’t worry too much. You’re probably a better guide than you know. You’re probably a more accurate, useful describer than you realize. In short, relax: you’re probably doing just fine.
No, I Don’t See With My Heart
I’ve come across a persistent myth concerning blind people and their near-angelic status. The sighted world is so shallow. The sighted world is so intolerant of diversity. The sighted world is so afraid of difference; so obsessed with outward appearance; so incapable of appreciating the “inside”. Blind people, on the other hand, “see” with our hearts. We possess heightened compassion and tolerance. Further, because we don’t have access to vision, we could not possibly criticize others for being shallow. After all, what do we know? We have never seen. How can we condemn what we don’t understand?
This perspective is so persuasive that at least one study has been conducted to find out whether blind people are capable of being, say, racist, reasoning that our inability to see colour must make us immune to racial prejudice. Yes, of course we are capable of prejudice. This is not news, or at least it shouldn’t be.
Think about it: race is so much more than pigmentation. It’s a socially constructed system in which we choose to group people into racial categories, then attach specific traits to those groups. This is how society decides that “Mexicans are lazy” and “black people are thugs” and “white people are respectable”. These labels transcend colour. People are not offended by or prejudicial towards a black person because they don’t like their skin. Racism is so embedded in our culture that nobody, not even a blind person, could escape it. I suppose you could argue that we may not judge as readily if we don’t yet know a stranger’s race, but all I have to do is hear a particular accent to commence judging immediately. I try not to, of course, but even I know it’s a mistake to pretend I don’t.
It is also somewhat unreasonable to assume there are few, if any, blind people who are shallower than cookie sheets. So much of society is busy branding the underweight as skeletal; the overweight as lazy; the attractive, desirable; the unattractive, undesirable. Blind people must be incapable of and therefore unable to appreciate or reject someone for their outward appearance, right? Nuh uh.
The thing is, fat (or lack of it) is not a purely visual concept. All it takes is a hug for me to know a fair bit about what you look like. I could take a guess at your weight, and judge the clothing you are wearing (to a certain extent anyway) and assess the attractiveness or unattractiveness of your general shape. Don’t be fooled into thinking blind people don’t fat shame. We understand what fat is, and we are almost as susceptible to instinctive judgements as anyone else. I recall reading a story about Tommy Sullivan, a blind pianist, who pretended to drop something so he could scrabble around on the floor for it. He very conveniently managed to grab the nearest woman’s leg in the process. I believe it was Ray Charles who, upon gripping a woman’s arm, allegedly grimaced with disgust when he realized how plump she was. Anecdotes like these, whether true or false, suggest that blind people can be just as shallow as the average sighted person. If a blind person tries to claim they are above reproach and incapable of shallow discrimination, please do set them straight.
Consider voices: no two voices are identical (mostly because accents and various linguistic quirks make them more distinct) and while most of them are neutral to me, I find some very attractive and some…well, not. Try as I might, I can’t escape the tendency to judge based on vocal qualities. A grating voice might put me off. If a person uses an excess of vocal fry, says “like” a little too often, or has an otherwise unusual or irritating voice, I’m going to have a harder time interacting with them until I get to know them a bit better. It’s equally easy to be drawn to a lovely voice, as well. Some people become distracted when they see a gorgeous person. If you have a gorgeous voice, I’m going to get distracted, too. (If I ever meet Morgan Freeman, I’ll be in trouble.) It’s a perfectly natural aspect of human life and, while sighted people focus less on this because their vision is more demanding, blind people are especially vulnerable to this bias.
Scent and touch matter, too: perfume and cashmere aren’t marketed exclusively to blind people, after all. I think sighted people frequently underestimate qualities outside of visual beauty. There are probably a lot of traits you find attractive in others, but you’re not conscious of them because you’re busy appreciating what they look like. If you concentrate, you might discover a few new attributes.
