blindness

Go Away, Guide Dog Goop!

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I have known a few guide dog teams personally, and have always been struck by the devotion they feel toward each other. The human practically radiates protectiveness and trust, while the dog gives the impression that it would do literally anything for its companion. Even on “bad days”, they seem so endearingly optimistic. Calling it cute would be cheapening it. It’s pretty inspirational, though, and I never throw that word around.

As we should all know by now, I have no interest in getting a dog myself. Much like a woman who does not want children, I have been hassled about this decision for years. And, while I can appreciate the bond between dogs and their handlers, I don’t feel that tug in my chest that says “I want”. I can admire it, but I can’t make myself desire it.

As you can imagine, I find it difficult to relate to guide dog handlers. I give no more thought to my cane than I would to the shoes I use to walk or the jacket that keeps me warn. I’m not used to considering my travel aid an actual companion. When I get home I fold my cane and stick it in a corner. Guide dog handlers are always interacting with their charges in some way, even if it’s peripheral. Like those with children, guide dog handlers are often expecting me to relate to experiences I won’t ever have … and it gets hard after awhile. I do know some very considerate handlers who only give me as much information as I ask for. Some, however, seem to lack that social filter which says, “That’s enough”.

So, like many people who don’t want dogs, I am subject to everyone else’s constant talk (well, mostly posts) about their guide dogs. You know how there are certain parents intent on documenting every single move their children make? It’s like that … only somehow worse. I can’t put my finger on why, but the myriad cutesy posts about the fact that Spot has managed to walk down one whole block successfully drive me insane. I don’t mind the odd congratulatory post—dogs can bring their handlers through some terrifying conditions—but the line needs to be drawn somewhere. I don’t need to know that your dog is currently asleep under your desk. I don’t really care if your dog was behaving particularly well in harness today. I am so sick of reading about how much your doggie loves his or her treats, or ball, or squeaky toy, etc. etc.

I probably sound very grumpy and intolerant, and maybe I am. But here’s the really infuriating bit: there are certain handlers intent upon glorifying their bond with their guides to the point where you’d think they were superheroes just waiting to save the world. These people are the type who mingle their signatures with their guides’ names. They write lengthy blog posts from their dogs’ perspective. They troll forums about “guide dog vs. cane” debates, and interrupt diplomatic discussion by spouting things like “Don’t you dare devalue the bond!” and “Once you have a dog you will experience true independence and fulfillment!” and so on. They are few, but they’re not quite far between enough for my liking.

Go ahead: take photos of your guide dog. Wax poetic about the accomplishments you and your dog have managed today. Painstakingly document every single step of the training process, if you really want to. Just please…don’t be offended if I’m not all that interested. I’m happy for you, I really am; but, like overenthusiastic parents who assume I want to know every detail about their kids, the goop you occasionally ask me to process can be a little hard to slog through at times. Please don’t be offended if I say “I’m really not interested”. It’s honest, not malicious. We all have the right to filter the content we consume, since there is so much of it. Please let me filter mine.

Author’s note: Before you ask, this post is *not* directed at anyone in particular. Please don’t come to me protesting that you don’t do stuff like this; I’m probably not talking about you.

Unfriendly Reminders: On the Dangers of Complacency

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While walking home a few nights ago, I got lost. This would have been okay, but I was traveling a route I know intimately; I’d used that route for almost three years without mishap. That might have been okay too, except that it was -25C outside and, since it is supposed to be a two-minute walk, all I had was a pair of woefully inadequate mittens and a winter jacket. I still don’t know exactly where I went wrong. I was navigating the crosswalk, the same as usual, and I must have veered sharply, because I missed the sidewalk entirely and ended up wandering into relatively unfamiliar territory. It was nearly one in the morning, so there was no traffic to act as an auditory guide. It was one in the morning, so I couldn’t even use what little vision I have to help me. It was one in the morning, so I was totally alone.

It was bitterly cold—so cold that even I, a brave little Canadian, had to admit I was getting a little anxious. I took off my mittens to use my phone. My fingers were so cold that the phone didn’t even register my touch. I had to use Siri to call a nearby friend so she could rescue me. Meanwhile, I was trying to find a safe place to stand. I settled for a precarious perch on an ice-encrusted snowbank, reasoning that this, at least, would be traffic-free should any traffic actually show up. Luck smiled on me that night, so my friend said she was coming to get me. I waited. And shivered. And wondered what in hell I’d done to get myself so lost in such a short amount of time. And I worried.

It took my poor friend a while to find me, so I had ample time for reflection. Before long, unwelcome tears were emerging, freezing as quickly as they materialized, naturally. I had grown complacent, I realized. I had failed to bring a backpack containing warmer clothes and some headgear. I had already spent a lot of time that evening walking around outdoors, so was pretty chilly to begin with. I didn’t count on getting lost. I thought I was infallible, with this route at least. Maybe, I thought grudgingly, there was a lesson here.

There are, of course, some obvious lessons: don’t go out in dangerously frigid temperatures without carrying extra clothing. Don’t count on having help so late at night if something happens. Invest in a pair of gloves that can be used with a touch screen, perhaps. The most uncomfortable lesson, though, is don’t ever, ever grow complacent.

Confidence is fine. We all deserve to take a few things for granted, particularly routes we’ve been navigating for years without a single serious misstep. Sighted people don’t have quite the same worries as we do when they get lost, so it’s comforting when we can enjoy that level of assurance, at least in certain locations. Nine times out of ten, everything will go as well as you hope it will.

