[nabs-l] NFB Training Center Story from the Colorado Center for the Blind

[Elizabeth Mohnke]

Hello All,

As indicated in my previous message, below you will find a story published
in the April 2002 Braille Monitor about attending the Colorado Center for
the Blind. This was one of my favorite stories when I was searching for
stories about personal experiences from people attending an NFB training
center. Although, as I read through it again, it still seems to speak to me.
I hope you enjoy reading it.

Warm regards,
Elizabeth

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The Braille Monitor
April, 2002 

Half-Baked
by Karen Alexander

>From the Editor: Those who have graduated from NFB adult training centers
tell lots of funny stories and laugh about their student days. But their
small struggles and victories often get lost in all the talk about the
important skills landmarks they have passed and the profound philosophical
discoveries they have made for themselves. Karen Alexander is currently a
student at the Colorado Center for the Blind. She does not yet have the
perspective on her experience there that she will acquire when she can look
back at the entire experience, but she certainly does have a bird's eye view
of and appreciation for the day-to-day challenges facing students in these
demanding programs. In the following article she captures the frustrations
and exultation of her days at the Colorado Center and the anxiety of her
struggle to remain there long enough to acquire all the training she needs.
The article is reprinted from the Spring 2002 issue of the Buckeye Bulletin,
the publication of the NFB of Ohio. Here it is:

"Karen, your assignment today is to cross Alamo Street and go to the corner
of Main and Prince. Get a receipt from the shop there and bring it back to
me," said Sumara. I gulped and grinned half-heartedly. Sumara, my
orientation and mobility instructor at the Colorado Center for the Blind
(CCB), an NFB adult rehabilitation training center, was more confident in my
travel skills than I. Sensing my nervousness, she firmly encouraged me by
saying, "Ah, you can do it!" and dismissed me.

Stunned that my first solo crossing a major street while wearing sleep
shades was finally confronting me, I grabbed my cane and stumbled out of her
office. I proceeded to the front desk and signed myself out by typing on the
Brailler. Gulping my last taste of security, I found the front doors and
clacked my way out. It was a nice day for December--a little windy, but the
sun kept trying to appear through the clouds. Sunlight can be an important
part of orienting oneself while traveling. As I walked along the side
street, the sporadic sun rays gave me unenthusiastic warmth and comfort.
Telling myself that this wasn't mission Impossible  didn't make a difference
to my nervousness because I knew I was on travel assignment.

But I knew that being at CCB was therapeutic for me. The program and the
staff were helping me to trust myself again. I knew my self-confidence was
beginning to return. But even though I had been there for several months,
traveling under sleep shades was difficult. There were other students like
me who were legally blind. They seemed to take to traveling under sleep
shades like ducks to water. It seemed to me I was able to quack like a duck
and waddle like a duck, but I dreaded putting my webbed foot in the water,
not like a duck. Learning to travel was not easy. It seemed the other
student ducklings could waddle to their pools of water and enthusiastically
jump in. I on the other hand waddled around the banks of the pond, dreading
to get splashed.

But it is the other ducks that make the difference. The students at CCB
encourage each other. Not a day goes by that one does not hear the words,
"You can do it!" or "Look what you've learned!" When students go from Grade
I Braille to Grade II, the staff announce it over the school's P.A. system,
and cheers are heard all over the school. Hearing those cheers is part of
what changes people and reinforces their confidence. The philosophy classes
are run by the staff to challenge the way we view and approach life as blind
people. The wisdom taken from articles in the Braille Monitor, from Kernel
Book Stories, and from the life experiences of the staff is important to
hear. Perspective and wisdom come from those who walk the walk and not just
talk the talk.

Unfortunately too many wounded blind people can spout NFB philosophy but do
not apply it in their lives. They remain unchanged and lost in comfortable
prisons that protect their egos and pride. Not that they are arrogant, they
are just fearful of taking that step of faith to make life-changing
decisions. I truly think that deep in their hearts they do not believe the
philosophy will work for them. When meeting these wounded people, I say to
myself, "Don't tell the world what NFB philosophy is; show the world by
using the philosophy in your life."

It is encouraging to participate in a school run by the blind for the blind.
Students see others like themselves successfully living their lives. Those
who only talk the talk are missing an amazing opportunity to change and
better their lives. Because of CCB staff and students I can say with
confidence, "Quack, quack, I will learn to swim like a duck."

Well, that day I fondly remember as facing my Alamo was exactly as
successful as the original Alamo. Instead of crossing at the corner of Alamo
and Prince, I turned the corner and found another corner. Of course that is
the one I crossed. I had traveled a way down the street when I came to the
conclusion that I had blown it. I turned around and retraced my steps. I was
frustrated and scared.

Cars and trucks were zipping by me, and, as I walked over a bridge, a train
passed underneath it. When I am wearing sleep shades, something about the
sound of trains and trucks drives me crazy. I decided to sit on the ledge
there at the bridge and have a good cry. A man came and asked if he could
help me, but I waved him off. I just wanted to calm down. I knew I wasn't in
danger. I knew I could retrace my steps. I just hated the feeling of being
vulnerable and so awkward in traveling under sleep shades.

