Lessons Brought to Light

Lessons Brought to Light

Daniel Frye

Lessons Brought to Light

by Daniel B. Frye

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From the Editor: Before walking into a new situation, it

isn't unusual for blind people to indulge in fantasies about how

things will go. Frequently in the daydream it is our competence,

poise, and articulate handling of awkward situations that

transform the silly notions of strangers into rational behavior.

Unfortunately the real world is seldom as neat or satisfying as

fantasy, and we are much more likely to think of the perfect

response long after the offending person has wandered off.

We have no choice but to deal with ignorance and prejudice

that don't go away just because we are doing things right. The

following recollection describes one such experience. Dan Frye

was a 1990 NFB Scholarship winner and is now an attorney and NFB

leader in Washington State. Here is his story:

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During the summer of 1988 I got a job as a Senior Counselor

at Camp Merry Heart, an Easter-Seal-sponsored challenge and

recreational retreat for physically disabled people--in the rural

outskirts of Hackettstown, New Jersey. Hoping to enhance my

resume by successfully working a summer job and with an earnest

interest in testing my Federation philosophy, which until that

time was primarily a set of theoretical principles, I left the

comfortable familiarity of college life in South Carolina,

boarded a northbound Greyhound, and set out on a summer adventure

which promised to be exciting and instructive.

In an effort to make a good first impression, I called the

camp supervisor from the Greenville, South Carolina, bus station

and politely declined her offer to have a camp representative

pick me up at the Port Authority in New York City. I explained

that I was confident of my ability to make the necessary transfer

to the commuter bus which would take me directly to Hackettstown.

She reluctantly resigned herself to the travel arrangements I--

her new twenty-year-old blind summer employee--proposed, and we

agreed to meet the next morning for staff orientation.

While alone in the darkness of night on a sixteen-hour bus

journey which would transport me from the tranquil South to the

teeming North, I had ample opportunity to entertain a range of

feelings from eagerness to apprehension. Based on the Camp Merry

Heart literature, which I had read before accepting the counselor

position, I was certain that I would be participating in one of

the nation's most progressive summer camping programs, in which

residential disabled campers would spend the season with non-

disabled day campers from the surrounding communities. This

structure seemed likely to foster genuine public education and

increased understanding among disabled and non-disabled people, a

seemingly ideal prospect.

While my spirits were bolstered by the possibilities of the

summer to come, I simultaneously felt the anxiety inherent in

being a newly independent young adult traveling to an unfamiliar

region of the country where I would assume the responsibilities

of a vaguely defined summer position. I hoped that I could do the

job well. I hoped that I would fit in and develop pleasant

working relationships with my colleagues and the campers. And,

most of all, I hoped that my blindness would not be used as a

justification to bar me from completely fulfilling my obligations

as a staff member or represent a barrier to my integrated entry

into camp life. At some point in the wee hours of the morning I

concluded that further analysis of my emotions would be

fruitless, and I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by the

announcement, "Arriving, New York City."

My transfer to the commuter bus was uneventful, and after

settling in to the rustic, un-air-conditioned log cabin which

would be my home for the next several months, I reported to the

camp dining hall for staff orientation. I was encouraged by my

initial reception from the other counselors (most of whom were

also college students on summer vacation), but it became apparent

immediately that the camp's management did not share my peers'

faith in my ability to function as a capable staff member.

Despite my certifications in CPR and Advanced Swimming by the

American Red Cross, I was not permitted to participate in "Life

Drills," a procedure which involved four staff members--tethered

equidistantly to a rope stretched across the camp lake--diving,

exploring, and resurfacing together in search of a hypothetical

accident victim. I protested that, in addition to being competent

in swimming and first aid, I would face minimal safety risk

because this operation was executed in teams of four, that we

were all secured by a life rope, and that most of the underwater

exploration was accomplished tactilely because of the lake's

murkiness.

The management decision to forbid my service as a counselor

in the integrated day camp, which catered to both disabled and

non-disabled campers, resulted in a second restriction on my full

conduct of camp responsibilities. The rationale offered for this

policy was that vision was essential to the successful

supervision of the more active camping population. These and

other less blatant acts of discrimination became the norm

throughout my summer employment at Camp Merry Heart.

I privately resolved to stick it out until my employment was

scheduled to end in mid August. Frequently, however, my spirits

wavered, and I was tempted to offer my premature resignation to

demonstrate my disdain for the arbitrary distinctions made by

Merry Heart management. Ultimately I decided that the image of

blind people would be better served by my decision to stay with

my employer, conducting the tasks assigned to me with efficiency

and dignity while trying to educate and advocate for improvement

of management's attitudes about blindness. I reasoned that, if I

did my job well and used the art of diplomacy to enlighten camp

leaders about my disability, I could acquit myself with

distinction and preserve opportunities for any future blind

candidate seeking employment with Camp Merry Heart.