But be prepared for the times when it doesn’t. Know that, sometimes, anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Know that the climate may not always be kind. Know that people may not be around to assist. Know that you are not perfect, and that you can always make mistakes you never even imagined. Confidence is your friend; complacency, your enemy.

Many of you are likely shaking your heads: “Getting lost is not that bad, Meagan! It’s not a life or death situation!” You’re right, usually it isn’t. Most of the time, if we get lost, we wander around until we find a landmark to get us back on track. We approach someone and ask for help. We use our orientation skills to figure out where we went wrong so we can backtrack. When all that fails, however, (and it will fail), you’re left with unpleasant consequences like frostbite, dangerous neighbourhoods, and unexpected hazards or obstacles. Worst of all, though, you run the risk of becoming even more thoroughly lost. I have wandered through sketchy neighbourhoods after 11:00 p.m. and I don’t recommend it. I think my blood alcohol level rose just from being in the vicinity of some of those people.

By all means, take precautions. I chose not to do so and I paid dearly for my negligence. Next time, I might not have a friend I can call at a moment’s notice. I’ve been hopelessly lost before in nasty weather, and it never gets easier with time, I can promise that. What I’ve come to realize, though, is that more than precautions, an attitude adjustment is sometimes most valuable. Tempting as it may be, autopilot is never really an option—not when you’re blind. It doesn’t matter if you’re walking with a group of sighted friends; they can get lost, too. It doesn’t matter if you have a guide dog; you’re supposed to lead them, not the other way around. It doesn’t even matter if you know this route inside out and backwards. You’re not invincible. None of us is.

For as many years as you are on this earth, you will discover new and interesting ways in which you can screw up. Learn to accept this. It’s an unavoidable part of being human, and unfortunately for disabled people, the consequences are especially dire. But for every bonehead mistake you make, there is a lesson. As they say, life is a harsh teacher, but an effective one.

Safe travels, guys.

Confessions of a Blind Binge-reader: It’s Not Just About the Books

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Anyone who knows me even a little is aware that I’m a devoted bookworm. I think nothing of finishing a book in one day—sometimes one sitting, depending on how engrossing it is—and those who follow me on social media are privy to my prolific reviewing habits on Goodreads. I spend much of my time in class, studying, socializing, and reading material not generally considered fun (though I’ve been known to take pleasure in reading my sociology textbook now and then), but I have always found time for leisure reading. I have sometimes been too busy to sleep; too tired to study; too desolate to go out. I don’t think I’ve ever been too anything to read. Reading is by turns a learning experience, an exploration of human nature, and an escape when things get too difficult. In short, I read for all the reasons anyone else reads.

I’ve been teased about the sheer volume of books I get through; I’ve had a friend ask, without a trace of irony, how many books I read “today” (it wasn’t even noon at the time). I know many other people who read at least as much as I do, but I admit that it’s not just about the books. Until I was given unfettered access to the internet at age fifteen, books were a luxury. Braille was hard to come by; most of the books I read in school were lent to me by an Albertan organization dedicated mostly to producing textbooks. However, they did boast an impressive collection of leisure reading, particularly classics. I devoured so many books as a student that by the time I was fourteen, I’d exhausted more or less every book they offered. I then signed up for the CNIB library, which sustained me until I gained better access to Ebooks. Even then, titles took months to arrive after they’d been ordered, and while the library did send me random books suited to my age group, they were often falling apart at the seams, badly squashed, or covered in suspicious substances resembling, at least in one case, strawberry jam.

Even when I did have books to read, they were always limited. I had to choose from a select few, and I had to return them as quickly as possible so that I could receive more. I remember slogging laboriously through books I absolutely hated (If you ask my former EA, she’ll remember how much I complained while reading “Huckleberry Finn”) because I didn’t have much choice. When your selection of literature is scant, you can’t get too picky about what you read.

Forget about buying my own books: braille books were so rare and so costly that when I won my first ever book in a draw, I kept it long after I’d wrung any enjoyment from it. I still have it to this day, and I’m not sure I could just hand it off to someone else. You never forget your first braille book.

It was the same with audio books: while I was growing up, audio books were not nearly as prevalent as they are now. They were expensive, and thus were quite rare. I remember literally shrieking with delight each Christmas when my parents would present me with the newest Harry Potter book, or the next volume of Paolini’s Inheritance Series. Now and then, people would find audio books at garage sales or in bargain bins and I’d be treated to some of the most random selections you can think of. When I was nine, someone gave me “The Green Mile”, obviously not thinking this through. My mom happened to listen in while I was reading one night and just about lost her mind when I asked, with total innocence, what a “faggot” was. As a kid, I was introduced to the autobiography of Mia Farrow (complete with the famous sex scandal involving Woody Allen), Steinbeck’s “Tortilla Flat”, and Grisham’s “The Client” … these were just a few of the completely inappropriate, yet no less enjoyable, reads I was exposed to via audio. I had an interesting time back then, I can tell you.

When my reading world expanded and I suddenly had almost every book in existence at my fingertips, I hardly knew what to do with myself. I began binge reading—grabbing every mildly interesting book I could find and ravenously searching for more. One of my most persistent fears, all throughout my life, was running out of reading material. Gone are the days when I had to read the Old Testament because it was summer vacation and I didn’t have any books to read. Gone are the days when I’d have to struggle through Rudyard Kipling’s “Kim” even though I despised every page. Now, I can read what I want to, without fear of consuming too much material too quickly. Now, I don’t have to ration my books, because there will always be another one waiting for me.