I said a little prayer, but my shaken and wounded ego was still reluctant to
return. The train had sped by, and there was a lull in the traffic. Coming
out of my self-absorption, I heard a beautiful sound: a cane tapping the
cement of the sidewalk. I called out, and to my delight it was one of the
students from CCB. She gave me a hug and let me cry for a while. I decided
to allow myself to be rescued and followed her on her route. When we were
close to the school, I heard Sumara calling my name. She was looking for her
little wandering duckling. I joked about the incident and said that I had
faced my Alamo and lost. Sumara said, "Ah, Karen, you're more than able to
cross that street," and walked with me back to the building.

Well you know, she was right. At my next attempt I crossed the street and
found the bath and candle shop even though I (heavy sigh) got lost in the
parking lot of a bank. A woman kept trying to help me, but I was doggedly
determined to find that sidewalk. I straightened myself up and said with
pride, "I am a student at the Colorado Center for the Blind and am on a
travel assignment. I am all right." After watching me for five minutes, she
shouted out in exasperation that the sidewalk was in front of me. Trying to
appear dignified, I gladly accepted the information and found the sidewalk.
Sometimes it is good to accept help even if it is not looked for. This was
definitely a grace-growing experience.

At the shop I purchased some inexpensive scented soaps for Sumara. It was
Christmas time and the day before I was to leave for home on school break. I
was going to place the gift on her desk to prove triumphantly I had done the
assignment. But I met Sumara on my way back and decided to give her the gift
right then. When I gave her a description of the parking lot incident, she
put it into perspective. She reminded me that it takes time and practice to
learn skills. I was too hard on myself and needed to relax. Thinking over
what she had said, I waddled after her and wondered how one relaxes when
facing the crossing of a busy street under sleep shades.

When the school day was over, I walked to the light rail train and got on. I
spotted an empty seat and sat down with a satisfied grunt. My sleep shades
were resolutely stored in my backpack, and my long white cane was faithfully
beside me. I was thinking of what I needed to get done before going to the
airport the next day. My regular stop was Broadway Station, where I would
get on the bus to Cherry Creek Tennis and Sailing Club apartments. CCB
leases apartments there for students to live in. The complex is huge with
gigantic buildings encircling a small lake. In the middle is a fountain that
shoots water four stories high. When I first saw them, they reminded me of
huge dinosaurs encircling a geyser. I now lovingly call the complex Jurassic
Apartments.

While riding the light rail, I relaxed. I thought of the day I had had. Even
though my success crossing Alamo had not gone the way I wanted, I had done
it. For a first-time solo crossing, it hadn't been that bad an experience. I
had crossed a major street while under sleep shades and using a cane,
something I never dreamt I could do. What an accomplishment! I began to
dream of the things I could accomplish and places I could go.

I remembered my feeling of losing independence as I began to lose my
sight--the pity in the voices of the doctors, family, and friends. I knew
they cared for me, but I could not imagine life without sight. Most of them
probably couldn't either. Eventually my eyesight diminished, and I chose to
give up driving. By making that choice, I felt I had given up my freedom.
Crossing major streets and going places became frustrating and fear-filled.
In the sunlight I couldn't see the streetlights. I was afraid to cross
streets that I had known since childhood. I felt like an invalid, worthless
to others and myself. Freedom became a memory.

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the announcement that the train
was approaching Evans Station. The next stop would be Broadway Station, my
stop. I checked to make sure my backpack and cane were ready to grab
quickly. I began to make a mental checklist of what I needed in order to
finish my Christmas shopping. I wanted to go to Sam's Club when I got back
to Ohio to pick up some gifts. I began to plan how to arrange a ride to the
store when it suddenly dawned on me that I could go to Sam's Club in Denver.
The light-rail train stop after Broadway Station was Alameda Station. I had
been told that the commercial complex where Sam's Club was located was near
the station.

In fact, the train stopped right behind K-Mart, which was one of the stores
in the complex. It was then I decided to go to Sam's Club. I became excited
by the thought of trying to do something on my own. I had been to Sam's Club
but had not gone by this route. This was an exciting decision. It was like
the days when I used to drive a car. I would hear about a store or some
place I was interested in visiting. I would get general directions and go by
myself to find the spot. I didn't labor over each detail. I knew the major
streets in the area and would find the location.

My heart began to beat faster as the light rail approached, stopped, and
then left Broadway Station. I had made up my mind. I was going to do it. The
train approached and then stopped at Alameda. I got off and looked around,
and my heart sank. It seemed I was not exactly behind K-Mart. I was at a
station stop, and across the street was a parking lot. But I trusted the
information I had and crossed over to the parking lot. To my joy and the
health of my heart, on the other side of the parking lot across the street
was a building that I knew must be the back of K-Mart. When I got to the
street, I heard the sound of traffic to my left. I knew I had found Alameda.

