Future Memories

Future Memories

Future Reflections Winter 1989, Vol. 8 No. 1
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FUTURE MEMORIES
by Zachary Shore
[PICTURE] Zach Shore, student, University of Pennsylvania.
The following letter (which is reprinted from
the NFB of Illinois newsletter, The Month's
News) and the short story which follows it {Future
Memories), were written by University of Pennsylvania
student Zachary Shore. The letter was
part of Zach's 1987 application for a scholarship
from the National Federation of the Blind. He
did indeed win the 1987 Frank Walton Horn
Memorial Award Scholarship from the National
Federation of the Blind. However, that wasn't
the end of the story for Zach.
Zach decided that he needed to learn more
about the alternative techniques of blindness, so
he enrolled at the Louisiana Center for the
Blind--one of the most progressive, most effective
training centers for the adult blind in the
country. And that is where the story, "Future
Memories," comes in.
The letter and story are moving. They are also
instructive. How many Zach Shores are in our
homes and in our schools today? Is it inevitable
that they-like Zach-must interrupt college
studies to get training in blind techniques and to
develop positive attitudes about blindness? Or is
there something we could be doing differently in
our educational programs so that when blind
youth graduate from high school they really are
ready to go to work or continue their education
without interruption?
Here is Zach's letter:
For a long time I have felt caught in limbo. I am
not completely blind, but I am not fully sighted either. Unfortunately for me, I have always been
surrounded by people who have tried to convince
me that there is no in-between. I know now that
this is not true.
My sight has been constantly changing over the
past eight years. Calcium bands continued to
form over my corneas, they would be scraped off
in surgery, and my vision would improve. But it
was only an ephemeral improvement, because
the calcium would always reform.
Whether my vision was at its best or its worst, my
sight was never poor enough to necessitate the
use of a cane. Therefore, most people in my high
school never knew that I had any vision loss.
When I came to Penn, I was indescribably
relieved to find that this was going to change. Because
I live on campus, everyone sees me at night
with my cane. Consequently, I feel much more
comfortable talking about my blindness, and I
like it when people ask me questions. However,
there was still a conflict.
The nature of my condition allows me to see only
shadows and glimpses, but in different settings
with different lighting, I can recognize people,
tell what they are wearing, or perhaps even catch
a smile. I have found this often to be maddening,
not just because of how it makes me feel, but it
also confuses others and hinders their understanding
of my sight.
For a long time I struggled within myself, always
asking, "Am I blind, or am I not?" Getting involved
with the NFB and meeting other students
just like myself helped a lot, but it did not settle
my conflict. It was only through a long and often
painful self-realization that I accepted myself as
a blind person. I use a cane at night; I get all my
books on tape; I cannot drive; I use a Visualtech
[closed-circuit t.v. magnifier]; Affirmative Action
provides me with readers. There can be no
question--I am not a sighted person.
One thing I have noticed is that some people treat
me as though I have more sight than I actually do,
while others treat me as though I have less. One
day, a friend of mine, who always treated me as
though I had less sight, said to me, "Oh, Zach,
you're not really blind." She had no intention of
hurting me, but her remark was a paralyzing
blow. Here was one of my few friends who made
me feel completely comfortable to be around,
and yet her off-the-cuff comment sent me reeling
into an angry grief.
It was not more than a few days after this incident
that I came to read an essay by Kenneth Jernigan,
"A Definition Of Blindness". That essay beautifully
put into words exactly what I had been feeling.
He really hit home when he said: "I repeat
that, in my opinion, blindness can best be
defined, not physically or medically, but functionally
or sociologically. The alternative techniques
which must be learned are the same for
those born blind as for those who become blind
as adults. They are quite similar (or should be)
for those who are totally blind or are nearly so,
and those who are 'partially sighted' and yet are
blind in the usually accepted legal definition. In
other words, I believe that the complex distinctions
which are often made between those who
have partial sight and those who are totally blind,
between those who have been blind since
childhood and those who have become blind as
adults, are largely meaningless." I took his essay
to my friend and asked her to read it. Afterwards,
she understood me much better, but far more importantly,
it helped me to understand myself as
well.
Over the course of my freshman year I have adjusted
well, but I still have more to do. After I
returned from the NFB's March on Washington,
I wrote an article on my experience and the issues
discussed, in a small newspaper on campus. One
person was talking with me about the issue concerning
the airlines. In that conversation he said to me, "Well, you know, Zach, you see pretty
well."
Again, I was hurt, But more than hurt, I was mad.
I wanted to say, "Oh... and how did you determine
this?" Instead, I passed it off as stupidity on his
part. I wish now that I had spoken more seriously,
not to make him feel bad, but to help him to
understand.
The way I feel about my blindness is positive. I
am not happy to be blind, but I am dealing with
it as best as I am able. I feel that it is not only important
for me to help others to understand my
condition, but it is my obligation as well. I know
that I cannot help others to accept me unless I accept
myself.
