I love using my credit card for just about everything. I’m loath to spend my emergency cash on, say, that Starbucks coffee or carton of milk. Cash may be quicker—and for Canadians at least, perfectly accessible—but I’d rather save it for times when debit machines break down. I hate to ask a cab driver to stop at an ATM, for example.

There is a trend toward pin pads that are partially or totally operated via a touch screen, and it’s not an accessible one. Despite the fact that technology exists to make touch screens usable for blind people (just bring headphones), I have yet to encounter a machine that I can operate independently. If I’m lucky, the number pad itself is tactile. I’ve not been lucky.

Normally, I don’t make a huge deal of partially or wholly inaccessible products unless they seriously impact my and other’s lives (even though accessibility makes sense). This definitely counts as a product that does. What do you suppose happens when I face an inaccessible pin pad? That’s right: I have to reveal my pin. Usually, I’m with a sighted friend whom I trust implicitly, but since I do run errands on my own, as most blind people often do, I’ve had to give my pin to complete strangers. Yes, the likelihood of my pin being stolen is small, but it’s still possible and, with the theft of pins and replication of cards becoming more prevalent, it’s a real risk.

I feel that, for something as basic and necessary as payment methods, we have the right to total accessibility. I’m not aware of the advantages of touch screens, though I imagine they must exist or people wouldn’t be manufacturing them, but I’m not sure if they justify putting a chunk of the population at risk. Blind people aren’t statistically common, but we are definitely out there, and we deserve to keep our credit and debit cards secure, just like everyone else.

Since the technology exists to make these machines accessible, I see no reason at all for continued failure to implement it. I suppose this might involve a financial burden, especially if the machines are replaced rather than modified, but even if they are produced more accessibly in the future, that would reduce and eventually eliminate security risks for blind people. Once that’s done, we will face the same safety risks as everyone else. Machines will still be compromised, but at least we’re not being expected to give our pins away to people who could exploit them.

As fellow blogger Blindbeader points out, these touch-screen pin pads don’t just inconvenience blind people. They pose accessibility challenges for other populations as well: “I know several people who have good vision, but who have challenges using touch screen due to other concerns with their hands and fingers. To say nothing of the installation of such pin pads so high up that they cannot be lowered to those using wheelchairs.”

I understand that these things don’t always occur to manufacturers at first, but if we play our cards right, they’ll know, and then they’ll have no excuse.

So what do we want? (Accessible pin pads!)
When do we want ‘em? (Um…at a time that is sensible and financially feasible?)

Last fall, I published ““The Dreaded ‘Can’t’ Word” in which I discussed an instructor’s refusal to accept me in her copyediting class. The course, which is an integral part of my Bachelor of Communication Studies degree, was one I had been looking forward to for more than a year. I’d long been interested in pursuing editing as a career path, and the copyediting course was to be the necessary foundation.

Stricken, I fought the decision. I argued that a blind person can do at least 80% of what a sighted copyeditor can do, if not more. I argued that I’d still be employable, even if I had to go about things in a different way than this instructor was accustomed to. I even offered to drop out in the event that it became clear things weren’t working out, either for her or for me. All in vain, I’m afraid. She ultimately told me I’d never be a copyeditor, and that she would not waste time teaching a student who would not be employable anyway. And that was that.

I’ve since taken the course under a different instructor. It was incredibly difficult, and while I did manage an A, I slaved for it. It was one of the hardest, most stressful experiences of my academic life. It’s not what you think, though: it had nothing at all to do with the actual coursework, and everything to do with the extra burdens I felt I was carrying. You can be the most brilliant student alive (I’m definitely not that), but if you’re stressed enough, you will flounder every time.

