[NFBOH-Cleveland] THE BARRIER OF THE VISIBLE DIFFERENCE

[Suzanne Turner]

THE BARRIER OF THE VISIBLE DIFFERENCE


 

Catchy titles and clever phrases are the stuff of big business. As every
advertising agency knows, fortunes are made or lost by the way the public
reacts to a jingle or a slogan. 

Once I heard a liquor distributor say that his company had a thoroughly
mediocre wine that was going nowhere, and then somebody got the bright idea
of giving it a sparkly name (I think it was Wild Irish Rose). After that, he
said they couldn't make enough to meet the demand, operating three shifts a
day.

Whether that story is true or false, the underlying message is right on
target. It is not just what a thing is but how it sounds and feels that sets
the tone and gives the value. 

When most of us come across the term "visible difference," we think of the
trademark of the beauty expert and cosmetics manufacturer Elizabeth Arden.
"Visible Difference" is the brand name of moisturizers, lotions, and other
products. But for the blind the term means something else. It represents a
barrier and a hurdle to be surmounted. Let me illustrate.

When I was a boy of about four, my mother and I were sitting in the front
bedroom of our home. Even though more than sixty-five years have passed, I
still remember every detail. It was a summer evening just after dark. My
father and brother were sitting on the porch, and the night sounds (the
frogs and crickets) were coming into full chorus. It was oppressively hot
with a lot of dust in the air.

In those days we didn't have electricity, so my mother had just lit the oil
lamp. The smell of the burning kerosene began to blend with the regular
odors of food and plant life that permeated the four-room house. Of course,
all of the doors and windows were open.

When my mother finished lighting the lamp and adjusting the wick, she sat
down and put her arm around me. Then she kissed me on the left side of my
face. Since she was sitting on my left, this was a natural (almost an
automatic) gesture. Then she said: 

"Do you like for mother to kiss you?" Now, this put me into a real
dilemma-for I very much liked for mother to kiss me, but I felt shy and
embarrassed to say it. 

Hunting a way out, I thought perhaps I could say yes by shaking my head.
>From conversations I had heard, I knew that other people shook their heads
to mean yes or no, but I didn't know which way the head should move to
indicate which meaning. It had never before occurred to me to wonder about
the matter since I had never needed to know. My mother or anybody else
around the house would undoubtedly have been perfectly willing to tell me if
I had asked, but that didn't help in the situation I was then facing. 

Using the best logic I could muster, I thought that since my mother was
sitting on my left, maybe if I moved my head that way, it would indicate
yes. Unfortunately it didn't, and my mother (not understanding my
embarrassment and lack of knowledge) thought I was saying no. She was hurt
and cried, and I didn't know how to explain. 

So what is the moral of that little story, that minor tragedy of childhood?
It is not that blind people are less competent than others of their age and
circumstance. It is not that blind persons are slow learners or inept. It is
that sometimes something that can be seen at a glance must be learned a
different way by a blind person. The learning can be just as quick and just
as effective, but it won't happen unless somebody thinks to explain, to help
the blind child cross the barrier of the visible difference. There is no
great problem in knowing how to shake one's head or in doing a hundred other
things that sighted children learn without ever knowing that they have done
it. It is only that the blind child must either be unusually persistent and
inquisitive or have somebody constantly at hand who thinks to give
information. Otherwise, insignificant details will multiply to major
deficits.

And this is not just a matter of childhood. After seventy years I keep
learning new things about the barrier of the visible difference. Recently
when I told a blind friend of mine who is a lawyer about my head-shaking
episode, he asked if I knew how you are supposed to hold your hand in a
court when you are told to raise your right hand. I said that I had never
thought about it but had always assumed that you simply raise your hand
above your head, which is what would seem logical in the circumstances.

"No," he told me, "that isn't the way it is done. You raise your hand to
shoulder level with the palm out." He went on to tell me that when he was
being sworn in to be admitted to the Bar, he had raised his hand above his
head and that later, one of his classmates had told him how the customary
ritual is performed. 

It is important to understand the significance of this incident. There is
nothing better about raising the hand to the shoulder than over the head. It
doesn't make one a better lawyer or a better witness in court. My friend is
an excellent attorney, and I have testified in court on more than one
occasion. We are simply dealing with a custom of society, a visible
difference. 

More than anything else (at least, unless one is aware of it and thinks
about it) meaningless visible differences can lead to confusion and
misunderstanding, and sometimes even to misplaced feelings of superiority or
inadequacy. A thing that looks beautiful to the eye, for instance, can feel
ugly and dirty to the touch. Again, let me illustrate. Once when I was four
or five, my mother and father took me to the county fair. This was a big
event. 

We lived about fourteen miles from the county seat, and we didn't have a
car. Very few people did in those days, so friends and neighbors pooled
their transportation and helped each other with rides. 

On this particular occasion my mother and I were standing at one of the
booths at the fair. In retrospect it must have been one of those places that
give prizes for throwing darts, tossing rings, or something of the sort.
Regardless of that, the woman in charge gave me a small statue of a horse.
As I think back on it, she may have done it because I was blind, or simply
because she thought I was a cute kid. For purposes of my story, it doesn't
matter.

The horse must have been quite pretty, for both the woman and my mother kept
exclaiming about it. It was apparently covered with some sort of sparkly
gold paint. To the eye I assume that it was extremely attractive, but to me
it just felt dirty and grungy. 

Now, I had never before had a small gold horse or, for that matter, any
other kind of horse, or very many nice toys of any kind-so I was pleased and
ecstatic with my treasure. But I thought I ought to clean it up and try to
make it look nice. 