FUTURE MEMORIES
by Zach Shore
"Grandpa Zach, tell us a bedtime story," little
Carlin pleaded as he wrapped his tiny body inside
his favorite big, furry blanket so that only a red
head stuck out. He and his younger sister, Ellana,
lay down in front of the fireplace, sipping
Cocoa Blast-- the space-age drink kids dream of.
Grandpa Zach eased back into his plush Sensor
Max comfort chair, closed his Braille novel, and
smiled.
"All right," he said. "I will tell you more about my
days in Ruston, Louisiana." Ellana clapped her
hands and Carlin nodded approvingly, for neither
child ever tired of hearing Grandpa's stories.
"But I'll tell you first that back then they called it
the Louisiana Center for the Blind. Since you've
heard about some of the things I did there, which
adventures would you most like to hear?"
'Tell about water skiing, Grandpa," Carlin insisted,
clutching Cosmos-Kid lineflying action
figure and telling it to ski, which it did, as skis
magically appeared on its feet.
"Well, now let me think," Grandpa said. Resting
his hands on his large paunch and closing his deep
green eyes, he assumed the story-telling position
and affected a story-telling voice.
"I remember," he began slowly, stroking his thick,
graying beard, "how one day, the whole bunch of
us, students and staff, piled into a beat-up old van
and headed over to a river to water ski. Now most
of us had never done it before, and I remember
being, well, a tad on the scared side. In fact, I
tried to outsmart the staff by tellin' everyone for
a whole week how I couldn't wait to go. If they
ever suspected you were afraid of something you
were done for. And sure enough, the director
never believed me for a minute, and she made me
go first. Good old Miss Joanne. Never could pull
one over on her."
"What did you do?" Ellana squealed. She was an
emotional girl, whose hands were her most expressive
feature. Often, she would flail them in
the air wildly, while speaking. Occasionally,
when she grew overly excited, she would turn her
head so quickly from side to side as she looked
around the room that her long, red ponytail fluttered
in the air behind her.
"Well," Grandpa continued, "first I thought about
makin' a break for it, but I knew everybody was
watchin', so I had to go through with it. They tied
a life preserver around me, stuck my feet in the
skis, pointed toward the water, and said, 'Go.'
So, I waddled into the river, tellin' myself how
they wouldn't make me do this if it wasn't perfectly
safe, and how nobody ever died while water
skiing, and things like that. I was even starting to
feel relaxed until the instructor swam over, handed me the rope, put his arm around me and
said, 'Who is your next of kin?'
"Anyway, I don't remember all the millions of
things he told me to do. All I remember is hearing
a very loud motor revving up and hearing him
yell,'Are ya'ready?' I yelled, 'Not yet!' And he
yelled, 'Okay, Bart, let her rip!'
"That instructor told me many things, but he left
out one very important detail. He forgot to mention
the fact that I would not be able to breathe
since water would be shooting up my nose until I
got up. Once I figured that out, I tried to stand
up, and the darned rope broke!"
"Were you hurt, Grandpa?" Ellana asked with
notable concern.
"Nah, but I was pretty embarrassed. I bobbed
around in the water until the instructor skied over
to me to help. But instead of gettin' a new rope,
he tied the old one back together. So I turned to
him and said, 'Ahh, excuse me for sayin' so, but
don't you think it might be a good idea to maybe
get a new rope?' But he just laughed and said,
'Nah, you'll be fine. It probably won't break
again.' It was the word 'probably' that bothered
me. On the next try, I was just about up when it
broke again. But I was okay and after they gave
me a new rope, I did eventually get up on those
crazy skis. And you know what, it was a lot of fun,
after all that. But I'll tell you one thing, kids, I
sure never thought I could do it."
Then Ellana said, "Tell us about the big meal you
made."
"Big deal?" Grandpa questioned. "Yeah, I sure
thought it was a big deal when that rope broke,
believe you me."
"No, Grandpa!" the children laughed. The big
meal!"
"Oh, why didn'tcha say so? Now lemme think.
Ahh, you mean the meal for 40 people," Grandpa
grinned. "Yessir, that was quite a meal. Yeah,
no, before I entered the program in Louisiana,
the best meal I could make was buttered toast.
But it was the best buttered toast you ever ate,
that's for sure. Why, folks used to come for miles,
just to have a taste of my ..."
"Come on, Grandpa, we've heard all about your
toast," Carlin cried. 'Tell about the meal!"
"Alright, alright, just hold your pants on, Son.
Every morning for six months, I learned how to
make somethin' new, and how to do it safely.
Why, before then, I was trying to use the little
sight I had to 'see' what I was doin'. I was stickin'
my face over burners just to see the flames. Good thing I didn't have a beard back then. But I
learned that I could cook anything I wanted, and
use my kitchen appliances safely. Since we all
lived in our own apartments and had to cook all
our own meals, I had lots of practice."
"Anyway, I can still remember makin' those eight
loaves of cream cheese bread. Why, that recipe
was so complicated, I had to make it 12 times
before I got it right."
"Really, Grandpa?" Carlin asked suspiciously.
