[stylist] CNF challenge: Tunnel Vision

Thu Jan 31 19:36:35 UTC 2013

Shawn,
Thanks for the compliment. I wonder how many districts at this point have
yet to have a mainstreamed, legally blind student? I never thought of it
then, but we were pioneers -- maybe more like the aliens that had landed.
*grin*
Donna 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jacobson,
Shawn D
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2013 11:30 AM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] CNF challenge: Tunnel Vision

Donna

I thought that was a truly good piece, and I didn't think the ending was
that bad.

I was also the first blind person to attend my high school (in my senior
year) so I have a feeling about how that goes.

Shawn

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Donna Hill
Sent: Tuesday, January 29, 2013 5:02 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] CNF challenge: Tunnel Vision

Well, here it is, warts and all. As usual, it could probably use some
tightening up, and I'm not quite satisfied with the ending. Looking forward
to your thoughts, insights  and suggestions.
Donna

Tunnel Vision
by Donna W. Hill

In the '50s, the world, not unlike today, used eyesight as a litmus test for
acceptability. No matter how "bad" your vision was, you were encouraged to
avoid using any adaptations that would "make you look blind." Never mind
that I was born legally blind; the fact, as everyone -- except my classmates
-- seemed to believe, was that I could "see." After all, I wore glasses,
didn't I? And, my parents enrolled me in public school, a first for our
district.

Tunnel vision is one of the hallmarks of Retinitis Pigmentosa, and having
been born with the condition well underway, my visual field was severely
limited by the time I started walking. No one seemed to understand what this
meant in practical terms. Told only that I had "bad eyes," I was encouraged
to get out there and "pay attention to where you're going." 

I got yelled at frequently for my absent-mindedness. This is truly part of
my character, so I can't call the admonishments entirely unfounded. Most of
the time, however, I really thought that I was paying attention; at least, I
was expending vast amounts of concentration on the matter. 

Once when I was about five and walking along the quiet streets of our
suburban neighborhood, I saw a little red tricycle about twenty feet ahead.
I couldn't believe my luck. I had seen it this time, ensuring that I
wouldn't fall over it, as I was accustomed to doing. Imagine my horror a few
seconds later when I landed on my face. 

I had seen it, and then I had stopped seeing it. Until reality intervened, I
believed that, having located the tricycle, I had moved sufficiently to
avoid it. It would be years till I understood that the tricycle, like so
many other things, had simply slipped below my line of sight. 

In first grade, I had received an A on a test, and was called up front to
collect my paper. I was "looking" where I was going, but, due in part to the
lack of color contrast,  I didn't know anything about the wooden chair in
the aisle until I was in the process of flying over it head-first. I bashed
my forehead on the toppled chair. A collective gasp went up from the class. 

The teacher sent me to the nurse's office bleeding. I should have had
stitches, but I seemed so composed. In fact, I was so angry and so
humiliated that I wasn't going to acknowledge it with tears or complaints.
My teacher wrote a note to my parents telling them how incredibly brave I
was to fall like that and not even cry. The note was with my mother's
belongings when she passed away.

I found ways of adapting to these all too frequent incidents and prided
myself on my strong constitution. After all, I never broke a bone; to this
day, however, I don't know why. 

When I was fourteen, our family attended an outdoor fair at a newly-opened
plaza. In the glaring sunlight of a July afternoon, the cement was
dazzlingly white. I gazed out across the plaza, taking in the blue sky and
the bright pavement. Relief washed over me as I realized how easy it was to
spot human forms. I would be able to prance around this wide-open, flat and
un-crowded plaza with abandon! 

Then, my heart was drilling a hole through my chest. My last step hadn't
landed; it was sinking through thin air. . My other foot, not having
received the message in time, followed. I hadn't noticed the stairs. 

Terrified that I would hit my head and break my neck, I kept my legs going,
hoping my feet would gain purchase on the edge of a step. I reached out to
the sides, praying I was close enough to a rail to grab it. Perhaps, I could
stop myself before it was too late. My toes actually touched several steps,
but my momentum was too great.

At last, my feet hit a solid surface. One after another, my steps indicated
that I had reached the bottom. I was shaking so badly that I couldn't have
stopped even if I had known the truth. 

The solid ground was merely a landing. In an instant, I was on my way down
again. I kept moving my legs; after all, that had prevented me from tumbling
head over heels on the first flight. Fortunately, it worked again, and this
time, I really did arrive at the bottom. There were a few people nearby, but
no one said anything. I was vertical, and my heart, though thumping madly,
was still behind my ribs. I had survived.

I needed to collect myself before returning to my mother. This time, there
was a vast expanse of flat, open cement in front of me. One foot after the
other, I moved forward, admittedly with more caution. The tension gradually
receded from my limbs, and my heart settled into a normal rhythm.

Delaying my return to my mother had another, admittedly more devious
purpose. I was terrified that she had seen me and would give me the business
about not looking where I was going. I wanted her to have an opportunity to
forget the incident. She wasn't one for forgetting, but, just in case she
was so inclined, I was determined to give her every opportunity.

When I finally sought her out, her reaction was something I had never
anticipated, "Donna, why were you running down those steps? You could have
fallen!" I didn't feel inclined to set her straight on the matter.

College is supposed to be a learning experience, though in my case, that
fact was more evident outside of than inside the classroom. My reading
vision, problematic as it was, disappeared during the summer after high
school graduation. Recorded books, which I had never heard of before
college, put me to sleep, and my mind frequently wandered when friends read
to me. Still, no one mentioned Braille. 

