[stylist] CNF challenge: Tunnel Vision

[Jacobson, Shawn D]

Donna

In my experience writing technical memoranda for the Government, I have also found that most readers appreciate short paragraphs.  I had a boss who wanted me to summarize, summarize, summarize.  I think my style (I think my paragraphs also tend to be short) reflects my experience.

Shawn

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Donna Hill
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2013 2:57 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] CNF challenge: Tunnel Vision

Hi Jackie,
That's so cool that you have a folder for the different ways we see, and I am honored that you have included my piece in it. I'm looking forward to reading whatever inspiration you derive from it. I think in many ways that poetry  is capable of capturing the essense of tangled and thorny realities in a way that other forms cannot.

I looked at my original file, which is a .docx. It's 12 pt. Times New Roman, single-spaced, left justified with only one blank space between paragraphs.
It's 4 pages. Strange things happen when we copy and paste, and in my case, I use Word 2010 and Outlook 2003, which might add to the confusion. I can't have Word as the editor in Outlook, because it installs Word 2003 and disables Word 2010. I tried to install Outlook alone, but never could get just that one program -- not sure if it would have even helped.

Anyway, that doesn't negate the validity of the comments on the length of the paragraphs. Since I wrote for online magazines for so long, I did pick up a bit of that short paragraph stuff, and I frankly didn't think to re-examine the piece with that in mind. At Suite 101, it was a minimum of 50 and a max of 75 words. Thanks for pointing this out. I do have a tendency to go overboard with it.
Donna

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jacqueline Williams
Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2013 12:10 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] CNF challenge: Tunnel Vision

Donna,
I am not going to critique this in the writing detail. I found the article of intense interest to me and have saved it in my folder named "So and so's vision." Names of course. It is part of my education about how all of us"
see" so differently. I think you are the fifth one to so expertly address this issue. Perhaps, I can make a poem some day.
My comments will refer, instead, to the format.
When I copied it and put it into a word format, it was six pages long. It had three blanks between very short paragraphs. Some were natural divisions, but many seemed to divide the integrity of the thoughts. Toward the end you did use some somewhat longer paragraphs which helped.
I took out two blank lines between each of your paragraphs, and it went to five pages.
I did not presume to cut the line between   each of your original
paragraphs, but if you could do this and keep your subject matter which normally hangs together into one paragraph, you can easily fit this into four pages. This is with using Ariel font. This may take a bit more space than what you use, but is much more easily read by the visually impaired with there CCTVs.
Perhaps you are the one who said, in the past, that paragraphs should be no more than fifty words. In this case, I do not agree. It seems an arbitrary division, instead of natural.
I think this piece is wonderful writing, and really necessary to understand the decisions that can be made about guide dogs, yes, or no.
Thank you so much for bringing our world to the sighted world.
Jackie

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Donna Hill
Sent: Tuesday, January 29, 2013 3:02 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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