Then, we come to the idea of automatic compassion: it’s true that, in my personal case, blindness has allowed me to step outside myself and consider the difficulties of others. This sensitivity may just be a component of my personality, and not a direct result of my blindness, though. I certainly think it helps–empathy goes a long way–but after years of interacting with the rest of the community, I know just how intolerant, bigoted, and “shortsighted” we can be. I’ve scrolled through numerous discussion forums, watching scores of blind people displaying alarming amounts of homophobia, racism, sexism, and even ableism towards other disabilities. Hell, I’ve even seen them turn on each other, accusing people of handling their blindness badly, or giving us a bad name, or simply doing life wrong. Where is all this inherent compassion we’re supposed to be born with? Where is this innate avoidance of judgment? I’ve witnessed just as much judgment and intolerance in the blind community as anywhere else, maybe more.
Sure, there are many of us who try to see past the surface, understand multiple perspectives, and acknowledge that since we have never known sight, there may be a lot of things we’re missing altogether. But to tell me I don’t “get it” because I’ve never seen someone? To tell me I will never understand fat shaming or racism or ableism because I can’t see? To tell me I can’t criticize it because I don’t know what it’s like? That’s a very dangerous (and condescending) viewpoint. This assumes that being unable to see makes me into an angel of compassion. I’m nice enough (I hope), but not angelic. So please: don’t deceive yourself by imagining that we are too busy seeing with our charitable little hearts to find fault. Our humanity is neither diminished nor enhanced by disability, remember that.
Courage, Heroism, and Other Delusions
Blindness is scary for anyone who hasn’t experienced it. Blindness is, for some people at least, the ultimate worst-case scenario. People have told me, to my face, that they’d rather be anything else—deaf, paralyzed, depressed—than blind. I always marvel at this shortsightedness (pun intended) but I understand it, too. If I went totally deaf tomorrow, I’d feel frightened and desperate. The thought makes me shiver, though I’d never presume that deaf people’s lives are abysses of misery. Even if I did, I’d never say it to their faces, because it’s one of the most insensitive ideas I can imagine.
Perhaps the worst thing to hear, though, is “I could never manage a life without sight…how do you do it?”
How indeed. As we all know by now, most blind people live successful, productive lives. Those who don’t usually have other factors to contend with; blindness, by itself, does not guarantee a hopeless existence. Certainly, it can be a struggle. I’m not going to gloss that over. I’ve spent the past year blogging about all the ways it can be difficult. I confess I’ve sometimes indulged in a little self-pity. Eventually, though, I just go back to my life, because what else am I going to do? I can’t wallow forever.
So, how do I do it? How do I live with this disability (or indeed my less visible ones)? I am going to tell you my secret. I am going to reveal to you the cornerstone of my continuous courage in the face of adversity. I can even tell it to you in four words. Ready? Here goes.
“I have no choice.”
Yup, that’s all there is, folks. I was born this way, and I’m going to stay this way indefinitely. I deal with blindness because it’s my constant companion. I surmount blindness-related obstacles because I have no alternative. I keep my head up because the only other option is to put it down and never lift it again. To not “deal with this” is to not exist at all, and that’s definitely not a viable solution. I mean, what would you do if you went blind tomorrow? What would you do if you had no other choice but to be the way you are? What would you do, kill yourself?
Actually, yes. Some people have admitted that they would at least consider it: “God, if I were blind, I’d be suicidal. I could never have your life. It’d be too hard. I’m not brave enough, or heroic enough, or strong enough. I’d give up completely.”
First, ouch! You think my life—or a life like mine—is so full of despair that I’d be better off dead? Second, how can you say this with any conviction until you’ve experienced it? Third … you think I’m brave? Heroic? Strong?
I hate to disappoint you, but I’m none of those things, at least in relation to my disabilities. There’s nothing like necessity to spur you on. There’s nothing like adversity to force flexibility. When enough pressure is exerted, you either bend or you break. I’ve managed to bend, that’s all. There’s nothing mystical or herculean about that.