Therefore, while my mother and the woman were talking, I busily scratched
all of the rough-feeling gold paint off of it. It was quite a job. By the
time I had finished, my horse felt clean and attractive. I was proud of it.
Imagine, then, my disappointment and chagrin when my mother and the woman
noticed what I had done and were absolutely dismayed. I couldn't understand
why they were unhappy, and they couldn't understand why I felt that the
horse was better for my effort. Again, I had bumped head-on into the barrier
of the visible difference.

Unlike the head-shaking incident, this was not exactly a matter of learning
correct information. If a thing looks better to the eye and feels worse to
the touch, that doesn't make it better or worse. It simply means a different
point of view, a visible difference. 

I thoroughly understand that we live in a world that is structured for the
sighted, so if a blind person intends to get along and compete in society,
he or she must learn how the sighted feel and what they think is beautiful
and attractive. But this has nothing to do with innate loveliness or
quality. It is simply a visible difference.

As a matter of fact, although I wouldn't scratch the paint off of it if I
met it today, that horse of my childhood would feel just as dirty to me now
as it did then. A few years ago when I went to Athens, I was invited (no,
urged) to handle a variety of sculptures. They may have looked beautiful,
and I have no doubt that they did; but they didn't feel beautiful-at least,
not to me. They felt dirty, and I wanted a good hand-washing after feeling
them. Hopefully this does not mean that I am either a barbarian or a boor,
only that my way of appreciating beauty may have something to do with the
fact that I touch instead of look.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that it is only the blind who get stuck
on the barrier of the visible difference. The sighted do it, too-repeatedly,
every day. Recently when I was in the hospital, I was being taken to the
x-ray department for tests. On the way I had to stop to go to the bathroom.
As I came out, a hospital official (I think she was a nurse) saw me and
exclaimed, in what I can only describe as panic:

"Catch him! He's going to fall. His eyes are closed."

My wife explained to her that I am blind and that my eyes are usually
closed. It made no difference.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "Hold him. His eyes are closed. He will
fall." This woman is not abnormal or unusually jumpy, nor (at least, as far
as I can tell) is she stupid. She is simply so accustomed to the fact that
sighted people look about them to keep their bearings that she cannot
imagine that sight and balance have nothing to do with each other. If I had
thought it wouldn't have upset her, I would have asked her if she believed
she would be unable to stand up in a totally dark room. 

During that same hospital stay, when I stepped into another bathroom, the
nurse turned the light on for me even though I told her in a light and
pleasant tone that I didn't need it. She said she would turn it on anyway.
It was clear that she felt uncomfortable to have me in the bathroom in the
dark. Obviously this is not a major matter. It simply shows that we feel
uneasy when something violates (even benignly) our routine patterns.

And these are not isolated instances. Every day letters and articles come to
my attention to prove it.

A journalist from Ohio writes to say that the blind need special fishing
facilities-and he will lobby the government to help make it happen. He
doesn't say why we can't fish in the regular way like everybody else, which
many of us do all of the time. 

A locksmith from Wisconsin believes the blind would benefit from specially
shaped door knobs (oval and textured, he thinks), and he is willing to
design them. A pilot from Pennsylvania thinks we should solve any problems
we have with the airlines by setting up an airline of our own, and he will
help fly the planes.

A man from Minnesota believes that blind alcoholics cannot benefit from
regular programs used by the sighted and suggests separate services. Some
years ago the Manchester Union Leader, one of New Hampshire's most prominent
newspapers, said that the governor of the state was so bad that only the
deaf, the dumb, and the blind could believe he was competent.

These few illustrations are not a complete list, of course, but only a
sampling. Moreover, I am not talking about all of the sighted. An increasing
number are coming to understand and work with us. They give us some of our
strongest support.

Nor am I saying that the sighted are hostile toward us. Quite the contrary.
Overwhelmingly the members of the sighted public wish us well and have good
will toward us. It is simply that they are used to doing things with visual
techniques, and when they look at a blind person, they see something to
which they are not accustomed-what I call the barrier of the visible
difference.

Most sighted people take it for granted that doing something with eyesight
is better than doing it some other way. Visual techniques are sometimes
superior to non-visual techniques, and sometimes not. Sometimes the
non-visual way of doing a thing is better. Usually, however, it isn't a
matter of better or worse but just difference.

This brings me to my experience with the National Federation of the Blind. I
first became acquainted with the Federation almost fifty years ago, and it
has done more than anything else in my life to help me gain balance and
perspective-to understand that the barrier of the visible difference need
not be a major obstacle, either for me or my sighted associates. 

With more than fifty thousand active members throughout the nation, the
National Federation of the Blind is leading the way in making it possible
for blind people to have normal, every day lives. We of the Federation seek
out parents and help them understand that their blind children can grow up
to be productive citizens. We work with blind college students, giving
scholarships and providing successful role models. Blind seniors make up an
important part of the organization, helping and encouraging each other and
exchanging ideas and information. We develop new technology for the blind
and assist blind persons in finding jobs. 

All of this is what we of the National Federation of the Blind do to help
ourselves and each other, but the chief value of the organization is the way
it helps us look at our blindness and the way it helps sighted people
understand and accept. We who are blind know that with reasonable
opportunity and training we can earn our own way in the world, compete on
terms of equality with others, and lead ordinary, worthwhile lives. We do
not feel that we are victims, or that society owes us a living or is
responsible for our problems. We believe that we ought to do for ourselves
and that we also should help others. These attitudes are the heart and soul
of the National Federation of the Blind. They constitute its core beliefs
and reason for being. 

We go to meet the future with joy and hope, but we recognize that we need
help from our sighted friends. If we do our part, we are confident that the
needed help will be forthcoming. We also know that both we and the sighted
can surmount the barrier of the visible difference and reduce it to the
level of a mere inconvenience.

 

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