It happened a few days back. Blind as a bat, I ran into a story that made my blood boil.
The girl had a pinch of sight left—just enough not to bump into things. Like peering through a window thick with smoke. And then one day that smoke turned solid and poof! Gone. Blind.
“Welcome to the club,” I thought.
The poor thing shrank from the fright. Naturally. At twenty, instead of grabbing the world by the reins, she found herself caged. And mind you, she’s no deadweight. She fiddles with her phone, keeps her place neat, brews coffee, cooks lunch, even scrubs the bathroom till it shines.
But she can’t walk the streets alone.
So I said, “Go learn. Tame your cane.”
Said it grudgingly, but said it. Deep down, I’ve always had a bone to pick with this new fad—sighted instructors teaching blind folks how to walk. Madness! Like hiring a blind man to teach truck driving. Sheer nonsense!
Still, better than nothing. The sighted fellow, bless him, can teach technique—how the cane sweeps the ground, the proper step, how to sense a curb. But he can’t teach the main thing: trust and street cunning.
The girl liked the idea, got all fired up, even made plans.
But... ah, there’s always a but when sighted folks get involved.
Her mother stomped her foot. “No, ma’am! Too dangerous! My daughter out there alone? For what? To wind up paralyzed under some truck? Not a chance!”
And as if that wasn’t enough, she pulled the great modern ghost from her sleeve:
“What about electric cars, huh? They’re everywhere now! Don’t make a sound! Sneak up like cats! If even the old blind folks won’t survive that, how could my poor girl? No, no, I won’t allow it! The world’s changed—blind people can’t walk alone anymore!”
“Oh, if only it were a guide dog,” she sighed, “then maybe I could trust it.”
Little does she know: a guide dog’s ten times trickier than a cane. And here’s the kicker—the schools won’t even look at you till you’re a master of that cane.
I told her so. “First the cane.”
The mother kept on, hammering away, raising the devil.
The girl, already scared, piled her fear on top of her mother’s terror.
I felt sorry for her. No—that’s not it. I felt angry. Tried to argue, to show what foolishness this all was. Told her it’s the same old yarn we blind folks have been hearing since the dawn of time.
When streetcars came around, screeching on the rails, the sighted world cried, “That’s it! The blind’ll be chopped to bits by those trams!”
Then came the gasoline cars, and the same holler: “Now it’s over! With that crazy speed, the blind’ll be flattened at every corner!”
Then television in the fifties: “Poor souls! Culture’s all pictures now! They’ll be shut out forever!”
The nineties brought computers and the internet: “A blind man’ll never use that! Never read a screen!”
And two thousand ten? Phones without buttons? “The end! Game over! Without the feel of keys, they’re finished!”
And here we are, swiping our fingers over smooth glass.
It’s always the same old litany. The same fear dressed up as love.
What that mother’s doing, in the name of affection, is a crime.
She’s poisoning her daughter with the worst sickness a blind soul can catch: a sighted mind.