As the days melted into weeks, I slowly settled into the

established routine of camp life. Waking to Reveille at 6:00

a.m., I helped my campers prepare for the day ahead. I escorted

them to flag-raising, accompanied them to breakfast, and returned

with them to our quarters for morning cabin cleaning. By 8:30

a.m. we'd leave for camp exercises, field games, arts and crafts,

swimming, and other traditional camping activities. Once during

every week-long camp session, we'd conduct an overnight outdoor

camping excursion complete with cooking over camp fires and

sleeping under the stars.

Our evenings would usually conclude with an assembly of

sorts, in which campers put on plays, participated in talent

shows, or simply socialized with each other in the central dining

hall. Lights went out at 10:00 p.m., and weary counselors on

night call duty would quietly meet on the front porches of their

cabins and talk about home, life at college, and personal dreams

and generally spend time building friendships with one another.

It was those relaxing summer evenings, long after campers

had retired, that I came to cherish most. In whispers so as not

to disturb the campers, my friends and I would discuss the pros

and cons of the Merry Heart experience. Invariably we would

analyze my dissatisfaction, frustration, and exasperation with

the regressive attitudes exhibited by Merry Heart leaders about

my blindness. We agreed that it was unfortunate and ironic that

such a flagrant lack of confidence in an independent blind person

prevailed at a camp which prided itself in its belief in and

support of "true achievement." Without my prodding, several of my

acquaintances realized that the treatment I received at the hands

of Merry Heart administrators was likely to send an especially

discouraging message to the campers about the opportunities they

could expect as disabled people from society.

By no means am I suggesting that all my co-workers

immediately came to appreciate the significance of my objections

to the condescending conduct of the Merry Heart management. Some

of them came to this understanding only after several evenings of

animated conversation in which we discussed the nature of

independence, the cultural consequences of accepting unnecessary

assistance or charity from the general public, and the

proposition that blindness, in and of itself, is not an

overwhelming tragedy but a human characteristic which, like other

personal traits, consists of certain inherent limitations and

inconveniences. By way of analogy, I suggested that blindness,

like intellectual capacity or physical size, entails certain

advantages and disadvantages to which we all have to adapt and

adjust. Gradually some of my friends came to adopt my common-

sense notions about blindness, and I derived enough comfort from

this support to sustain my confidence and composure while dealing

with the emotional assaults I encountered each work day.

Near the summer's end I told a few of my friends of my

intention to use part of my salary to explore some of the quaint

towns within a several-hundred-mile radius of Hackettstown.

Preferring the allure of New York City's bright lights, everyone

to whom I had extended an invitation to accompany me for this

weekend declined my offer, so I made arrangements to travel

alone.

Despite my educational efforts throughout the summer, a

couple of my friends and a member of the camp's administration

expressed some surprise and concern that I had not altered my

plans once I learned that nobody else was joining me on my trip.

They asked me how I thought I would manage without somebody

around to orient me to my surroundings and whether it didn't make

sense to identify a specific destination so that I could have

some idea of what to expect. Realizing that changing ingrained

notions about blindness is always a slow process, I patiently

explained that with my cane and some cash I would be fine and

that the absence of plans was largely what made the adventure

attractive.

On a Friday afternoon after all the campers had bid their

farewells and the facilities were shut down for another two-day

respite, I got a ride in to Hackettstown, asked the ticket agent

what the final destination of the New York City commuter bus was,

and purchased a ticket to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.

Several hours later I was comfortably ensconced in a small

hotel. Having ordered a pizza, I luxuriously stretched out across

my king-size bed and contented myself watching former Texas

Governor Ann Richards deliver a televised nomination speech for

Democratic presidential candidate Michael Dukakis at the 1988

Democratic national convention. Throughout the rest of the

weekend I watched movies, swam, explored the town and its

history, and found other amusements with which to occupy myself.

In short, I had a great time.

During these days of recreational solitude, I had

considerable opportunity to reflect upon the events of the

summer. I smiled inwardly at the knowledge that I was growing up

and that the philosophy about blindness to which I had always

subscribed really seemed to work. Having determined to visit

Wilkes-Barre on a whim, I found that I was managing well and that

blindness was not much of an issue. Further, I concluded that I

was actually quite satisfied with my successful performance in

what could be fairly characterized as my first real job.

Even when I pondered the turbulent and bittersweet aspects

of the summer's experience, I realized with pride that I had been

equal to the challenge, and I noted with corresponding sobriety

that as I matured it would be necessary for me to develop

sophistication in effectively addressing social misunderstandings

about blindness. While vacationing in Wilkes-Barre, I reaffirmed

that the best way to accomplish this would be to play an active

part in the National Federation of the Blind.

As this contemplative weekend drew to an end and I prepared

to return to Camp Merry Heart to finish the last several weeks of

my summer job, I decided that on the whole I was glad I had come.

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