DELIVERING THE COFFEE

DELIVERING THE COFFEE

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DELIVERING THE COFFEE

by Mary Ellen Gabias

Mary Ellen Gabias has held a variety of
responsible jobs. She has worked for a state legislature and has been an administrator of
a program which helps blind people find employment. Today she is a wife and mother with
three small children. In her story, "Delivering The Coffee," she reminds us that
it isn’t always the great events of life that make the difference. Here is how she
describes her own personal journey to confidence:

I was lucky. My parents always believed I could

do great things. When I wrote my first composition in elementary school, my mother was
very proud. She said that I could work hard and become a famous writer. She had it all
planned. I would write "the Great American Novel" and make enough from it to
support her and dad in their old age.

I began learning French in Grade 3. My parents
imagined me working as an interpreter at the United Nations.

I became a political junkie in the seventh grade
and began working on political campaigns in high school. My parents reminded me that I
should not forget good ethics when I was elected to Congress. My parents definitely
believed that I was capable of doing extraordinary things with my life.

It was the ordinary things that gave them
trouble. I was expected to dust furniture, but my mother gave up on teaching me how to
sweep floors when I couldn’t get the hang of using a dustpan. I took my turn washing
and drying dishes, but my sighted brothers were all expected to clear the table. It just
seemed so much easier to do that job with sight.

I learned how to measure, pour, stir, and chop. I
did not learn how to use the gas stove. In fact, my mother always thought I would have to
marry a rich man, who could afford to hire a cook and housekeeper. Either that, or I
should stay single and live at home.

My parents were quite progressive compared with
some of the other adults I knew. They expected me to be responsible for myself and my
actions. They pushed me to do more than I thought a blind person could do. They stood up
to other adults who called them cruel for letting me play tag and roller skate. All in
all, they were terrific.

But they had never heard of the National
Federation of the Blind. They had very limited contact with blind adults who were earning
a living and managing their own lives. The local agency for the blind had a very custodial
approach. They organized picnics, but the people with the most sight served them food and
cleaned up afterwards.

The totally blind people were taken to a bench
and encouraged to sit there and wait to be served. My parents knew that I could do more
than the agency thought a blind person could do, but they didn’t know how much more.

I was a very typical adolescent. I felt ugly and
awkward, and I was sure that every blemish on my nose made me a social pariah. With their
usual patience and understanding, my parents reminded me that I wasn’t the only kid
who’d ever had a pimple. Blindness made me stand out more than any adolescent wants
to stand out.

My parents helped me to understand that being
different from everyone else could be tremendously positive, provided the differences were
based on excellence and achievement. I came to believe that, if I were only good enough at
everything I tried, people would forget I was blind and treat me like everyone else. I
became very active in the Junior Achievement program. High school students in Junior
Achievement work with representatives of local companies to form their own small
businesses. The businesses make a product or provide a service throughout the school year.
If they are successful, they make a profit. If not, they go the way of many failed small
businesses. Needless to say, the whole program is permeated with the spirit of friendly
competition.

I was in Junior Achievement for three years. I
worked hard and entered every competition for which I was eligible. In my senior year the
other students in my company elected me executive vice president. I was very excited. This
proved to me that people would forget I was blind if I was good enough at what I did.

Our company produced a radio show, which was
aired on a local station. It was a lot of fun. Everyone had a turn being disc jockey for
the week. We sold radio advertising. We produced a company annual report. Our officers
competed with the officers of 93 other companies for the title of "Officer of the
Year". I won. Out of 94 executive vice presidents in northwestern Ohio, the judges
chose me. What more proof did I need that blindness could be forgotten?

Then the wind was knocked out of my sails. I was
told that I could not attend the National Junior Achievement Conference along with the
other contest winners. They were afraid to be responsible for a blind person. They said I
could go if I was willing to be the only student among the 2,000 who attended from around
the country who came with their parents.

The conference organisers said they might let me
eat with the other students, provided the food was not "too difficult." I could
not stay with them on the college campus where the conference was being held. I would have
to stay in a motel with my parents. I learned the hard way that others do not forget about
blindness, particularly when they do not understand it.

I was not willing to attend the conference under
such humiliating circumstances. My confidence was badly shaken. If being the best
wasn’t good enough, what could I do?

I first heard about the National Federation of
the Blind when I was a university freshman. I read Federation literature with increasing
excitement. Here were blind people succeeding despite obstacles thrown in their way. They
weren’t asking anyone to forget that they were blind. They were not asking for
special favors or to be taken care of by others. They were prepared to do their share of
the work and to help take care of others in need.

As I met other members of the National Federation
of the Blind, I began to understand what real self confidence means. I did not have to
struggle to be perfect at everything I tried in order to feel acceptable to others. I
needed to strive for excellence because doing my best was the right thing to do.

I met people who were doing things which I
admired. Some were succeeding in careers I never dreamed possible for a blind person.
Others were doing the ordinary work of everyday living with skill and grace.

Sometimes it is the small moments which make the
largest impact. I was attending the Federation’s National Convention during the
summer when I graduated from college. The Presidential Suite was a place for convention
delegates to gather, make friends, and conduct business with the President.

There was always a pot of coffee on hand to serve
visitors. I dropped by the suite to say hello to friends. Someone asked for a cup of
coffee and the person in charge said to me "Will you get that, Mary Ellen?"

That simple request threw me into a dither. I was
an honors graduate of a large state university. I’d travelled by myself across the
country. But, I had never before carried a steaming cup of coffee across a crowded room.

Yet someone had asked me to do just that. I was
afraid I might not put the right amount of cream and sugar in the cup. I was afraid I
might burn myself when I poured the coffee. I was afraid I might bump into someone and
dump the whole cup on them. But I was at the Convention of the National Federation of the
Blind. This was not the place to use blindness as an excuse for failing to try. Besides,
where else would I get more understanding and support if things didn’t go well?

I delivered the cup of coffee. Nothing went
wrong. In fact, I doubt if anyone else realized what a moment of truth this small act had
been for me.

I was quite ready to heave a sigh of relief and
rest on my laurels. Then three more people asked for coffee. Before long, I’d gotten
over my nervousness. By the end of the afternoon, I felt quite experienced. I did drop a
cup and realized the world did not come to an end. That was just an ordinary part of doing
an ordinary job.

More than twenty years have gone by since that
convention. I still enjoy writing and speaking French, though I’ve long since decided
that the life of an author or interpreter is not the life for me. I’m still a
political junkie, and I spent more than two years working for a state legislature.

Now I’m a wife and mother. I’m teaching
my three-year-old son to pour his own apple juice. He’s learning the ordinary skills
of daily life from me. Now I’m the Mom who encourages my children to dream great
dreams and work hard to achieve them. It’s amazing how extraordinarily satisfying
ordinary things can be.