This is the kind of freedom most sighted readers have enjoyed all their lives. The public library stocked nearly every book they’d ever want to read, and they always had access to newspapers and magazines. There was no need to read 400 pages of something they hated just because books were too scarce. The great thing is that blind kids of the future will not have to go through what I and many other blind people did. They will have access to digitized braille (as well as actual books, of course) and plain text ebooks. They will be able to read the “back cover” and decide which books interest them. They will not have to wonder where their next book is coming from. Nearly every bit of reading material—whether on paper or on the web—will be accessible to them.

And, just like sighted people, they won’t have any idea how lucky they are.

You see, it’s not just about the books. It’s not about reading so much that people will take notice and praise (or ridicule) me. It’s about freedom of choice, and equal access, and autonomy. It’s about spending my time the way I want to, without worrying about having to ration my enjoyment.

So, fellow blind binge readers, enjoy your freedom. Enjoy the fact that in this, at least, equal access is yours. And if you think you might read just a little too often sometimes? If you worry that you hoard books? If you think you’re silly for still fearing that you’ll run out sometime, even when you know better? Give yourself a break. Old habits die hard. It’s worth remembering where they came from.

Take Off the Blindfold

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When I was a child, my peers would sometimes make half-hearted attempts to understand what it’s like to be blind. They’d cover their eyes and stagger around a bit, or they’d borrow my cane and wave it carelessly from side to side, effectively clearing a path of about a half mile radius. It was cute, and always done with kindness, so I never bothered to inform them that mucking about with a stick for two minutes wouldn’t offer them the insight they were looking for. Others tried putting on those silly glasses you can get that are intended to demonstrate different visual impairments (one lens is foggy, the other very blurry, etc.). Again, wearing these goofy things for five minutes was not going to show anyone what blindness is like; all it could do was cause them to trip a few times and, worst of all, pity me even more than they already had. After a few attempts, people would usually conclude that blindness must really, really suck (in some ways they’re not wrong) and go back to exclaiming over how unimaginable it is for them. I was okay with that.

Some people don’t outgrow this notion, though, and pursue more serious (though equally fruitless) endeavors on the quest to understand blindness. People will blindfold themselves for a day or two, trying to accomplish everyday tasks by touch—usually neglecting their other senses in the process, of course. Others would play with the screen reader on my phone, since the iPhone has the capacity to activate a “screen curtain”. With this feature active, it’s impossible to see the screen, and the user must rely on Voiceover, the phone’s screen reader, to operate pretty much everything. The purpose of such a feature is increased privacy for blind users, who can’t defend themselves from prying eyes. Naturally, blind and sighted alike thought it would be interesting to use this feature to illustrate what blindly operating a phone would be like. This bizarre idea was dubbed the “screen curtain challenge” … and it made me crazy.

First of all, it’s ludicrous to believe that closing your eyes or blindfolding yourself for a day (or even a week) would give you more than a glimpse into what my life is like. If you have always been able to see, then you won’t have any of the skills or instincts I’ve picked up over twenty years of being without sight. Your brain does not know how to use sound to find doorways, touch to distinguish brailled letters on a page, or smell to navigate a cafeteria. Your senses pick up the same things mine do, but your brain doesn’t know how to attend to all that information. You are so accustomed to leaning on your sight for everything (not a criticism—it’s how you’re wired), that the subtle nuances I rely upon for everyday travel will be utterly lost on you.

Second, even if you could momentarily experience what it’s like to travel as a blind person (or indeed navigate a phone like a blind person), nothing but years of experience will enlighten you as to the nature of the psychological and sociocultural background of someone who has either been blind from birth (as in my case) or lost his or her sight. I won’t go so far as to claim that it’s a different world; my aim is to build bridges between blind and sighted, not isolate us further. I will say, though, that the emotional, mental, and physical experiences we accept as part of our daily lives will be totally unfamiliar to someone who has always been able to see. This is probably true of just about any disability, though I haven’t the authority to say for sure.

By encouraging ideas like the “screen curtain challenge”, we are shortchanging both blind and sighted people. Blind people, because the sighted expect that they know how we feel after a few hours of blindfolding themselves. Sighted people, because they cannot possibly be expected to figure out things like screen readers in just a day or two. After all, blind people had to learn to use their ears, and fingers, and noses; we weren’t born with a handbook in our brains. We had to figure all this stuff out, and sometimes it takes a lot of dedication to master certain skills. So how can we expect sighted people to get an accurate picture of what our lives are like if they don’t have the same advantages (or disadvantages) that we have?

If you want to understand us, talk to us. Ask us questions. Try to see (ha ha) things from our perspective, all the while accepting that you’ll never get a comprehensive picture. Until technology develops to the point where we can experience each other’s thoughts and memories, let the curtain stay where it is, take off your blindfold, and for God’s sake put that cane away before you put someone’s eye out!
P.S. Thank you for trying so hard. We know you mean well, and most of us want to understand you, too. Let’s talk.

Go Ahead, Laugh!

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People can become very twitchy about humour in relation to disability. Laughing at any aspect of it can seem a transgression of the gravest sort. How could anyone with a conscience make fun of the poor little blind girl, right? Barbaric!