I’m not brave because I cross the street without looking at the traffic. I’m not heroic because I advocate for my right to equitable treatment. I’m not strong because I haven’t folded yet. The human spirit is surprisingly supple—it can adapt to just about any situation. People carry far heavier burdens with more grace than I carry mine. Just because I seem brave, or strong, or heroic doesn’t mean I am. It just means I’m getting on with things.
So many people shoulder things that seem impossible to bear. They don’t do so because they want to display their courage. They do it because it happens to be what life has thrown at them, and now they’re making it work as best they can. And, if you had to do the same, I can just about promise that you’d make it work, too. There is no point telling someone how brave you think they are, and further telling them that you could never handle it. They’re not handling it out of a desire to draw attention to their mettle. They’re handling it because it’s the only way.
I’m not here to be an inspiration for others, and I’m not here to prove to myself that I’m a brave soul. I’m here because humanity went forth and multiplied, and I’ve been dealt an imperfect hand, just like everyone else. If that makes me heroic, then we’re all heroes—each and every one.
Baby, I Wanna Hold Your Elbow
I was rushing through a mall (everything happens in malls), because I’d lost a friend and her guide dog. They’d left me behind in a cloud of dust, and I was trying to figure out where they’d gone. A stranger wanted to help, which was very kind of him. Unfortunately, his altruism took the form of grabbing the tip of my cane off the floor, raising it so that the cane was fully horizontal, and pulling on it as though to lead me by my own cane.
What else could I do? I trotted along behind him, asking him more and more frantically to put the cane down, please! He either failed to hear me, or ignored me, because he kept going until we reached my friend, at which point he let me go and went on his merry way. This, I thought wryly, should have been a teachable moment.
I’m a little shy, believe it or not, and I’m also a little too tolerant. Sometimes, people grab me and I just sort of plod along, wanting to object but not finding a polite way in which to do it. Most blind people are much more vocal than I am, and they have every right to be. After all, their safety is of utmost importance to them.
There are many ways to lead a blind person, and most of them are problematic. I won’t go so far as to say there’s a “right” way, but there is a way that is considered standard, and for good reason. The “standard way” is called sighted guide method, and it usually involves the blind person placing their hand on the sighted guide’s elbow. The grip should be light but firm, just in case something separates the two. The blind person should walk behind and a little to the side of the guide, so that things like steps, curbs, and doors will be easily detectable. In a perfect world, everyone would know this and use it, but of course this is anything but a perfect world. I won’t waste too much time going on about details; there are many sources that can teach you the ins and outs of sighted guide. I will, however, explain why it’s important and what can happen if other methods are used instead.
Alternative method: leading by the hand
Why it’s a bad idea: First of all, this is sort of weird. If I’m not familiar with you, I don’t want to be holding your hand no matter what’s happening. Cab drivers who approach out of nowhere and grab my hand frighten me just a little, I won’t lie. The main problem with this, at least for me, is that it traps my hand so that it’s harder to get free if I need to. If I’m resting my hand on your elbow, I can let go at any time. If something terrible happens to you, I can quickly escape before I meet a similar fate, after all. This goes for holding me by the wrist as well.
Possible consequence: I have been taught to twist my wrist as soon as someone touches it, so don’t be surprised if, when you grab for my wrist, I break your grip, hard, without even thinking about it.
Alternative method: leading by the shoulder
Why it’s a bad idea: People love to go behind me and push my shoulders, especially when navigating a narrow space. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable—I don’t like to have people so close behind me, I’m paranoid—and it restricts my freedom of movement. Also…it looks kinda silly, yes?
Possible consequence: At best, I’ll admonish you and try to wriggle out of your grip. At worst, I’ll bump into something directly in front of me, because I had no way to protect my path. (This can be mitigated by carrying a cane during sighted guide—something not everyone does.) It’s much easier to move your arm behind you so I know it’s a narrow space.