"Well, maybe only three. But no less. I should
know. I had to Braille down the menu, ('course
they didn't have dicta-Braillers in those days),
walk to the grocery store, and get it all. I remember
makin' two kinds of salads, bread, a punch,
and two pans of a secret noodle recipe I got from
your great-grandma, Ada. It had fine cooked
noodles, combined with a mixture of cream
cheese, sour cream, eggs, and more I can't recall,
spilled into a pan, covered with graham cracker
crumbs and baked. Ummmm, ummm! The
whole feast took a day and a half to prepare, but
it really went over big, if I do say so myself. And
I did it all under sleep-shades, ya know. We did
everything that way. Those of us who had any
sight wore 'em from eight to five. That way we
really knew in our guts that we didn't need sight
to do any of the things we did."
"Was that the place you learned Braille,
Grandpa?" Carlin asked.
"Yes, I learned how to read and write Braille, how
to type, sew, cook, clean, shop, travel, and some
other very important things that you don't get in
classes."
"What was the most fun thing you did there,
Grandpa?" Ellana asked in her most excited, trigb-prtcbcd squeak.
"Ellana, that's easy. It was around the end of my
stay at the Center. See, every student, around the
time they're ready to graduate from the Center,
had to go on an all-day travel route by themselves, to a new town. For my route, I did somethin'
which I had once thought was darn near impossible.
I flew to a faraway city and back, under
sleep-shades of course. I changed planes in a
very large airport at a very busy time of day. It
turned out to be a lot easier than I had thought it
would be. The fun came when I got back to the
Center and celebrated. I'll never forget how
good I felt about myself after I did that."
"But Grandpa Zach," Carlin said, "I don't see
what's so big a deal about that. I always see lots
of blind people doing that every time we go to the
airport."
"Well, Carlin," Grandpa leaned forward in
twined his fingers together. "You see, it wasn't
always that way. In my day, you rarely saw blind
people travelling independently in airports or
anywhere else. Most blind people didn't have
the skills or the confidence to do that sort of
thing. And there were only a handful of centers
like the one in Louisiana. Now, since there's one
in all 52 states, blind people are getting what they
need to really make it in the world. And the
Swedish Center, which was modelled after ours,
has influenced centers all over Europe."
"Grandpa, are you sure things were really that
different back then?" Carlin questioned.
"Oh, yes. And there's still discrimination and
new problems for the blind." Grandpa abandoned
his story-telling voice and adopted a more
serious tone. "It takes a long, long time to change
ancient ideas. But for the most part, the blind are
far better off today than they were when I was
your age, and places like the new Louisiana
Training Center have had a lot to do with that. I
was extremely lucky that I had such good training back then. Most people I knew never had the
chance."
They were silent as they listened to the fire, hissing
softer and softer. At last, Ellana spoke. "Did
you ever go water skiing again, Grandpa?"
"No, Ellana, I never did."
Her usual smile vanished. "But, if you never did
it again," she said, "then why was it so important
that they made you do it?"
Grandpa sank back once more into his chair.
"Kids," he said, "it wasn't until years later that I
understood why we did so many of the things we
did at the Center: the water skiing, the horseback
riding, the camping, the hiking, the barbecues,
and all the things that everybody might have been
afraid to do. I always figured, at the time, that
there wasn't much point in doing all that stuff
when I could have been studying Braille or working
on my cane travel skills. So why do you think
we did it?"
Neither child answered.
"Well, I can tell you this, kids. Many times in my
life I've had to do things that frightened me;
things that I just wasn't sure I could do. But I've
never let my blindness hold me back from doing
the things I wanted to do. I learned at the Center
to believe in myself as a blind person and that
whatever I wanted to do with my life was entirly
up to me. Seem' my blind teachers leading normal
lives, raising children, working, being active
in their communities, and having fun, helped me
a lot. But it wasn't enough to know that other
blind people could be happy and successful. I
had to know that I could be, too.
"When I went to a state fair once while I was at
the Center, I felt great about being able to walk
around, buy lunch, and pet the animals. But I
passed right by all of the games. I assumed that
I couldn't do them. But when I ran into another
student who told me they had just won a teddy
bear in a ball-throwing game, I was shocked. At
first, I didn't believe it. Then I decided to try a
few, myself. I figured out ways to play in the
games without having to see and I won at two of
them. That was the moment when I finally
stopped assuming what I couldn't do and truly
was set free.
"You see, it was somethin' as insignificant as a
game at a fair that made the biggest change in my
attitude toward my blindness and toward myself. No one can tell where or when that moment will
come for someone else, but by constantly doing
new and different things, by accepting and welcoming
life's challenges, you're sure to have your
own special moments, moments that will change
the way you'll live the rest of your lives. And kids,
if you will do that, accept and welcome life's challenges,
then your future memories will be as enjoyable
for you as mine are for me, right now."
For more information about the Louisiana
Center for the Blind write or call:
Joanne Femandes, Director
Louisiana Center for the Blind
101 South Trenton Street
Ruston, Louisiana 71270
(318)251-2891.
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