Contrary to this belief, I find humour inexpressibly helpful; indeed, sometimes I’m not sure how I’d survive without it. There are many situations in my life that seem to demand tears. When I can’t (or won’t) cry, I can always laugh. Laughing can defend me from the scorn of others; it can shelter me from the humiliation of what has just happened; it can strengthen me in the face of whatever it is I’ve messed up this time; and it can encourage others to laugh the hard stuff off, as well.

Take a simple blunder like this one: during a camping trip many years ago, I was visiting with my sister, a friend of hers (a stranger to me), and a cousin. All evening, my cousin had occupied the same chair. I usually pay attention to where people choose to sit, as it makes it easier to interact with them with a modicum of social grace. Believe me, I need all the grace I can find. Unfortunately, this system isn’t infallible, as I was soon to discover. Assuming that my cousin was still seated where she’d been all night, I went up to her from behind and hugged her, crooning “I loooove you!” for good measure. Without missing a beat, my sister’s friend replied “Aww! I love you too, Meagan!”. I wasn’t about to cry…so I laughed. This wonderful person had the grace to laugh with me.

Social slips like that one are sometimes enough to make a rather shy girl like me recoil in horror, retreating into a ball of humiliation until everyone else has long forgotten the incident. I have, however, learned to use humour as a tool to handle embarrassment with confidence—something that is essential when trying to put others at ease. If you’re planning to pursue a career in communications and public relations, as I am, networking is an unavoidable component of the field. I learned early that if I pretended I was comfortable with my “blindness mistakes”, others would become comfortable with them as well. Getting them to giggle with me over them is even better, so I aim for a laugh almost every time. Of course, if the slip is tiny, it’s sometimes better just to let it rest; chances are whomever I was with didn’t even notice it anyway. No need to draw more attention to myself than I already do. And you know what they say about faking it till you make it…that really works. Since using humour as an instrument of social bonding, I’ve become much more at ease in my own skin, even in the most terrifying of public situations.

I’d like to address something far more important, though, and perhaps far less well-known to people in general. From a very early age, I have acknowledged the benefits of a little gallows humour when things go horribly, horribly wrong. While blindness doesn’t often put me into devastating situations akin to, say, terminal illness, it certainly tests my patience and fortitude at times. I’ve talked about getting hopelessly lost, being denied essential opportunities, and struggling with a minor identity crisis. All these things would have been so much harder to bear had I been unable to laugh at them. Even some of the small stuff—submitting essays with messy fonts, groping strangers on the bus, and tripping that poor guy on crutches (more on that later) seem a little worse than they actually are while they’re happening.

Reactions range from admiration to outright horror when I make light of serious issues surrounding my disability. It’s as though people think I’m degrading myself by laughing at it, even though it’s my issue to laugh at if I please. “Don’t talk about yourself that way!” they exclaim, leaping onto soap boxes that have appeared from thin air. I always respond the same way: “I need to laugh. If I don’t, I’ll cry, and nobody wants to see that.”. While there’s nothing wrong with venting frustration or sorrow in whatever way suits, I generally prefer a good belly laugh to a storm of tears. Besides, I’m far less attractive with a red nose and puffy eyes and, as we all know, unattractiveness is a tragedy!

It is true that the suffering experienced by those with disabilities is no laughing matter in general. It is not to be taken lightly and should be treated with some solemnity and respect. With this in mind, it is perfectly acceptable for both the sufferers and those closest to them to find a little humour in a bad situation, especially if the alternative is to wallow in despair. I realize that this might seem like clichéd advice, but it’s advice that few people actually seem to take. Maybe it feels like crossing an invisible line, over which you might be considered callous or unfeeling. But they don’t keep doling out this advice for nothing. It really works; this pronouncement comes from a veritable flood of experience. I’ve been in just about every hopeless situation a blind person can find themselves in, and humour has helped me out of nearly all of them.

We’ve all heard the wry, brave humour of the desperately ill, bereaved, and endangered. Their ability to laugh at themselves and their various predicaments isn’t just something to be admired; it is something to be imitated. Even if you don’t feel in the least strong, laughing at your problems will make them seem more manageable, even if nothing has changed. Laughter, after all, means that you’ve gained some distance and perspective on the issue, and are able to find whatever silver lining there might be in it. It’s not just about putting on a brave face and displaying the appropriate heroics. It’s also about lightening your burdens as much as you can, and allowing others to lighten theirs as well. You can be sure that if you’re suffering, someone else is suffering with you. Do them a favour: make them laugh.

The Word Is Blind

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“So, you’re blind—I’m sorry! I mean…visually impaired—I mean…uh…I’m not sure of the…terminology…”

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life (and, yes, most of them were nice). Many of the labels people have placed on me because of my eyes are diplomatic but straightforward: visually impaired, low-vision, visually handicapped, physically handicapped, disabled, etc. These are all accurate, so I have no objection to them (though low-vision perpetuates the misconception that I see far better than I actually can). Of course, I’ve also been called—and heard others being called—more “politically sensitive” terms: differently abled (really?), differently seeing (uh, no…), special (gag me with a spoon, please), and handicapable (I wish I was kidding).

