by Gary Wunder
For as long as there have been people, there have been ideas about blindness. Some are kind, some are cruel, and many are simply wrong. A sighted stranger may gush that a blind person who travels independently is “inspirational.” Another may think they are being helpful by insisting on doing what we as blind people can do perfectly well alone. Blind people themselves may sometimes doubt their own potential, not because of any lack of skill, but because of the weight of messages they have absorbed from childhood.
It is tempting to say that change comes from teaching people the right words: avoid this phrase, use that one instead. Language does matter—it sets boundaries for what can be imagined and what cannot. But real change is more than words. If a person says “visually challenged,” “visually impaired,” or “visually handicapped” instead of “blind,” yet still believes blind people cannot work, marry, or raise children, then nothing of importance has changed. The deeper work is not just to refine how people speak but to transform what they believe.
Psychologists often distinguish among compliance, identification, and internalization. Compliance happens when people change their outward words or actions because they feel pressure. Identification happens when they imitate a group they wish to join. Internalization is the deepest form of change: a belief becomes part of a person’s identity.
The field of blindness shows all three. A person might stop telling offensive jokes about blindness because they fear criticism—this is compliance. They might start using respectful terms because their friends do—this is identification. But only when they truly accept that blind people are equal participants in society will they reach internalization.
The challenge for us is not just to stop offensive words but to nurture the conditions for deep change. We want people to see blind people differently, not just talk differently in public.
History offers encouragement. In living memory, blind people were routinely excluded from schools, professions, and civic life. Employers assumed blindness meant unemployability. Colleges denied admission. Parents of blind children were urged to expect little.
Today, the landscape is different. The White Cane Laws in the states and the federal Americans with Disabilities Act provide protection, but more importantly, expectations have shifted. Blind lawyers argue cases before the Supreme Court. Blind engineers design software used worldwide. Blind parents raise children who never doubt the capacity of their parents. None of this was common just a few generations ago.
Change came because blind people themselves insisted that it could. The Federation challenged assumptions through advocacy, lawsuits, and personal examples. Each blind person who traveled independently, who excelled in a classroom, or who succeeded on the job made it harder for society to cling to outdated beliefs.
But there is more: individual effort must join with collective action. One blind teacher suing for her right to work could win a personal victory. But when hundreds of blind teachers came together, supported by the infrastructure of the Federation, we transformed the profession itself. One blind person advocating for white cane recognition could change a single encounter with law enforcement. But when blind people in many states organized, we established White Cane Laws that recognize the rights of blind pedestrians everywhere.
This is the lesson: individuals are absolutely necessary, but individuals acting together, with a common purpose and a structure to sustain their fight, can move mountains.
We must be clear: language can open doors, but it is not the whole journey. If a teacher switches from saying “handicapped” to “student with vision loss” or even “blind student,” but still steers blind children away from advanced classes, the words are hollow. If a company writes diversity statements but never hires blind applicants, the commitment is empty.
Words are signals, and they matter because they shape expectations. Yet words must be matched with action. That is why the Federation does not stop with language reform but insists on equal access, full participation, and high expectations.
It is natural for blind people to value privacy. Not everyone wants to be on stage all the time. Sometimes we want to run errands without questions, ride a bus without commentary, or simply live without being seen as an example. That desire is reasonable, and privacy is part of human dignity.
Yet here is another and vital part of the truth: attitude change must fall to each of us. Every encounter with the public is an opportunity to shift perception. When a child sees a blind person using a cane with confidence, when a coworker hears a blind employee solve a problem, or when a neighbor observes a blind parent organizing a school fundraiser, those moments are lessons that ripple outward.
We may not always want to be “blindness ambassadors,” but if privacy always outweighs the chance to educate, then change will stall. We will live with less progress and more frustration than we want. Seen another way, though, public interaction is not a burden but a cherished opportunity. Each time we explain, demonstrate, or simply live our lives with confidence, we invest in a future where the next blind person faces fewer barriers. We should work to feel in our hearts that there is no such thing as a stupid question but rather that each question is a chance to inform with a polite and dignified answer that not only speaks to an issue of blindness but also to the civility on which good communication and the building of relationships is based.
Sometimes our work faces skepticism not because of what we say but because of who says it. An article submitted to a professional journal may be dismissed simply because it comes from the National Federation of the Blind, as though our firsthand experience makes us less credible rather than more. Yet history shows that truth does not always come from official credentials.
Rachel Carson, a marine biologist, was dismissed by chemical companies when she warned of the dangers of pesticides. Her book Silent Spring changed environmental policy worldwide. Rosa Parks was not a legal scholar, but by refusing to give up her bus seat she reshaped the law. Ordinary people, when persistent and clear, have changed nations.
Blind people are experts on blindness. Research by blind scholars and testimony from blind workers are not biased detours from objectivity—they are essential evidence. If reviewers dismiss our work because of its source, that reveals more about their bias than our merit.
Academia is not the only gatekeeper of truth. Change spreads when ideas move beyond scholarly journals and enter everyday conversation. The Federation has shown again and again that the public can be reached. Here are just a few examples:
Beyond these major efforts, the way forward is familiar, and here are some ways we individually and collectively continue our progress:
We know we are making progress when people stop catching themselves mid-sentence to substitute a polite word, and instead truly understand that blind people can and do live full lives. We know change has happened when a hiring manager does not just avoid discriminatory language but also hires and promotes blind workers. We know it when a blind child grows up never doubting she can be a scientist, musician, or parent.
Words open the door. Belief and action walk through it.
Changing attitudes is not the work of experts alone. It belongs to each of us, but it becomes most powerful when we act together. When we speak up, when we write, and when we live openly as blind people expecting equality, we educate and make change. When we join our voices in the Federation, we amplify those lessons into laws, policies, and cultural norms that endure.
Change begins with individuals, but individuals united with infrastructure, purpose, and persistence change the world. This is why we so often say, “Let’s go build the National Federation of the Blind,” and why so many of us act each and every day to do it.