Most blind people I know have had to “pave the way” at some point in their lives, whether it be at work or in school. There’s a first time for everything, and people with disabilities tend to end up with a lot of those firsts. For example, I was the first blind student my local school division had ever dealt with, at least in recent memory. I was certainly the first blind student any of my teachers had ever taught, so my education was filled with a lot of trial and error—emphasis on the error, might I add. For the most part, they were brilliant—innovative, compassionate, and eager. For years, I thought I was tragically bad at math, because passing those courses took twice as much effort as any of my other subjects combined. I later realized that, while I’m no math genius, the bulk of my struggles was due to an inability to process the visual concepts we were being taught. Many of my math teachers taught in exclusively visual ways, and didn’t know how to make the material comprehensible to me. Several other blind people—being naturally excellent with numbers—overcome these challenges with ease. If you’re like me, though, being unable to see the material is going to make math a living hell.

I was pleased, then, to transition to university, where I didn’t have to be the very first. Sure, I was the first blind student to enter the relatively young BCS program, but not the first blind university student. There was even an entire department dedicated to helping students with disabilities. Indeed, all was smooth sailing until I reached this copyediting course, in the third year of the program. Abruptly, I was hitting a wall: for the first time, I was being told “you can’t do this.” And, after fighting as hard as I did to get the chance to try anyway, I felt that I could not fail. The margin for error, I felt, was entirely nonexistent. If I messed this up, I thought, I’d be letting a whole host of people down, including my instructor, future blind students, and myself. No pressure, yeah?

Feminists have often grumbled that a woman must work twice as hard as any man to be considered half as valuable. I definitely felt that type of strain while doing this copyediting course. I felt that I had to be absolutely brilliant, as though my place in that class needed to be justified. No sighted student needs to justify her presence in a classroom. As long as she has the prerequisites, she is free to pass or fail, and no one will question her right to be there. I, however, had the uncomfortable impression that I was a case study of sorts. A trial run, if you will. You want blind people to be allowed into copyediting courses? Fine. Show us what you’re made of, missy.

As is typical, this was all in my head. No one from the administration said anything of the kind to me. My instructor treated me like any other student, and was more accommodating than I ever could have imagined. All my friends and family were convinced I’d be just fine. Fellow students in the program rallied around me in unexpected but welcome ways. Nearly everyone was wholly supportive, and no one was worried but me. Yet, I walked around with this heavy burden on my shoulders, almost entirely of my own making.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we take responsibility for things we cannot possibly carry? Why did I place such unnecessary stress on myself? Was I so arrogant as to believe that my progress in the course would have an effect on future students?

Hindsight tells me it had nothing to do with arrogance. I think it was a mixture of pride (I can so be a copyeditor!) and fear (I hate to let people down). I thought that perhaps if I did well, the university would be even more willing to accommodate students who may face unique challenges. Perhaps the instructor who had been so pessimistic would change her tune. Perhaps my experiences could be used to help someone else in a similar situation. I really think I carried these burdens—real or not—because I wanted to please everyone, including myself. I wanted to justify my place here, to myself as well as to others. I wanted to belong, and I believed that in order to belong, I’d have to positively shine. Being mediocre was not an option, not for a blink.

It looks like I’ll be a copyeditor. Despite the hardships, I thoroughly enjoyed the course and I am now taking the higher-level editing courses. I’m having a great time and I’m really finding my feet. I’m becoming more confident every day. But I won’t soon forget how this past semester felt.

I’ll conclude by saying that if you ever find yourself in a situation like this—where you are, in essence, a trial run—don’t do what I did. Consider me your cautionary tale. Focus on you, and what you’re doing. If you’re proving anything, it should be your ability to ignore the unwarranted pessimism of others. You’re not responsible for someone else’s future. You can only be responsible for your own. Educate, by all means. Advocate, by all means. Work hard and do well, by all means. But do it for yourself.

I recognize that writing about people with disabilities is challenging. There is immense pressure to be politically correct, inoffensive, sensitive. It seems that no matter what you do, you’ll offend someone. So, because it’s so difficult, I want to give you some guidelines. I’m not perfect, so they won’t be, either. Still, they should be useful.