We are currently surrounded by an environment that demands political correctness and unbiased language. Normally, I’m one of the most enthusiastic supporters of bias-free language, because I understand the power of the words we use. Even when we aren’t conscious of it, the words we choose to use carry plenty of potential impact. Language really does matter. In that light, I understand and support society’s efforts to attach meaningful, accurate labels to minorities, particularly labels free of derogatory associations. If I were conducting a business meeting and someone referred to me as a “blink”, I’d be rather offended: that’s not how you treat someone, especially in a professional setting, unless you know them well and have an intimate knowledge of their personal preferences. I would no more call a disabled stranger by a derogatory name—lighthearted as I may feel at the time—than I’d call my lesbian best friend a dyke. Personally, I don’t consider it a polite (or even wise) endeavor, no matter how good my intentions are.

But, as always, there’s another side to this coin. There is such a thing as tiptoeing to such a degree as to invite ridicule, and it is my opinion that some of the terms listed above are just begging to be mocked. I mean, come on—“handicapable”? That sounds like a bad joke, not a “politically sensitive” label to use in official settings. It sounds, in fact, like someone’s terrible idea of a catchy hashtag. Please, leave that condescending nonsense on Twitter where it belongs. Other terms, while being less deserving of derision, commit the grave sin of being totally inaccurate and misleading. Take “differently seeing”, for example: I don’t “see” differently than other human beings. True, I tend to use my other senses more often than sighted people, but as I’ve previously explained, those senses are exactly the same as yours. They’re not heightened or supercharged in any way; I simply know how to use them, and have little choice but to rely on them. Seeing differently would necessitate extra organs (or perhaps extra brain function) and I can assure you that I definitely don’t have any mutated eyes or visual cortices lurking around. I’d tell you if I did—imagine the money I could make from the media buzz alone! (And, no, I am not giving you permission to come and investigate for yourself.) It’s also worth mentioning that I despise platitudes like “you can see with your heart”. I understand the kindness behind such pronouncements, I really do, but we all know it’s gooey, sentimental rhetoric, right?

In general, I believe in calling a spade a spade. Dancing around the simple facts with labels meant to encourage respect and sensitivity does more to annoy me than set me at ease. It’s impossible to keep up with the terminology that is en vogue on any given week. For the longest time, it was my impression that “visually impaired” was considered the acceptable term for official documents and workplace discourse, as determined by the CNIB. When I was working for them a couple of years ago, however, I quickly discovered that I was doing it wrong: the new term was “partially sighted”. Visually impaired, it seemed, was sooo last year. Who knew? I certainly didn’t…

I’m not sure what it is about blindness in particular that makes people so timid, but I’d love to relieve them all of that heavy burden. It’s okay to admit that someone is disabled—yes, disabled, not “differently abled”. Some people have stuff wrong with them, and that’s not a horrible thing. It’s not a sin to openly admit that someone else isn’t a perfect specimen of efficiency. Flaws don’t have to be scary, and disability doesn’t have to be taboo. Set aside your worries about sensitivity and correctness for a moment, and listen: my eyes don’t work. I cannot see. Therefore, the logical conclusion is that I am blind. Not “differently abled”, or “differently seeing”…just “blind”. If you want to get really technical, you can use “visually impaired” for people who have enough vision to read large print and use screen magnification. Otherwise, “blind” is perfectly acceptable, at least to me and the majority of blind people I know. If “blind” scares you, go with “visually impaired”; you’re very unlikely to upset anyone that way. I have met a very few people who were especially sensitive about semantics, but even they were all just fine with “visually impaired”.

It really irks me when people treat “blind” like a curse word—as though the last thing anyone would ever want to admit to being is blind. Believe it or not, I’m rather okay with the fact that my eyes don’t work, and thus I am okay with being called blind. It’s what I am. I’m no more uncomfortable with being referred to as “blind” than I am with being referred to as “female”, or “brunette”, or “human”. These are all natural parts of my being and while I’m not necessarily proud of my disability, I’m at peace with the fact that it exists and that there’s a word for it. So, rather than wasting your valuable time stumbling over the “correct” terminology, just call me “blind”, because that’s what I am. It’s not insulting, or insensitive, or ablest; it’s honest.

Of course, my favourite thing to be called is “Meagan”. I have a name, so please use it. If you know my name, there is no reason whatsoever to refer to me as “the blind girl”, or “the disabled girl”, or anything similar. Names are given for a reason; please do me the courtesy of using mine. After all, more than “blind”, I self-identify as “human”, just like you.

Author’s note: If you are reading this from somewhere other than Earth and do not, therefore, self-identify as human, please forgive the generalization. I wouldn’t want to use improper labeling!

Don’t Just Stand There: On the Disturbing Nature of “Rubbernecking”

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This morning, I was reading an article about a legally blind woman who strayed off of a snow-filled sidewalk and into the street, just missing a guard rail that would have kept her on the correct path. She must have slipped and fallen, because she was seen on her hands and knees in the street while cars zoomed by, honking furiously. Evidently, people were taking the time to honk and curse with frustration—not to mention stare at her—but no one seemed to be interested in actually helping her. Finally, a city official noticed her, changed lanes, and offered her his help. I came away with a sour taste in my mouth: I am continually dismayed by people’s ability to gawk openly at someone in distress and fail to help them. Surely if you have time to stare at someone, you have time to help them!

