[stylist] Guest post on education-tutoring site on mainstreaming

[Donna Hill]

Hello fellow writers,

I was invited to share my experiences as the first legally blind student in
my school district on the Tutorspree blog, and thought some might like to
read it. The full post is after the URL.

Donna

Published by Tutorspree on 6-20-13

http://blog.tutorspree.com/post/53441808738/the-girl-with-bad-eyes

 

 

The Girl with Bad Eyes

by Donna W. Hill

 

 

At six, it often felt like I was on the crest of a mighty wave. I wouldn't
understand how accurate that image was for decades. The wars were over, the
Baby Boom was in full swing and families were buying black and white TVs and
moving to the suburbs. In 1955, I became the first legally blind student in
Pennsylvania's Easton Area School District. I had no idea that America was
poised for the greatest civil rights advances in history, eventually
including even people with disabilities. 

 

 

Blind or Sighted?

 

My brother and I were born with Retinitis Pigmentosa, a degenerative retinal
disease. RP starts with night blindness and tunnel vision and leads to total
blindness. At the time, people with disabilities were discouraged from
participating in society. At best, we were good-deed opportunities. At
worst, we were exploited without fear of repercussions. 

 

Compared to other disabilities, blindness is rare. People fear the
unfamiliar. Families were advised to place their blind children in
residential schools; keeping them at home would destroy the family. Aware of
these realities, my mother wouldn't admit that we were legally blind. We
just had "bad eyes." 

 

My parents believed we were just as good as anyone else, deserved to live at
home and attend school with our peers. The schools, however, weren't
prepared for us. They didn't understand the nuances of vision loss. You were
either blind or sighted. If you could see anything, you should "use your
eyes." In other words, we were to read print and get around as best as we
could. Braille and the white cane were never discussed. My parents, like
many others, assumed the professionals knew best. 

 

 

Out of Left Field

 

Initially, my remaining vision and the minimal demands of early elementary
school allowed me to fake my way through. At the end of second grade,
however, my teacher could no longer stand watching me struggle. When I
walked into walls, fell down steps or stumbled over things that were below
my line of sight, I could hold back the tears. But, when Mrs. Rose took my
workbook, I was inconsolable.

 

The full impact of her actions wouldn't hit home until I started third
grade. I was to report to an out-of-the-way first-floor classroom by the
nurse's office. This alarmed me; the third grade classrooms were on the
second floor. When my classmates reported that they were in every grade but
third, I got really scared. Gradually, I learned that we were in "special
class" -- a dozen students with sensory, social and developmental deficits,
one teacher and a huge play area.

 

The large-print book I received was a slap in the face. It was the text I
had in first-grade.  Larger print, to the puzzlement of the adults, didn't
help. With a severely restricted visual field and damage to my central
vision, I could barely see one word at a time in regular print. Large print
was worse. The other problems -- needing to be right on top of the page and
losing my place when clouds passed over -- were unchanged. 

 

Well, I'd just apply myself and finish the first-grade book. She'd have to
give me the next one, and soon I'd have the third-grade text. Each day, when
I finished my assignment and asked for another, she said the same thing.

 

"You may go and play with the blocks if you wish."

 

I didn't wish, but she insisted. Frustration soon morphed into despair.

 

 

Someone to Stand up for Me 

 

An eye-doctor appointment in Philadelphia that October brought things to a
head. Dr. Spaeth knew I loved school and had done well despite my vision.
When he asked how third grade was going and received a less than
enthusiastic response, he questioned my parents. 

 

"They've placed her in special class," said my father.

 

"She doesn't like it," my mother added.

 

"Special class?" he bellowed, "This child doesn't have a problem with her
mind; she has a problem with her eyes." 

 

He ordered my parents to go to the school and insist that I be placed in a
regular class. He concluded, "If they don't remove her from that class, I'll
come up there and remove her myself."

