TO RECAP: I may have mentioned that in my internet searching quest for others who have the white-cane-social-anxiety thing, I accidentally googled myself and I was like blargh sad sad sad. Then my new cane arrived. I thought ooh! the shiny! new! cane! will help drag me outside and put this social anxiety thing to rest, at least temporarily. Because I couldn't wait to try it out.
But as I started testing the cane in the house, I had some problems adjusting to the new telescoping style, so elegant designed but so different from what I was used to. So I searched for a video on how to properly use it --nuthin. But then I widened my search result to something really generic like "telescoping white cane" and came upon, not instructions for use, but a belated reply to the search I had conducted a few days earlier.
Kudlick's article from Disability Studies Quarterly presented me with another perspective of someone trying to navigate this in-between (i.e. blind / seeing) space --both internally as she tried to integrate it with her past experience of inherited eyesight problems and her family's paradoxical denial of them, but also externally, as someone "coming out" as a cane user in her adult years.
You have to understand, the amount of other blind people that I know is actually rather limited. Like I can count the number on one hand. And I don't need the whole hand. So when I saw this article it really meant something.
She has a different type of blindness than I do, but about the same amount of overall vision --though it's traits differ from mine. For example, she can ride a bike; I can't. But I think I have less trouble reading than she does. But but but... here's a paragraph that could have come out of my own life:
Beautiful as it all has been, my vision remains unreliable. One of the many operations I had as a young adult required the surgeon to enlarge my pupils, with the painful consequence that my eyes are permanently dilated, and thus extremely sensitive to light. I also have nystagmus, a series of rapid muscle movements that causes my eyes to vibrate, jump, and wander, and generally carry on a rich life of their own. This makes life especially interesting in crowded, chaotic places such as airports or hotels. Since I lack depth perception, I'm easily confused by shadows, brick walkways, curbs, changes in floor texture, and steps. One instant I might have what I imagine to be a nice clear snapshot with bright colors and clear lines that define shapes or even people who I recognize. Another, the world comes to me through a series of rapid images that fly by so quickly that my brain can't keep up. If I meet someone wearing a blue sweater early in the day, I can easily find her in a crowd - until the next day when she wears something different, or later that same day when she decides to take it off.
[...]
For years I struggled with how to explain this in the first split-second encounter with every new person I'd meet. I had to find a way of letting students know that I couldn't see them while still coming across as a competent teacher. Other times, I found it impossible and humiliating to explain to a friend or a colleague....
Finding these words were so... "comforting" is not the right word, nor is "inspiring." It's more like you've been hollering down the shaft of a well for so long, hearing only your own echo, and suddenly you hear a voice from the other end saying, tentatively, "hello?"
She talks about labels and the inadequacy of them. Not that I'm in a hurry to label myself, but we live in a world where it is helpful to be easily categorized --at least in this milieu of "split-second encounters" she talks about. I want to be able to say to someone quickly and easily this is what it is.
There wasn't even a term to describe someone like me. My first label, when I started to encounter people outside my family, was the impossibly vague "nearsighted." (At first I thought I was "near-sided" because I walked close to things to see them.) There was "visually impaired" (vague), "legally blind" (vague and legalistic), and statements such as "I don't see well" (vague and euphemistic). "Low vision" also had its drawbacks, linked as it was with "low intelligence," "low functioning," and various other "lows." There was even a vogue for terms such as "sight impaired" and "visually challenged" or — my particular nomination for the Most Condescending Award — "Visually Impaired Person," a VIP.
I think this first sentence below says a lot. Deep down, most of us want to belong to a place. We want to be able to indicate this is who I am, and for others to get the message, whether they understand the experience or not.
More important than labels was that I didn't seem to fit into anyone's conception of how either blind or sighted people act in the world. This became apparent as I tried to sort out if and when to use my white cane. To be sure, it can be a huge help by enabling me to walk with more confidence in unfamiliar or dark environments. It also allows me to ask colleagues and students who they are, rather than play my usual sloppy game of dancing around identities until I trick them into revealing themselves....But the cane also introduces its own set of complexities because I don't always need it, and frankly, life is simpler when I can do without. Like an umbrella when it isn't raining, the cane effectively eliminates the use of one arm.
I would just like to say it again. THE CANE EFFECTIVELY ELIMINATES THE USE OF ONE ARM. So to those people who are incredulous (I have had people come up to be and be like, "you don't seem like you need that") I want to say... would I be using it if I didn't? Seriously. Think of all the things you can do with a multi-tasking set of two hands. You can do any number of these things at the same time 1) carry a handbag or brief case 2) hold your coffee 3) hail a cab or bus 4) walk your dog 5) push a stroller 6) schlep a bag of groceries 7) read a book at the bus stop 8) text 9) peruse the merch outside that new house-of-cute-dresses that recently opened up 10) use an umbrella... and so forth. I guess I get cranky on this point too because..... because I could get by without using it... just not as safely and I could coffee-text-hail-bus-etc. But I've made this decision. Cos I'm sick of passing. And pitching headfirst off curbs, having cars suddenly turn in front of me.... I guess in a way I'm grieving the use of my arm. That sounds over-indulgent, says the judge in my head.
And of course sighted people's condescending, panicky behavior around white canes also deters me; in some situations I have enough vision to see people dart out of the way or I experience their little eye tests when they plant themselves in my path or stick out their tongues. And because I can obviously see things ... I know [people] must wonder about the woman escorted to the airport departure gate with her white cane, only to start checking messages on her Blackberry and read from her Kindle.
This last sentence (about the Kindle) really got me. I like to take pictures. I like to make art. And jewelry. Visual things. When I attempted this white cane experiment before, in Ohio, I felt acutely self-conscious whenever I would whip out my cell to snap something interesting. Like 1,000 eyes (or just one pair) would be watching, thinking... huh?
Ever since I chose to use a white cane in selected situations, I've collided head-on with society's (undiagnosed) case of "cryptophobia" - my term for everyone's panic in the face of ambiguity. It might be the same angst many feel when they can't immediately determine someone's gender; as they search their data banks for clues - expected behaviors, dress, voice, gait, facial expression, body space - they overload if some detail doesn't come to the rescue in fixing the mysterious identity.
I wrote a poem that engages this concept of "cryptophobia," --both my own of myself and those who see me --called "Suites for the Modern Dancer." And I would like to write more poems to explore this subject. You have to understand, this is, again, the hello from the bottom of the well. I've never personally heard / read about / met anyone who had this experience, as it pertains to vision / not-vision.
And so I return to this idea of naming, and the inadequacy of names.
But how to describe the person who actually sees this way? How to harmonize how I see with how I want to be seen?
I think this phrasing is very important ---how to harmonize how I see with how I want to be seen? That is something I have yet to determine. How do I want to be seen? When I have a choice, what are the parts of me I want to display? How will these signifiers be interpreted? The telescoping cane does not contract as easily as it expands. Yesterday, by myself, I used it in the drugstore and a coffee shop, instead of folding it up and putting it in my purse. This goes further than my original declaration to myself to use the cane outside; only inside if it's really busy / crowded --airport, hospital, conference. How do I want to be seen?
And... I have to stop now. Luna keeps climbing from my lap onto the keyboard onto my desk into my coffee knocking papers and books asunder. I have a headache. My eyes are starting to jounce about. Rest time. I haven't even gotten into the tattoos yet.
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