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.

Last summer, while I was riding the bus home from work, an older man with a walker boarded the bus, explained to the exceptionally grumpy driver that he had vision and hearing problems, and asked to have his stop announced. He wanted to be dropped off on 152nd street, I believe. When my stop on 149th street came along, I rose to leave, but was blocked by the man with the walker.
“Is this my stop, driver?” he asked in strongly accented English.
“What?” the driver demanded, sounding irritated.
“My stop? Is this 152nd street?”
“No, this is 149th street. Now move, this lady needs to pass by.”
“But…but I need to get off on 152nd…”
“Look,” the driver snapped, in quite possibly the most discourteous tone I’ve ever heard a bus driver use with anyone, “I announced your stop and you didn’t get off, so it’s your problem, not mine. Now get out of this lady’s way, it’s her stop!”. I was about to interject—I knew for a fact the stop had not been announced at all—but I seemed to be frozen in place. I was shocked at the driver’s rudeness, upset on behalf of this poor, confused passenger, and thus unable to do much other than stand there and gape. I’ve always had great respect for bus drivers, and didn’t feel quite prepared to begin questioning his authority on his own bus. As it turned out, my passivity was a mistake.
“I did not hear you announce it; I told you I have hearing problems. Could you guide me across the street, so I can catch a different bus?”
“No, I can’t, now move!”
“How long will it be till we are at Westmount station?”
“Not for another hour.”
“I can’t wait that long…what should I do…”
“Look, just. Sit. Down. I don’t really care what you do, as long as you stop holding us up. . You’ll just have to wait until we get back to the station; you can figure out your own way from there. Now, get the hell out of this lady’s way.”
The man sat back down with a forlorn sigh, and I moved slowly towards the door of the bus. My head was full of possibilities: should I call the man a cab? Should I offer to guide him across the street myself? No, bad idea. What if I messed up and got us both lost? The blind leading the blind isn’t always the best option, even though I did know the area quite well. So what on earth could I do? And, more importantly, did I dare?

Apparently not. Even if I’d dared to speak out, I was so choked with tears that I couldn’t have said much anyhow. I knew and understood that the driver couldn’t do much to help, but did he have to be so heartless? . I remember standing on the corner, waiting to cross, tears continuing to pour down my cheeks. I’d never felt so helpless, ashamed, and angry all at once. I was angry with the world, for having such harshness in it. I was angry with the bus driver, who’d handled the entire situation so roughly. Most of all, though, I was angry with myself. True, I could have done little more than give the driver the rough side of my tongue, but surely anything would have been better than standing by and watching it all happen right under my nose?

I remain frustrated with my utter powerlessness against small injustices which too often go unnoticed. I am, of course, especially hurt by those injustices which I myself could easily face in place of another. Watching someone with vision problems, among others, being treated so shabbily is beyond description. As separate as we often are from each other, many of the blind people I know feel a small measure of protective solidarity with each other, especially when mistreatment is involved. Watching someone being mistreated the way I have been, (and will be), is painful beyond words.

Sadly, I hear stories like this all the time. Stories like these are not the aberrations we’d like them to be. They are common, widespread, and indiscriminate. Most of the time, I only hear about them after they’ve happened (if I hear about them at all) and am forced to nurse my rage and frustration in silence and impotence. If you have any type of noticeable disability, it’s not if you will be mistreated, but when and how and by whom. Even if your disability is a result of normal aging, you’re very likely to face this kind of treatment at some point, no matter how lucky you are.

People commonly believe—whether they know it or not—that disability is a state of complete otherness. Those who don’t have noticeable disabilities tend to think that they are both separate from and invulnerable to disability of any meaningful sort. Unfortunately, none of us are invulnerable. Many of us have latent disabilities (like chronic pain, or mental illness, for example), and a few of us, like myself, have more noticeable disabilities. This noticeability encourages the idea that disability is some kind of obscure shroud that drapes itself around certain people, (never you, of course). That bus driver was probably thinking of the time he was losing because of that disabled gentleman, but perhaps he should also have been thinking of how he might be when he reaches that passenger’s advanced age. I hope that that bus driver is treated with more kindness than he has given; if he isn’t, it will be a harsh road for him.