Alternative method: guiding while insisting that I ditch my cane
Why this is a bad idea: My cane is my mobility tool. I have grown very used to having it around, and I quite like the confidence it gives me. I have had some awful sighted guides over the years, and I still don’t trust anyone to guide me without my cane. You could be the best guide in the world, and I’d still want my cane in my hand. I do my best to keep it out of the guide’s path, and it gives me that extra bit of tactile feedback I find so helpful.
Possible consequence: You could have an attention lapse, even for thirty seconds, and bash me into a pillar, stroller, car mirror, pedestrian, or doorframe, among other things. (Yes, people have run me into all of those and more.) Even if your guidework is perfect, I’ll still glare at you. Lots of people say, “…but I guide blind people all the time and they never use their canes. Trust me!” No. Unless it’s in your way, or otherwise inconvenient, I’m using it, and that’s pretty much that.
Alternative method: linking arms
Why it’s a bad idea: Okay…so…I’ve done this one. I cheat a lot, because I have friends who like to walk arm in arm and it’s all very companionable. Still, it’s technically a bad idea because it forces us to walk side by side, which means I have less warning for steps and curbs. It also traps my arm, which is always dangerous.
Possible consequence: If my arm is in yours and something happens to you—say, you slip on a patch of ice—I’ll be dragged along with you unless I can get my arm out of your grip in time. When being guided by a stranger, especially, I am very careful to keep full control of my arm and hand.
The best method? Ask. Some blind people prefer different variants of the same basic guiding style, so if you’re not sure, ask them to show you how they’d prefer to be guided. If you’re dealing with a blind child and you know their preference is patently unsafe, then you have the right to insist on a different way. Otherwise, please respect the individual needs and preferences of the blind person you’re guiding. They will almost always know best.
“I’m Not Prejudiced! Some of My Best Friends are Blind!”
“I’m not racist! Some of my best friends are black!”
“I’m not bigoted! Some of my best friends are LGBT!”
This century-old defence is generally dismissed, especially on the internet. People try to claim that, due to the presence of minorities in their circle of friends, they are above reproach. They can’t possibly be prejudiced. Would a racist have black friends? Would a bigot have gay friends? The general consensus is yes! a thousand times yes! Your best friends don’t shield you from your biases, even if they are willing to ignore or even embrace them.
Several months ago, someone I respect very much (let’s call her Alison) made a stereotypical blind joke: “Shouldn’t ads for blind people be on the radio instead of TV?” or something to that effect. I took no issue with the joke’s complete lack of comedic value; your mileage may vary, perhaps? What I did take issue with was the inherent (and silly) stereotyping in the joke. A lot of people think we don’t enjoy TV or movies simply because we can’t see. Apparently, the dialogue is some trivial, peripheral aspect of the whole experience. As helpful as described video can be, it is still very possible for us to enjoy TV shows (and cringe at the ads). Her joke played on that ridiculous stereotype, and she made it very publicly, reaching a large number of people all over the internet.
I, in my infinite foolishness, wrote to her:
“You do realize that blind people can still watch TV, yeah?”
“Um, hello? Of course. Ever heard of a joke?”
“Well, yes…it’s just that this one plays on some very pervasive stereotypes that we spend much of our time fighting against. Please please try not to perpetuate it.”
After this exchange, some friend of hers chimed in: “Wow, chill, bitch! Some of Alison’s best friends are blind!”
Ah, here we go…the ultimate trap: if my blind friend says it’s okay, then it is. No question. This is immutable, right?
Noooooo! Not even close. Not for one second.
I found this whole conversation distinctly odd. Alison is a well-known and very vocal feminist who supports the rights of minorities. She despises stereotypical jokes about women, LGBT people, and ethnic minorities. She devotes much of her time to dispelling the myths and encouraging truth and inclusiveness. All wonderful stuff, and I like her a great deal.
