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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link="#467886" vlink="#96607D" style='word-wrap:break-word'><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>[PHOTO CAPTION: Brett Boyer]<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Screen Readers and Street Smarts: How Travel Taught Me Tech<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><b>by Brett Boyer<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><b>From the Editor: Brett Boyer has been a Federationist since childhood and a technology instructor at the Colorado Center for the Blind for seven years. The following article is adapted from remarks he presented at a breakout session of the Contemporary Issues in Rehabilitation and Education of the Blind Conference held by the National Blindness Professional Certification Board as part of the National Convention, and also at the meeting of the Technology Trainers Division, which he serves as the new president, that took place later in the week. He emphasizes that Structured Discovery is more than a way of teaching cane travel and explains how it can be applied to teaching the use of a screen reader. Here is what he had to say:<o:p></o:p></b></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Before we jump in, let me tell you a little about who I am—because this isn’t just something I teach. It’s something I live.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I was born blind and grew up in a mainstream school in New Jersey. My first O&M instructor was Joe Cutter—before he became a Structured Discovery advocate. So in 1985, what I got was route-based travel: memorized steps, buzzwords like “square off” and “outdoor technique,” fixed directions, and not much room for creative problem-solving. I was a pretty precocious kid, which thankfully meant I must’ve been an explorer at heart. I was definitely the kind of kid who’d run full speed into the unknown without a cane, without permission, and definitely without a backup plan. I wasn’t asking, “Will I be okay?” I was asking, “What’s the worst that could happen?” Spoiler: sometimes, it was a chain-link fence. I used to rollerblade around my quiet little street, totally blind, just vibes—and regularly upsetting the neighbors. So yeah, I guess I was wired for Structured Discovery before I had a name for it. Because when I came to the Colorado Center for the Blind for the first time as a summer student, something clicked. Structured Discovery just made sense. I didn’t need anyone to define it—I just knew it matched how I wanted to move through the world.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>When I came back later as an adult student, my travel instructor was Eric Woods—a tough, no-nonsense Structured Discovery guy from the street. He didn’t sugarcoat anything, but he trusted me to figure things out. And that trust? It changed everything.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Now I get to work at an NFB center where Structured Discovery is everywhere you look. It’s how we teach, how we learn, how we live. And I know that’s a privilege—not every trainer is in that kind of environment. A lot of folks are still fighting for Structured Discovery to be taken seriously in all aspects of blindness training, but especially when it comes to technology instruction. I know teaching tech is not the most popular subject. I don’t know how many of you here are tech trainers or thinking about becoming one. But even if you’re not, I hope this talk sparks something. Because once you start seeing the connections between cane travel and tech, you can’t unsee them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Let me paint a picture. A student nails every step of a JAWS lesson—opens the file perfectly, finds the edit box, uses Tab like a pro. Everything's smooth. But then File Explorer crashes. Or the webpage doesn’t load right. And suddenly, they freeze. That’s not a tech problem. That’s a teaching problem. We trained them to follow a route instead of learning to read the map.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>But if you’ve ever taught cane travel using Structured Discovery, then you already know the answer. We don’t need students who can just get through the lesson. We need students who can recover, who can explore, who can say: “I don’t know what this is... but I can figure it out.” It’s time we stop treating technology like a list of commands and start teaching it like we teach travel.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Structured Discovery changed how we teach cane travel. We stopped handing out memorized routes and started asking: “How would you find it? What do you notice?” We taught concepts: how to judge traffic, how to listen critically, and how to troubleshoot when the environment throws you something weird. But when it comes to tech, too many trainers are still stuck in route mode: Press Insert+F7. Press Alt. Press Right Arrow three times, then press Down Arrow. Then press Control+Right Arrow. Tab four times. Check the checkbox. Say a prayer. Hope nothing changes. That’s not independence. That’s just screen-reader Simon Says—with bonus anxiety.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Day one of tech class, I teach something simple: Insert+T—title of the window. If you don’t know where you are, how can you know what to do? Just like in cane travel, orientation comes before problem-solving.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>In screen-reader terms, orientation means listening for landmarks: “cccEdit box,” “button,” “menu,” “combo box,” “list view.” These are the street corners of tech. When a student hears “edit box,” they should already be thinking: “Is this a place I can type? Is it multi-line? What happens if I arrow down?” You don’t need a script. You need a question and the guts to follow it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Here’s what I don’t care about: whether they remember Control+W. Here’s what I do care about: If they accidentally close a tab, do they know what just happened? Can they back out? Reopen it? Move forward?<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>One example I use in class: Windows File Explorer just closes randomly. No warning. Just poof. Most people panic. But my students? They stop. They check the open windows to see if the screen reader just lost focus. File Explorer’s gone? Okay. Think. Hit Windows+E. Get back in. No drama. Why? Because we practiced how to respond to the unknown. That’s the skill that matters. That’s what gets them through a college exam, a broken app update, or an inaccessible job portal. Just like when there’s a sign on the sidewalk or a truck parked halfway across the curb. Do we tell our students to go home and try again tomorrow? Seriously—do we?<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I’ve seen tech training turn blind students into obedient robots. Press this. Then this. Then this. Don’t explore. Don’t experiment. Just memorize. That’s not teaching. That’s programming.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I’ve also seen trainers back off when things get hard. “This is too advanced,” they say. “Let’s keep it simple.” Let me be blunt: That’s not kindness. That’s sabotage. Independence is not born from safety. I want to say that one more time: Independence is not born from safety. It’s born from struggle; from exploration; from trying, failing, and trying again. If I’m walking through a foyer and I find a long table in my way, do I stop and wait for someone to tell me it’s okay? Do I stand there and hope the table magically moves out of the way? I don’t know about you, but I go around the sucker. I mean, I could try to go over it or under it, but that might get real interesting real fast.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Structured Discovery isn’t about making life harder—though I’ve had plenty of students who might argue otherwise. It’s about building confidence, that inner voice that says: “I don’t know this, but I can figure it out.” That’s what cane travel teaches. That’s what tech should teach too. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>When a student says, “Can I try something?” instead of “What do I do?”—That’s when I know I’ve done my job. When they start talking to the screen reader like it’s a teammate—saying things like “Okay, let’s figure this out”—that’s when I know they’re not just using tech. They’re owning it. That’s when I see real growth.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>If you’re teaching technology—whether full-time or just as part of your rehab work—you’re not just handing out commands. You’re teaching mindset. You’re not teaching “press Alt.” You’re teaching: “Listen for a menu.” You’re not teaching “Tab three times.” You’re teaching: “Look for your landmark.” You’re not just building skills. You’re building courage.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>So here’s my challenge to you: Stop asking, “Did they memorize the shortcut?” Start asking, “What will they do when nothing looks familiar?” Because that’s where independence starts. That’s when we stop training followers … and start building explorers. Thank you.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Gary Wunder<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>gwunder@earthlink.net<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>