Dear journalist: call a spade a spade. Don’t stumble too much over the most politically correct terminology. Don’t refer to us as “differently abled”—we’re not. If some part of our bodies does not work, we are disabled, end of story. It is probably best to refer to us as “people with disabilities” because it places the emphasis on the person rather than the disability. Honestly, though, the distinction isn’t vital. No one should be hanging you out to dry over writing “disabled person” instead. If you’re covering blind people, just call them visually impaired. Not everyone is totally blind, so visually impaired covers all the bases quite nicely. I’ve never personally witnessed a blind person be offended by that term, so you should be safe.

Dear Journalist: we are not inspirational by default. Most people with disabilities are just “normal” people living their lives as best they can, like anyone else. Occasionally, we’re capable of inspiring things, but automatically referring to anyone with disabilities as “inspirational” drives most of us crazy. Look it up: you’ll find numerous articles on the subject. We know you mean well, but it can feel patronizing; it’s almost like a backhanded compliment. I’m not inspirational because I manage to attend university, or get a job, or do a myriad of other things everyone else does. Calling me inspirational for such mundanities borders on insulting. If a blind person manages to pull off brain surgery, then we’ll talk. Until then, don’t do it.

Dear journalist: it’s not all about the disability. If you are interviewing someone whose accomplishments have little or nothing to do with their disability, leave the subject alone. In “My Blindy Senses Are Tingling,” I talk about a cat breeder friend of mine who was being pestered about the “special bond” she must have with her cats simply because she can’t see. While some aspects of cat breeding and showing are more difficult for her—grooming for shows, for instance—she repeatedly denied that she had a truly special bond that only blindness could facilitate. The interviewer seemed annoyed by this, and the interview was never published. So, there is a lesson here: don’t fish for what isn’t being readily offered. Sometimes, we’re just people doing ordinary things. And, when what we’ve done is extraordinary, don’t harp on the disability aspect unless it’s relevant. There is more to us, I assure you.

Dear journalist: please don’t glorify everything we do. I continually see (see what I did there?) headlines like “Disabled Person Does (insert random and boring action here)—What A Hero!” No. Just … no. Again, it’s patronizing and potentially insulting. We’re not heroes because we do things. I follow a lot of people with disabilities on Twitter, and I see the following all the time:
“A disabled person does stuff!” – journalists everywhere
It’s so frustrating to see that one of us is in the news again, for something that shouldn’t be newsworthy. It shows the public that they should be surprised and inspired whenever they witness a person with disabilities doing something even mildly interesting. It reinforces the misconception that we are hopelessly abnormal, and every little good thing we do should be glorified. We already fight this mentality enough in our every day lives; please try not to perpetuate it.

Dear journalist: don’t glorify others, either. I actually read an article the other day, which praised somebody for guiding a disabled person across the street. Apparently this is what passes for news these days, but I digress. One would hope that such helpfulness would be commonplace. I have received a great deal of assistance from total strangers over the years (some wanted, some not), and while it’s appreciated, I wouldn’t necessarily write a news article about it. Again, this perpetuates the stereotype that we are in constant need of help—which we are not—and also tells the public that anyone who does help is something more than a nice person. Suddenly, they are special just because they showed someone kindness. This would never be considered unusual if a person helped someone without a disability. So you helped a woman carry her groceries out to her car…do you want a medal? Maybe a cookie? No, of course you don’t. You were just being a nice person, right? Don’t publish articles simply because someone did something nice to a disabled person. Pretty please?

Finally, dear journalist, don’t worry too much. None of us wants you to mess up, and most of us will not spew invective if you do. We realize that there are so many ways to get it wrong. If you make mistakes now and then, no one should be crucifying you for it. You’re just doing your job. I get it. Just be careful. Try to follow these basic guidelines, and you should be fine. I know you don’t intend to propagate negative stereotypes, or myths, or misconceptions. I have enormous respect for what you do; I know I couldn’t do it. So, with this in mind, do your best to respect us. That’s all any of us ever wanted.