I recognize that if a situation is horrifying or confusing enough, people might not know how to react and will therefore remain frozen with indecision and/or shock. This article, by itself, might be dismissed on the grounds that we weren’t there and we can’t know exactly what people were thinking when they passed this poor woman by. But…

I find it harder and harder to dismiss stories like this, because they crop up often enough to suggest a pattern. As I’ve mentioned before, people are prepared to treat me like a spectacle, but not often willing to actually help me in any way. This proves true for many disabled people of all types; people see us, but they don’t necessarily interact with us the way they would with anyone else. It’s almost like the oft-quoted “it’s like a train wreck…I can’t look away” scenario with a slightly twisted edge. How can otherwise perfectly decent human beings be aware that a person is in need and refuse to lift a finger?

It’s a complicated issue—one which my family and friends have occasionally discussed with me. They claim that, since knowing me, they are far more willing to offer help to disabled strangers, and far less able to stand by and watch those strangers struggle. Indeed, an old acquaintance once told me of a young blind woman struggling to navigate an unfamiliar restaurant. She was having difficulty locating a seat, and was becoming visibly upset. According to this acquaintance of mine, several men in business attire were sitting around watching her, some of them actually daring to laugh a little at her confusion. He was astonished that they’d have the gall to notice her predicament enough to find humour in it, and still refuse to ask her if she needed any help. It reminded him, he said, of cruel children on a playground. Unable to stand by and watch, he rushed over to assist her. He later confessed that knowing and caring about me probably spurred his desire to get involved, and heightened his sense of justice.

The more we see this twisted style of rubbernecking, the more it becomes normalized and, by extension, tolerable. Whether you are disabled or not, you’ve likely been in situations where you could have used some help but were completely ignored by those around you, even though they could all see your plight. I have always asserted that having a disability gifted me with a strong sense of compassion, and I find it heart-rending to bear witness to another’s need without at least considering stepping forward.

Don’t misunderstand me: this does not give a person license to approach any and all disabled people and immediately begin forcefully thrusting help upon them, whether it’s wanted or unwanted. It does mean, though, that we could all be a little better about offering that assistance, and being willing to give it if it’s solicited. This goes for disabled and able alike, by the way. We’re all human, after all, and most of us will require a stranger’s kindness at some point in our lives. That paying it forward thing? Yeah, that’s pretty cool, even if you never get it back.

I understand the helpless, frozen feeling associated with witnessing someone else in danger or need; I’ve even written about a time where I allowed this sensation to paralyze me completely. In my mind, though, there’s a great deal of difference between wanting to help but not being sure how, and sniggering with derision as you gawk away. C’mon, guys; we can do better. I have seen over and over that we are capable of great kindness. Let’s see more of that, okay?

Leaving On a Jet Plane…

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Flying is scary for anyone. Even if the thought of relying on complete strangers to ferry you through the sky doesn’t make you a little nervous (I can say it’s never bothered me), airports are intimidating enough for even the most seasoned travelers. Some airports are massive enough to have train systems and moving sidewalks. If you plan to fly internationally, you have to deal with customs and security and all the rest of it. Sighted people can see where they’re going and read detailed maps, but many of them still hate and fear the experience. Given the anxiety this process elicits in sighted people, flying on my own for the first time put a great many butterflies in my stomach…and I can assure you that they were not flying in formation.

I’m rather prone to ranting on this blog, but today I get to rave a little instead. I’ve flown independently several times now (my long-distance relationship forced me to get over my anxieties real quick) and each time has been a breeze. You see, if you have a disability that can make it difficult for you to navigate the airport, you can ask for assistance when you book your flight. Each time I flew, I was greeted by a security agent at the check-in desk, and led through security, then to my gate, then onto the plane before regular passengers boarded. I didn’t have to worry about finding the right gate, or getting onto the plane in time, or even finding my seat and stowing my luggage. Once I boarded the plane, the flight attendants showed me where the emergency exits and bathrooms were located. WestJet, in particular, is always quick to provide you with a brailled copy of the safety information so that you can be given the same information as everyone else. They even showed me where the call button was in case I needed anything during the flight. Because I am absurdly averse to inconveniencing people, I never used it, but at least I knew it was there.

When we landed, a flight attendant escorted me off the plane and handed me to an airport employee who helped me find my luggage and either book a shuttle home or wait for people at the arrivals gate. It was the easiest and most worry-free experience I could possibly have imagined. Travel is stressful enough without having to agonize over finding your way around an unfamiliar place where time is of the essence.

As with anything else, there are a few snags. Guide dog handlers often run into situations where there isn’t much room on the plane for the dog. Some airlines are unwilling to allow the dog onto the plane, even though they are required to do so by law. Still others will insist that blind passengers pay for an extra seat if they want to bring a guide dog along. Even if you’re a cane traveler, you can run into a few issues. More than once, I’ve been offered a wheelchair to carry me through the airport, despite the fact that my legs work just fine, thank you very much. Sometimes they do this because they’re not sure what would be best, but other times they offer this because they can’t be bothered trying to guide me. I have been lucky: I have declined the wheelchair each time and that has been honoured; some are told that they must use the wheelchair if they want assistance. Opinions will vary on this one, but I consider it just a wee bit degrading to be told I am not permitted to walk when I am perfectly capable of doing so.