Why, then, does all this stop applying when dealing with blind people? Suddenly, all the ethics and inclusiveness and open-mindedness disappear. Suddenly, for no discernible reason, it is acceptable to make ridiculous, condescending jokes about us that, if made about a gay or black or transgender person, would be reviled for the bigotry that they are.
Jokes among your friends are different from jokes made in public. I play along with blind jokes made at my personal expense with enthusiasm. Blind people, in fact, are very good at laughing at ourselves. I’ve always written my blog with my sense of humour at the forefront, so it’s not the jokes I have a problem with, not really. Alison’s joke is pretty harmless, at least on the surface.
What I have a problem with is the defence itself. It’s such an empty, futile argument. It appears to lay a steel trap, but is really just so much shrinking from all responsibility. Maybe you have a blind friend who thinks stereotypical jokes are hilarious, and that’s okay. Feel free to make them whenever you’d like … around and about them, that is. Just because your blind friend is okay with something, does not mean that the rest of us are okay with it. Furthermore, it doesn’t mean that it’s okay, period.
There will be a lot of people who assume, judging by this post, that I’m an exceptionally uptight person. I’m not. I am almost too tolerant at times—something my friends never tire of telling me. My issue isn’t with the individuals, like Alison, who tell these jokes and/or excuse behaviour that would be bigotry if directed at any other group. My issue is with the people who allow that argument to stand unchallenged. I could have six hundred gay friends, and they could all actively encourage me to tell prejudicial jokes or otherwise behave in a bigoted manner towards them. That doesn’t change the facts, though: most people, LGBT or otherwise, would find that behaviour generally offensive.
Maybe your blind friend is okay with bad TV jokes. Maybe she thinks it’s funny when you pet her service dog while its in harness. Maybe he erupts into side-splitting mirth when you steal his cane and hide it. (God, I hope I never meet your friend.) None of that matters in the grand scheme. If you tried any of that in the wider world, people would denounce it, and rightly so.
If your best friends are allowing you to go out there and act like a bigot without at least warning you … get some new friends.
“May I Pray For You?”
“Excuse me …”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
“Meagan…any reason you ask?”
“Yes. Meagan, would it be okay if I prayed for you?”
“Why…”
“Well, I’d like to ask Jesus if He might help you with your eyes.”
“Ah.”
This one. It happens to most of us at one time or another. I admit that I’ve heard about it plenty of times, but didn’t experience it myself until I was eighteen or so. I hear all kinds of derisive comments about the situation, even from religious blind people. They hate pity as much as I do, and they consider the prayers insulting, or at least misguided.
I tend to react differently, and I must say that my approach is very unpopular. No, I’m not wild about the idea of people asking God to fix me. I wager that He would cure me (or not) with or without entreaties from strangers. I fight the good fight where negative stereotypes are concerned—you all know this, dearest readers—and I discourage pity as often as possible. And yet …
There is something so earnest and genuine about these offers of prayer. The requests might be misguided, yes. The desire to see us cured is misplaced, certainly. In many cases, we’re at peace with our lives as they are, and a cure is potentially frightening to many of us. So no, I don’t actively encourage anyone, stranger or otherwise, to pray for or even wish for a cure.
On the very few occasions when someone goes out of their way to ask if they can pray for me, I do my best to respond with grace. I respect and appreciate their openhearted compassion, even if I wish there wasn’t a need for it in the first place. I know in my heart that they have the purest intentions, at least most of the time. And, while I generally take issue with the “good intentions” card, there are, in my mind at least, exceptions. Will my life change in any way if a stranger goes home and prays for me? I suspect not. Will it hurt me, though? I don’t see how. Will I gain anything by berating them for even asking? No. Will I further my own cause by being harsh with them? Definitely not.
I’m at a point now where I decline these offers of prayer as graciously as I can. I spend too much time battling the idea that we’re just waiting for someone—anyone—to “make the blind to see” as it is. Still … I have to celebrate the goodwill of these people. Society is apathetic and individualistic to such a degree that these small kindnesses, however I might feel about them, remain special to me.