When you see these small injustices, (and you will see them), I urge you not to choose the path of least resistance like I did. Do what you can to help, even if it doesn’t seem like you can do much at all. If you don’t do it for me, or for anyone else, at least do it for yourself: you, too, may become disabled someday. Last year, it was an anonymous old man. Today, it’s me. Tomorrow, it could be you. So if altruism isn’t enough, (and it’s okay if it isn’t), fight these small injustices, in the hope that someday, someone will be willing to fight for you.

We’re all guilty of making the odd insensitive joke, even when we know better. Most of the time, this is perfectly harmless, and the subject of the joke may even join in with relish. I’m one of these people: in general, I’m happy to laugh at (and tell) blind jokes, especially when I know they’ll be well-received. I have unintentionally shocked many an unsuspecting sighted person with the many blind jokes I make. I have heard everything from “Don’t talk about yourself like that!” to “I thought you were serious!”. Last year, a professor asked if anyone had described a particular object to me, and I replied, “No. I live in darkness.”. I, (silly me), thought that it would be obvious that I was kidding around. Apparently, I was just a little too good at the straight-faced thing, and he took me seriously. He seemed shocked that I’d ever joke about myself this way, but I’ve always found the odd joke to be very healthy. After all, the best way to rob hardship of its power is to reduce it to something you can laugh at. It’s how I get through life, most of the time anyway. Sometimes, (like when I run headlong into a wall or nearly get killed crossing the street), it’s a choice between laughing and crying. I’d rather laugh.

As with all good things, though, there are right ways and wrong ways to go about making blind jokes—at least if you’re dealing with me. Again, other blind people may not echo my views, so please keep that in mind. Today, I’d like to talk about the types of jokes I consider acceptable, and the ones I consider potentially harmful (with explanations, of course). This is a rough guide, so keep an open mind and a light heart as you read through this post.

The practical joke: I’m really, really not a fan of these. I suppose there are some that are relatively harmless, but I haven’t yet found one I found truly funny. These can range from the benign (stealing a plate of food out from under my nose), to the moderately irritating (disguising one’s voice to make me think you’re someone else—it never works, by the way), to the downright dangerous (warning me of obstacles that aren’t really there). Some say that intention is everything, and I subscribe to this when dealing with inappropriate practical jokes. I realize that many of these jokes were meant in fun, with no malice at all behind them. The line between bullying and joking around isn’t all that fine. Still, as I said, few to none of these jokes are really funny, and many of them are potentially dangerous. Think, for example, of what would happen if someone stole my cane and ran off with it: I’d be stuck without the tool which allows me to travel independently and safely, with no real way to get it back without chasing, which is in itself dangerous. Also consider how I feel when people try to disguise their voices to trick me: as I mentioned, this never works, and it’s more irritating than anything else. Amazingly enough, being told to watch out for a hole or tree that isn’t there isn’t what I consider a good laugh. In short, I’d advise against practical jokes, unless you are certain that the blind person you’re dealing with is okay with them. There is a big difference between tolerating them and enjoying them; pay attention to that difference.

Wordplay: This usually takes the form of, say, “blind stupidity”, or “See what I did there?” or “Did you *watch* that movie last night?”. These are silly, but not really harmful unless they’re being made constantly. I don’t often make them, (unless I’m deliberately trying to make people groan), but I don’t mind it when they’re made about me. They’re not very effective, but they’re definitely tolerable. Just watch (ha ha) that you don’t use them too often; anyone would get tired of that after a while.

Personal barbs: If ever there was a landmine in the world of blind jokes, this would be it. These jokes are usually tailored to the type of person who is their subject. Say, for example, that there is a blind person out there who has a lot of trouble with cooking on the stove; the heat frightens them, and they’re really insecure about it. Joking about this insecurity, especially if you aren’t all that close to this person, might be dangerous at best and downright mean at worst. Chances are that blind person is acutely aware of, and unhappy with, their inability to use a stove properly, so joking about it may only hurt them. Messing with a person’s confidence—sighted or blind—is always risky and seldom funny. If you’re going to make jokes like that, be damn sure that the subject is comfortable with it.

So, to sum up, be kind, and be careful when joking around. Jokes are meant to be enjoyable for everyone, not just the one telling them, so as I’ve said in previous posts, always act with respect. Get to know the blind person you’re joking with, and pay attention to their comfort level. Most of us are happy to set you straight if you’re open to that, but it’s always easier to learn first and tell jokes later, rather than extracting your foot from your mouth and apologizing. I’m a lighthearted person with a wicked sense of humour. There is very little that I don’t take well. Don’t feel like you have to tread on eggshells. Just be nice, and you should be fine.