One of the most disconcerting issues is when you get stuck with a customer service agent who wants very little to do with you. Last week, during a layover in Seattle, my fiancé and I (also blind) were guided by a woman who seemed intent upon getting us to our gate and getting rid of us as quickly as she could. Perhaps she was short on time, or just having a bad day, but her attitude was barely courteous. This stood in sharp contrast to the friendly and solicitous manner of most of the airport employees I have dealt with in the past. I am usually blown away by their sincere concern for my comfort. It’s a kindness rarely found and truly appreciated.

All things considered, air travel is a piece of cake compared to, say, bus travel. When describing the assistance I receive to sighted people, I have seen them express jealousy that they, too, can’t request to be guided step by step through the airport. Getting lost and confused is practically part of the air travel culture—if it can be said to have a culture at all—and avoiding this altogether is a privilege to be treasured.

Every Day is an Audio Challenge

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Every Day is an Audio Challenge

I’m ninety percent through the long and complicated process of filling out one of those lengthy internet sign-up forms. They’ve wanted everything from my phone number to my Social Insurance Number, and it’s getting a little excessive. There’s only one more field though, so I’m almost there… and then my screen reader cheerfully states  “Type the two words below! We need to check that you’re human!”. At this point, my very human impulses urge me to start keyboard mashing until something explodes. I calm down a little, though, since there’s an equally cheerful “Visually impaired? Get an audio challenge!” button below the text field.  Normally, when I hit this button, garbled but mostly comprehensible speech guides me so that I can successfully prove my humanity and move on with my life. Unfortunately, there are exceptions to everything, and this is one: I type the spoken numbers as carefully as I can, trying to ignore the weird, swirling background noise that sounds creepy enough to be a horror movie’s soundtrack. Then, with pounding heart, I hit “submit”. The page refreshes, and asks me to try again. So I do. And again. And again. And again. And because I am most definitely human, I give in to my exhaustion and give the whole thing up. So, no account for me, and there goes all the info I took so much time to input. Audio challenge, indeed!

When you’re a screen reader user, every day is an audio challenge. Websites change with the weather, and new updates often present more and more issues. Screen readers themselves are only updated now and then, so the only thing we’re left with is our ingenuity. Most often, larger websites will make a concerted effort to accommodate visually impaired  users, but even they slip up, and they slip up a lot.

The reason I choose to use the word “challenge”, though, is because I don’t mean to sit here and rant about how horrible it is that we can’t use the web as easily and efficiently as sighted people. As I’ve said before, disability automatically bars us from total and perfect equality, so to expect such out of the internet–a network that changes constantly–is only going to result in disappointment. However, there are some websites–large and small–that manage to provide a near-perfect experience, and they are what keep me from resorting to the keyboard mashing mentioned above.

I won’t waste space going into detail about which web features are useful and which are not; you’ll find many resources online that will give you far more information than I ever could. What I will do, though, is explain why accessibility is so important, and what inaccessibility can do to even the most casual of internet users.

I’ve seen the way sighted people react when they’re having difficulty with a website. They become very angry very quickly the moment something doesn’t operate exactly the way they expected it to. Sometimes such anger is justified, and sometimes it isn’t, but the point is that the frustration sighted people occasionally experience is something screen reader users deal with on a near-daily basis. We’re not talking about blind gamers who have difficulty performing complex maneuvers, or blind web developers struggling with code. We’re talking about the average, everyday user, who only wants to check her email and scroll idly through Facebook.

Take a very simple example: a friend of mine was recently struggling to get Facebook to sort her news feed by most recent post rather than by “top posts”. This should be a very easy task. All you have to do is check the little “sort” box so that the sort method is changed. It should be the work of five or so seconds. Unfortunately, she was having no such luck. On the  regular version of Facebook (the one that loads when you log in with your computer), the sort box isn’t even present. On the mobile version, it is present, but you can only access it with an iPhone, as far as I know. So, my friend would have had to switch to her iPhone specifically to log in via Safari, find the “sort” button, and tick the appropriate box. (Just to add insult to injury, Facebook automatically changes the sort style back after a few days, so this process must be repeated indefinitely. Facebook doesn’t like it when we think for ourselves.)

Sometimes, the consequences can be very serious. You might be thinking that being unable to sort your Facebook newsfeed to your liking isn’t much to get upset about, and for most people it isn’t. But what if inaccessibility begins to interfere with your performance at work or school? What if you can’t get a certain job purely because their databases don’t accommodate your screen reader? What if you can’t format a paper properly because of constraints beyond your control?

Here is the biggest accessibility stumbling block I’ve ever encountered: my university, like so many others, uses a platform called Blackboard to manage just about every aspect of university life. Assignments are posted there and must be submitted there. Notes are placed there for review and download. Readings are announced (yes, announced!) there and must be accessed before the next class. Some instructors even post links and other information there, so that if you can’t fully access Blackboard, you will find yourself very behind in a tearing hurry. Can you guess where this might be going? … Yes, exactly: Blackboard was not fully accessible with my screen reader when I started at university two and a half years ago. I could access some readings, but not others. I could click on some links, but not others. I could read some instructor announcements, but not others. As for downloading the files they uploaded? Forget it. I had other screen reader users try it, and none of them had any more success than I had. Until i managed to get instructors to understand that they’d have to eliminate Blackboard altogether when interacting with me individually, I was constantly struggling to find the material I needed, access it, and then post material of my own back to the site. I even know some professors who are so enamoured with Blackboard that they refuse to use any other medium (even email) regardless of the student’s issues with it.