 

 

Compromises and Consequences 

 

The buoyant relief I felt in the presence of Dr. Spaeth's support was
short-lived. My new teacher wasn't pleased to have a student with bad eyes
in her class. She yelled at the girl behind me for reading the test
questions from the blackboard to me, and she laughed with the bullies.

 

As the years passed, no other teacher treated me that badly, but my vision
worsened and the homework increased. Friends were friends only when no one
else was around. I escaped through writing and playing piano. After five
years of lessons, however, I could no longer see the music well enough to
memorize it. With no options, I quit. 

 

Junior high brought an increase in the bullying. When I finally snapped, I
landed in the principal's office. As the work-load grew and my vision
deteriorated, I had to prioritize; English and science were in; history and
math fell by the wayside. Despite these compromises, I had massive headaches
at night and started each morning in the girls' room sick to my stomach. 

 

 

Me and the Naysayers

 

So, how did I survive? Hope? No, hopes get dashed. Willpower? Willpower
falters. Both are too easily influenced by external realities. 

 

Teachers, students and even total strangers regularly felt the need to
inform me of the bleak prospects for my future. I would never be able to go
to college, live away from my parents, bake a cake or hold down a job. Even
love was pre-ordained to be beyond my capabilities -- all because I didn't
gather visual information like "normal" people.

 

Simply put, I didn't want these prognosticators to be right. I often thought
that they probably were right, but I didn't want them to be. There's a
difference. The outside world couldn't change that fact. I couldn't change
it either, and I couldn't pretend that I didn't know it.

 

Too many people think that overcoming obstacles is something only
accomplished by the folks who always believe in themselves and never fall
victim to despair. Most of us slip, fall and pick ourselves up time and time
again. Little by little, in fits and starts I took steps toward
independence. 

 

I couldn't live without music. At fourteen, I asked for and received a
guitar. I taught myself to play based on those piano lessons. My poetry
turned into song lyrics, and I wrote my way through my tangled feelings.

 

 

Small Breaks in the Clouds

 

My reading vision disappeared over the summer before college. The state
rehabilitation counselor finally recommended recorded books at the end of my
freshman year. Could it have been my terrible grades that tipped him off?
Still, nothing was said about Braille. Without reinforcement, my spelling
deteriorated. 

 

After college graduation, I applied for my first guide dog, against the
recommendations of my counselor. He told the Guide Dog Foundation for the
Blind (GDF), "Girls shouldn't be out alone at night," and insisted that I
was getting around well enough in the daytime. He was, of course, not there
when I fell into the construction pit on my way to class. No, I never broke
anything -- just lucky, I guess.

 

Fortunately, GDF ignored him. I was one of the first people they trained who
had some usable vision. I had to learn to stop looking, and it was
liberating. A classmate taught me the basics of Braille. I'm terrible at it,
but it, along with my guitar and songwriting skills, allowed me to live
independently for many years before Rich and I married. 

 

 

The Trouble with Braille

 

The problem is not that any of this happened to me. It's that this is still
happening to legally blind and visually impaired children. In fact, Braille
literacy as of 2009 was only 10% (far lower than in the fifties), despite
proof that it is a major indicator of success. 

 

Remember algebra? We had to balance equations. How many of us use that skill
as adults? But, we had to study it. Braille, however, is not taught to
visually impaired kids, many of whom have degenerative conditions like RP.
My favorite excuse is, "It makes them look blind."

 

 

The Challenge

 

Nowadays, we have the digital tools to make information available to people
with vision loss almost instantaneously. But, only 5% of books and magazines
are available in accessible formats. The internet, so vital to modern life,
is 80% inaccessible according to a 2011 study. At the heart of these issues
is a central reality, common to all civil rights struggles. For equality to
truly exist, the public has to believe in it. Do you?

 

 

***

 

Donna W. Hill is a songwriter, recording artist, journalist and avid
knitter. Learn about her novel, The Heart of Applebutter Hill, and how she's
using it to promote Braille literacy at:

DonnaWHill.com