I traveled down to the major intersection. My long white cane was faithfully
finding the bumps and curbs. I wasn't afraid. I knew how to cross the
street. The training I had received under sleep shades now paid off and gave
me confidence to cross a street that I would never have considered crossing
before my training. When the parallel traffic took off, I crossed the
street. I then hunted for the driveway that would lead me into the complex
and eventually to Sam's Club. It was a thrilling moment. I could take care
of myself. I could do what I wanted to do on my own. The wind was blowing
through my hair, and I felt as if it was a Yorkshire Chocolate Mint moment.
I was independent!

I walked through that complex and found Sam's Club, and I was able to
purchase some gifts. But I will never forget the thrill of that moment of
independence. The crossing of Alamo under sleep shades will never compare to
that experience. But the crossing of Alamo gave me the confidence and skills
to go by myself to Sam's Club that day.

I am now halfway through my program, and it's been a fight to get the
funding needed for my independence training. It seems that those who work at
the Ohio Bureau of Services for the Visually Impaired (BSVI) do not
understand why I need training. They believed that, since I have some sight,
I wouldn't need an intensive training program. I was told that I was
intelligent, that I could figure out and learn on my own the skills I needed
to return to school and then the work force.

When I arrived at CCB, BSVI had committed to paying for two months of
training. I had tried to communicate with my counselor my need to complete
the full program. I needed to become literate again by learning Braille. I
needed to learn alternative techniques and organization and personal skills
to deal with the loss of my sight. But most of all I needed to grow in
confidence. She didn't respond positively to my point of view.

I am fortunate to have NFB advocates in Ohio who really care about people.
Barbara Pierce and Eric Duffy are treasures that we dearly appreciate and
love. They work hard. From helping blind parents keep their babies to
wrestling with city metro bus drivers who refuse to announce stops, they
have made a difference in many people's lives.

I had a staffing at the end of November with my instructors and BSVI
counselor. The staffing conference was done using a speakerphone in order
for my counselor to participate. It was useful and gratifying for me to hear
the comments of the CCB staff regarding my progress. The last two months had
been profoundly challenging, and I was deeply thankful for the opportunity
to be at the CCB and participate in the adult rehabilitation program. I
hoped we were able to communicate to my counselor some part of the progress
I had been making, but she did not think I needed the full training program
and said she could not justify paying the additional money needed to
complete the program.

>From the beginning Barbara and Eric had supported and encouraged my choice
for independence training. When the two months were almost completed at CCB,
they helped convey my desire and need for additional training at CCB to BSVI
supervisors. Because of them I gained three more months of training.

The frustration I now face is that the more progress I make, the more
clearly I realize the true distance I still need to go. First of all, if I
am going to make a success of college courses, I must be fluent in reading
and writing Braille. I must be literate in order to complete my
undergraduate degree and successfully re-enter the working world. Frankly,
though I am making progress, I am not there yet. I believe blind students
should be able to take their own notes, not depend on sighted note-takers. I
must also have reasonable command of JAWS and the computer programs I will
need to do my work. I am not yet quick or confident in any of these areas.

In addition, if I am to travel efficiently to and from campus, around the
university, and in my personal circles, I want to master cane travel
thoroughly. I now have almost within my grasp the ability to use a cane with
a facility that is virtually unknown outside of the community of people
trained at NFB centers. I am still some distance from achieving this degree
of independence, but it is coming.

I am beginning to understand that the confidence in all areas of my life
that I am gaining here at the Center will sustain me wherever I go in
future. One of the most important things this program does is to allow me to
look my fear of blindness in the face and realize that it does not have to
mean the end of my useful life. With the skills I am beginning to master, I
can become a productive citizen and create a fruitful life for myself.

I fear it is unlikely that I will ever have another opportunity to be part
of a program like this one. Therefore I believe strongly that I need to
complete the six-to-nine-month program now, before I have to face the
academic demands of college and the challenge of traveling independently
around Ohio and wherever else my career leads me.

I am thankful that BSVI has believed in me thus far, but I hope they can
understand why I feel compelled to point out my pressing need for full
support. The sad truth is that I am now nearing the condition of being
half-baked, and like a cake beginning to rise in the oven, I fear that I
will fall flat if I am forced to move on to the next stage of my life
without full mastery of and confidence in the skills I have begun to learn.
I am working as hard as I know how to, but acquiring life-changing skills
and attitudes does take time.

I hope my training will allow family, friends, and those who work in the
Bureau of Services for the Visually Impaired to see what can happen to those
who complete NFB training programs so that other blind people can have the
same opportunity that I have had. I give many thanks to my family, friends,
and church who have supported me with their prayers, encouragement, and
finances. I thank the BSVI for their financial support. I thank the National
Federation of the Blind for its belief in me, and I thank the students and
staff at the CCB, who are making a difference in their own lives as well as
mine.