So, sometimes we deal with a little more than a stubborn Facebook news feed. Sometimes we can’t even get hired because we won’t be able to use a company’s software properly. Sometimes we struggle with important tasks like online banking, student loan and scholarship applications, schoolwork, basic shopping, etc. Everything is online now, and alternatives to internet-based services are becoming more and more scarce. To say that it’s “just the internet” isn’t really a comfort anymore. Gone are the days when the biggest problem we had to face was an inability to access a message board about our favourite annagram games.

Experienced screen reader users (and anyone else who struggles with other accessibility issues) become very adept at working around most accessibility road blocks. Within seconds, I can post a question to my Twitter feed and receive answers (assuming my Twitter feed is accessible, of course!). We help each other out. We post detailed articles about how to circumvent some of the nastiest issues common to many of us. Getting by on the web, just as we do in real life, is something we’ve long realized will be the norm for the foreseeable future. However, whenever web developers help us out by making their websites easier to navigate, it offers us some much-needed breathing space. It’s lovely to visit a site and have it just…work. So, if you ever manage or develop a website of any sort, please consider being as inclusive as possible. Learn about all disabilities that hinder internet use–not just blindness–and do your bes to accommodate them wherever you are able. There are a significant number of us out there, and we could really use your help. Most often, the necessary changes are small and won’t interfere with the rest of your website.

Still need convincing? Have a look at a screen reader mailing list sometime, or cruise on over to a forum about accessibility issues. You’ll see staggering amounts of people in genuine need of assistance because they can’t make things work the conventional way. If you had to deal with that level of frustration every day, you might feel more inclined to help out.

Finally, I want to conclude by thanking all the web developers out there, sighted or blind, who continually work to make the web as accessible as possible. You guys are amazing and I am thankful for you every time things work as they should. You save me more time than you know (not to mention my limited sanity).

I’m a Real Girl!

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A few months ago I was enjoying lunch at a pub with some friends. We were chatting idly about Lush Cosmetics, a particular weakness of mine, when the server approached to bring us drinks. Interrupting, she said, “Oh! I’ve heard of Lush, but don’t really know anything about it; I’m not a real girl.”. And this got me thinking…

 

What does it mean to be a “real” girl? Or, more appropriately, what does it mean to be a real woman? Some claim it’s motherhood—that the ultimate purpose and design of woman is to bear children. Our society has moved a little beyond such a primitive and restrictive view, but what hasn’t It moved beyond? Some say it’s about being “girly”. But what does that mean, exactly, and at what point aren’t you girly enough to be “real”?

 

When I was growing up, my lack of “girliness” was keenly felt. Not only was I a practical person who didn’t like to spend my precious free time jabbering constantly about makeup and boys, but I was also unable to fully appreciate many of the pursuits my girlfriends enjoyed. Sure, I could let someone give me a makeover, but I couldn’t look into the mirror and appreciate the full effect. I was not comfortable doing anyone else’s makeup either (though there are many blind women out there who do makeup, hair, and nails with confidence—I applaud their courage!). So, the common sleepover parties didn’t really appeal to me; they were filled with trying on each other’s clothes, giggling a lot, an drooling over “cute” boys I’d never even spoken to before.

 

There are many small things I have not and will never do for myself that would make me a more “real” girl. I didn’t get to pick my own grad dress; my sister and mom, both being possessed of excellent taste, did most of the “choosing”. All I could tell them was what I liked, and having been exposed to very few dresses of that grandeur, I really had no opinion. I soon realized It wasn’t about comfort or the feel of the fabric or any other element I could actually understand. It was all about the look. Similarly, I will not be able to independently choose my own wedding dress. While I’ll definitely have a say in the matter, I won’t be able to comprehend on a gut level how it flatters my body, or skin, or eye colour, or any of the rest of it. Even when I do occasionally let people do my makeup for me (it’s not something I bother with on a regular basis), I can’t say it’s a huge source of excitement. I appreciate the glow of being told I look beautiful, but that’s about as far as it goes in a lot of cases.

 

For a long time, I felt horribly ostracized. I worried that I wasn’t “real girl” material. I fretted that not being enthusiastic about fashion and general cosmetics made me inferior, somehow, even a step lower than someone who can see but who chooses not to get excited about such things. But that server in that pub got me thinking, and she made me realize something: I am as real as it gets. I love perfume, and fragrant tea, and artisan soap, and candles, and pretty dresses. I love picking out skirts and fancy high heeled shoes it’ll take me ages to learn to walk in at any speed. I like Lush Cosmetics, and The Body Shop, and Rocky Mountain Soap Company, and even Scentsy. So, I must be a real girl, right?

 

Hang on, though: if these are the measuring sticks by which we measure a “normal”, “real”, or even “successful” girl/woman, is that not just as primitive as the idea that it is motherhood which defines us? Some girls like things that smell and look pretty, but others don’t. Some girls plan to have children, but some can’t or won’t. Is there some arbitrary threshold past which you are an acceptably real girl and before which you’re straddling the line, not quite belonging? We should be past all that. We should be relating to each other as human beings who like the same things, not as “girls” and “guys”. If my male friend likes candles, then we’ll go candle shopping. It doesn’t mean he’s not a “real” boy.

 

It’s okay to generalize, but when you start pushing people out—especially for reasons they can’t control, like personal preference or in my case, visual impairment—that’s your cue to draw the line. We put people in neat little boxes enough as it is. Let’s all just focus on being real human beings, shall we?