If you must pray, then pray for me, by all means. I ask, though, that you pray for my well-being. Pray that my various issues remain manageable. Pray that I continue to cross paths with fortune.
Don’t pray for the blind girl. Pray for the girl.
It’s a Human Thing
Over dinner with a dear cousin of mine, I was waxing pathetic about how much it grieves me that I can never slice vegetables in a straight line. My cucumbers and carrots end up being very fat on one side while dwindling to a mere ghost of themselves on the other. I was going on and on about how I can never get the angle right, and that blindness really gets in the way. I told her that I imagined there was some kind of mystical trick to it, because there’s no way that everyone was messing up the way I was.
“Meagan, that’s not a blindness thing. That’s a human thing. I can’t cut straight either.”
“Oh…really?”
“Really.”
“You have no idea how much better I feel right now.”
Sometimes, blind people hold themselves to much higher standards than sighted people do. I think it’s because expectations are tragically low: a blind person is lucky if their sighted family and friends think they’ll be able to feed themselves and hold down a job. These low expectations can force some of us to aim very high—even higher than the average sighted person might.
There is this drive to be totally independent (never mind that no one is entirely independent). Even sighted educators and consultants have fallen into this trap. They expect a blind person to go the extra mile to be an excellent student, a fantastic cook, an immaculate housekeeper, a highly successful employee … and on and on. As Leo once said, few sighted people aspire to or manage these things, especially in this age of convenience.
Sighted people aren’t perfect by default. They aren’t even particularly successful by default. Sighted people make many of the mistakes that blind people attribute to their failings as a blind person. Revelation after revelation has led me to the point where I’m not nearly as ashamed of my own struggles, because I now realize they’re a result of being human, not of being blind.
Some sighted people don’t eat neatly, while I generally do, depending on what I’m eating. Sighted people spill things, knock things over, and drop stuff; I rarely make messes, because I’m very careful not to “seem too blind.” Many sighted people don’t know the bus system, while I berate myself for not being familiar with its every component. So many sighted people aren’t great cooks, so now I don’t hate myself for being a mediocre one.
I look around at the students I’ve gotten to know, and I find that even the older ones aren’t as capable as I thought I had to be at, say, sixteen. If they can pop a bowl of soup in the microwave, deal with their leaning tower of dishes, and occasionally vacuum, they’re doing okay. I was taught to see that lifestyle as the lowest point you can ever experience. I thought that, if I wasn’t perfect, then I was being a bad blind person. I was exemplifying all those lowered expectations, while simultaneously failing to meet the much higher standards others had imposed upon me.
While in junior high, I struggled to complete an art-based science project on my own. I’m very creative, but not when it comes to using my hands. My idea of arts and crafts is to put random beads onto a piece of string. Maybe I’ll glue a feather and some seashells onto construction paper and call it a collage. I wasn’t an art person in any sense, and being blind didn’t help, of course. While I was struggling with this exercise, my EA came over to show me a gorgeous science project some blind girl at another school had made. The assumption, I suppose, was that if she could do it, I should be able to do it, too. You’d never ever say to a sighted student, “Someone in a completely different school made this. What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you make this, too? Why can’t you go the extra mile?” Yet, when it came to me, my inability to equal her work was attributed to laziness. I must be an underachiever, right?
I’ve written about why it’s a mistake to compare blind people on more than a superficial level. Having different strengths and weaknesses than another student is not a blindness thing, but a human thing.
Once a blind person grasps this, they can start living a more relaxed and contented lifestyle. Once educators and other professionals who work with us realize this, too, everybody will be happier for it.
Another dear cousin (my cousins are awesome, what can I say?) once gave me this advice:
Ultimately, the only person you have to live with all your life is you. The only person who will always be there is you. Therefore, the only person you have to please, in the long run anyway, is yourself. Live up to your standards, and nobody else’s.