I deluded myself with a new theory about succeeding in college. Astute
observer that I was, I noticed that kids were getting good grades in several
ways; go to class and read the assignments, cut class and read the
assignments and go to class but not read the assignments. Are you with me?
There's another possibility here that I made the mistake of embracing -
don't go to class; don't read the assignments. It didn't work, and I was
forced to make some adjustments in my methodology.

Nevertheless, spending time outside on campus and wandering the streets of
the community was a great comfort to me - the occasional garbage can lid and
low branch notwithstanding. The hallowed grounds of my school eventually
brought me to some level of understanding regarding the value of nonvisual
adaptations. 

One day, I heard someone kick a garbage can over. It rolled around on the
sidewalk across the quad. I usually went that way to the dining hall. Not
that day; I didn't want to be blamed. 

I did blame myself, however, for trampling on a newly planted little
evergreen, as I wandered across what I thought was - and, in fact, always
had been -- open grass near my dorm. The fate of that poor little tree
plagued me for years, showing up in poems, nightmares and the nagging
thoughts that threatened to destroy any sense of worth that came my way. 

Daytime wasn't the only teacher. I never had night vision except for light
sources, so navigating at night, a new freedom now that I was away from
home, meant looking at the lights that lined the sidewalks on campus. It was
fairly reliable except for a couple little things. 

First, I tended not to walk straight; well, I wandered all over the
sidewalk, or "staggered" as the campus police put it. On more than one
occasion, they stopped me, thinking I was drunk. I embraced these erroneous
conclusions as badges of honor.

Then, there was the construction project. It was early evening, and I was
headed to the campus theater. I didn't often go that way, and I hadn't
plugged it in that a new building was in the works. I fell into a ten-foot
hole into which discarded boards had been thrown. Broken glasses, one black
eye and a cut knee were the immediate signs of damage. No one was around. I
scrambled out of the hole, sliding down several times as the gravelly sides
gave way. 

No theater that night. I slunk back to my dorm, using the rear door nearest
my room to avoid detection. But, the immediate damage wasn't the only
damage. I was getting older, and ever since that trip down the plaza steps,
my right hip and left shoulder were prone to acting up at the slightest
provocation. Bangs covered the scar on my forehead from the incident in
first grade.

One day, a man from the Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind on Long Island,
which I'd never heard of, came to our campus to see if anyone might benefit
from having a guide dog. He spoke to the Dean of Women, and she gave him my
name. He wanted to speak with me, which I found insulting. Since the Dean of
Women had referred him, however, I thought it best to be polite. 

I sat through his pitch about the value of guide dogs, the no cost program,
the excellent after-care and countless bits of what I was sure was useless
information. When he left, he gave me an application and brochure - neither
of which I could read - not that that should have been any sort of a clue. 

I couldn't wait to tell my friends about the indignity. It was a hard sell.

"Can you imagine? They think I need a guide dog!"

As soon as they heard "guide dog," they yipped and cooed with pleasure. A
bit thrown by my contention that this was an abhorrent idea, they steeled
themselves. They mentioned several things that threatened to take the wind
out of my sails. They seemed to actually believe that I really could use a
little help getting around. One explained - as if it made any difference --
that I wouldn't have to strain so much to see things, and other people would
understand that it wasn't that I was drunk but because I couldn't see. They
just didn't get it. I brushed aside their opinions and persisted with my
tirade.

"But, Donna," said my friend Nancy, with a mischievous twinkle, "It's a dog.
Think about it. You love dogs. If you don't want to use it as a guide dog,
it's still a free dog."

Over the next few weeks, and armed with Nancy's face-saving rationalization,
I met a variety of golden and Labrador retrievers posing as neighborhood
pets. The application somehow made its way to the post office. If my
self-esteem was taking a beating from the decision, events soon transpired
that re enforced the validity of it and made it seem like a noble pursuit. 

My application was approved, and I made plans to go to Smithtown that
summer. This did not sit well with my state rehab counselor. Never mind that
I was 21, was graduating from college and would no longer be a client of the
agency, he didn't believe I needed a guide dog. Actually, that's not a
strong enough representation of his attitude; he believed all steps should
be taken to prevent me from getting one. 

When his initial letters to GDF failed, he called. I was on class by then,
and the director escorted me into his office. As I sat in terror, sure that
I was to be thrown out, he recapped the rehab counselor's position; "she can
see well enough in the daytime, and girls shouldn't be out alone at night to
begin with." 

John Byfield, however, didn't send me home. In fact, I was one of two
students on that class with some usable vision -a training challenge that
hadn't been tried until then. Later that summer, on a night-walk in
Smithtown, Simba, my black Lab, stopped to show me a nasty crack in the
sidewalk. Further along, he stopped again, and after my foot failed to find
anything, I reached out with my right hand to discover a rather substantial
branch at forehead level. I knew from then on that he wasn't going to be
just a pet. The other student with some usable vision taught me the basics
of Braille. That summer, I learned things that would allow me to live alone
and independently for years before getting married. Also, those tunnels
seemed to spread out a bit. 

Read Donna's articles on
Suite 101:

http://suite101.com/donna-w-hill

Connect with Donna on
Twitter:
www.twitter.com/dewhill
LinkedIn:
www.linkedin.com/in/dwh99
FaceBook:
www.facebook.com/donna.w.hill

Hear clips from "The Last Straw" at:
cdbaby.com/cd/donnahill

Apple I-Tunes
phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewAlbum?playListId=259244374

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