Whether she knew it or not, that advice altered my thought processes and, by extension, my self-concept. It has, in short, changed my life. I hope it changes yours, too.
Clients, Not Customers: Charity, Politics, And The CNIB
Author’s note: The following contains frank and potentially controversial material from several sources. To protect their privacy and the privacy of those they have worked with, no names are given. They have not explicitly asked for this, but I wish to shield everyone from unnecessary backlash.
I began this post as an attempt to dispel misconceptions surrounding CNIB, RNIB, and similar organizations. Things took a turn, though, when I received a flood of responses documenting issues people had with the CNIB, in particular. The sheer volume of feedback I received convinced me that I needed to write a post about it. Someone needs to speak up, because at present, blind people have no voice in Canada outside the CNIB, and there’s nothing democratic about that.
If you’re Canadian, you probably believe that the CNIB is the go-to when it comes to virtually anything blindness-related. Some go so far as to believe that blind people spend the bulk of our time there (we do not) and that we could not possibly get on without them (which many of us could). People even believe, as K told me, that the CNIB finds jobs for us (which they certainly do not) and that they essentially look after us in every way (which they definitely don’t). It’s true that they provide many essential services, especially for people who are newly-blind or who are born without sight and need some support. I still require O and M (orientation and mobility) instruction from time to time, and I do love their massive library of braille and talking books. Still, I wouldn’t say that the CNIB is in an ideal state. I also wouldn’t say that the structure and operations of the organization are serving the community as well as they could be.
Let me first say that I do appreciate the CNIB very much. They’ve done a lot for me, personally, and they’ve also done a lot for blind people across Canada. While I worked for them, I met wonderful people. I was treated with dignity and kindness. I was given challenging, rewarding work. I had a great time. But there were darker parts—parts I can’t talk about here for confidentiality reasons. However, other members of the blind community remain unfettered, and they wanted me to tell their side of the story. So, here goes.
I mentioned that the very structure of the CNIB is problematic. As K pointed out, the CNIB’s charitable status forces them to solicit funding in whatever ways they can. This means pulling relentlessly on heartstrings, even if it misleads people; even if it makes blind people seem helpless; even if it portrays us as dependent and in need of hand-holding and coddling. The CNIB puts out astonishingly condescending ads like this one (shoutout to the actors—they’re both great people). Check out this one from the RNIB, which obtains funding by convincing the sighted population that blind people’s lives are dark, gloomy, and hopeless without the RNIB’s intervention. I mean…come on! They even have sad cellos! Who on earth couldn’t give money to an organization that uses sad cellos?
The CNIB, like many charities, is always in a somewhat precarious position, so there is a chronic lack of staff, an inability to pay the staff they do have (including benefits), and ongoing doubt as to where they’ll be next year. I even recall the CNIB making threats about discontinuing their library services if they did not receive more funding. The CNIB has a loud voice all right … but who is speaking?
The CNIB is lobbying, and lobbying hard. I’ve written about their attempts to persuade governments to fund rehabilitation services just as they do for all other disabled people. If you get into a car accident and are paralyzed, you will be given rehabilitation and physiotherapy until you gain as much independence as possible. You are, in theory, supported through the entire process. If you get into an accident and are blinded? They send you home and, if you’re lucky, they point you towards the CNIB. It’s a sad state of affairs, and the CNIB is trying to change that. That’s noble, in itself, but again, we run into the issue of advocacy: the CNIB is not the mouthpiece of the blind; it is the mouthpiece of itself. R goes so far as to state that politics and lobbying are more important to the CNIB than actually helping its own clients.
This brings me to another of K’s excellent points: we are not customers or members of the CNIB, but clients. This puts us in the position of receiving services and being spoken for. We do not advocate; they advocate for us. We do not educate; they educate for us. While there are many blind people employed by CNIB, the organization is not democratically structured so that the general blind community can have a say. We can scream as loud as we please, but at the end of the day, the public will listen to the CNIB before they’ll listen to us. The CNIB has name-recognition and a century of service on its side; who are we to disagree with them? To call them out? To claim that they may not be the perfect solution after all?
Oh, right: we’re charity cases. Every service we receive is given to us for free. It puts us in a disempowering position. Because we don’t pay for what we receive (and most of us couldn’t afford it even if we did want to pay), we are not given a voice. Many would consider me ungrateful if, after receiving a free service, I complained about its quality. Even if I have good ideas, they’re not particularly welcome, and most of the clients I’ve spoken to feel the same sense of futility. We can’t complain, because it’s free. We can’t progress, because it’s charity. We’re stuck. Well and truly stuck. And the front line staff? Those generally dedicated people who take on massive caseloads to help us? They are overworked and underpaid. They are spread too thin or left with little to do. They get to deal with all the discontent, and get none of the reward. In many ways, being a front line staff member at CNIB appears to be a thankless job.
If you’re in a position, like R was, where you receive horrible service from a particular branch of CNIB, you are out of options unless you move. She had difficulty becoming a client, because forms either failed to be sent/received, or mysteriously disappeared altogether. Once she became a client, she had to fight to receive services at all. She left dozens of phone calls. She went up the chain to try to get someone to listen to her. When she did receive service, she claims it was perfunctory and next to useless. When she tried to advocate for herself, she was dismissed. When she tried to take control of her own situation, she was told there was only one right way to do things, and she’d have to suck it up if she wanted help. R had difficulty with an O and M instructor—with whom many other clients had issues—because that instructor seemed to have an agenda of sorts. R knew her own vision and health best, but this instructor seemed to think they knew better than R did. Eventually, R gave up completely and stopped asking the CNIB for help. These days, she teaches herself how to use assistive technology. She relies on help from other blind people which, thankfully, has been forthcoming. While her experiences are certainly unusual, they are not unique. I have heard these stories over and over, and I’ve even had a taste of them myself. While my experiences with the CNIB have been mostly positive, I have occasionally encountered staff members who played favourites, for example. One client had no trouble getting service for something trivial, while another client could not get vital service for love or money. One has to wonder why this is so widespread. Why is it so prevalent and pervasive? And what on earth do we do about it, when we have no say in how the organization is run?
L brings up the unfortunate reputation the CNIB has gained over the years. She says, “I would take a job with the CNIB if I had to, but it is definitely a last resort. I don’t want my name associated with them.” This is partly because sighted people assume that if CNIB employs a blind person, it must be busywork or pity work. Far from it. Blind employees work just as hard as sighted ones, and several hold executive positions. Yet I, too, feel a little squirmy when I tell people where I’ve worked. I just know they’re judging me, and I know it isn’t merited.
So, what’s our grand solution? One would hope that, with such an outpouring of emotion, the blind community would have come up with something. We find ourselves stumped, though. Perhaps we should have a system more like America’s, where governments pay for rehab services, and consumer organizations like the NFB and ACB act as legitimate mouthpieces for blind people. Canada does have one advocacy organization by blind people for blind people, but it’s very low-profile. Many of us had never even heard of it!
The point is, there is no grand solution. The CNIB has so much going for it, but it also has massive issues that could not be fixed without significant restructuring. It relies on public funding, which is capricious and just a little too scarce at times. We do need them, as things stand anyway, but they seem to have forgotten us. Many of us are lucky: adult blind people with solid independent living skills don’t need the CNIB very often, if at all. We are not living lives of darkness and suffering. Yes, there are profound struggles, but there is plenty of light there, too. The question is, can it be better?
We will see what the coming years bring with them. Perhaps governments really will commit to funding rehab services for us, though with substantial cuts to health care, that doesn’t seem likely. Until then, we’ll just have to carry on and hope things get better. It’s bleak, and dismal, and woefully inadequate, but there it is. Still, the blind community is robust, innovative, and spirited. We’ll figure it out. The only question is, when?
Where's Your Dog? 