20 Channels and Nothing On

My mom was wondering why we had bought a big, flat-panel TV if we were only going to get basic broadcast channels.

"We don't watch that much TV," I automatically responded.

"Then why the huge TV? Why spend all that money for something you don't watch?"

Well, for one thing, it wasn't that much money. It was the store generic brand, which lacks a lot of the bells and whistles -- OK, all of them -- but it does work.

The larger point, of course, is the larger screen. I'd rather not spend every TV-watching second with my nose twelve inches from a display. I do like watching movies, and the TV I do watch, I'd like to be able to actually see. From a couch. A second-hand futon, in fact. I don't think that's ridiculous, absurd, or extravagant, even if we only have about fifteen legitimate, English-speaking channels.

That said, broadcast channels have a lot of dead time. And by dead time, I mean they fill a lot of their programming with stuff that will melt your brain. If I have to watch one more celebrity gossip show, I will have to serve up my noggin as a chopped liver substitute. Not the best of situations.

So, I made a deal with the cable company to get a few months of cheap "family" service, which includes Comedy Central and the Food Network. That's all we really need. I would pay for just those two channels if I could.

I still can't catch every visual gag on the Daily Show. No matter: I get to see most of it and hear it loud and clear until March, and that should keep me warm through a long, cold winter.

Can I Save the Life of a Child?

Yesterday, I set out to prove that even the visually impaired can learn CPR.

OK, really, I just thought I should do it for myself... no big points to make. But I was curious how it would go.

In preparation for becoming a dad, I decided to sign up for an infant/child CPR class. I had a couple of phone conversations with Red Cross people to let them know that they were getting a partly blind student, and unlike the folks at the tutoring agency, they did not act as though I was from another planet. One of them even told me that had had legally blind students before. Score.

Sure enough, when we went around and introduced ourselves (all five of us), no one blinked when I said I was partially blind. They did applaud when I said I would be a father in April. Oddly enough, the same people got into a discussion later where they (rightly) said that you need to take a test for everything in life, except becoming a parent. I don't know what accomplishment they were applauding... fertility? But it was nice to get some smiles.

The training itself was easy and surprisingly fun. As promised, the instructor read every relevant part of the booklet aloud -- that just seemed standard -- and trusted me to ask questions when I needed to. As it turns out, there's no aspect of CPR that I can't see: as long as you can tell if a chest is rising with breath, everything else involves the other senses. The whole process is pretty tactile, which is great for me. Plus, with such a small class, she was able to come over and correct me when I had something completely wrong... which she did just as much for the other students. It's good to feel normal now and then.

At the end, she was about to leave us to take our written, multiple-choice tests when I asked if I could take mine orally. I think she had just forgotten, and after a little jockeying around outside, someone arrived to very clearly and patiently read each question and the possible answers, and he even filled out the answer sheet for me.

It took the instructor about ten seconds to grade the exam. Now, I was always a straight-A student, so this was a matter of pride for me. She handed me my card, which mean I had gotten at least 80%... but that's a B-. I had to know.

"So how did I do?" I implored.

"You got one hundred percent."

Wow. I mean, sure, the answers were pretty obvious, and most of the time the answer was D (all/none of the above), but still... a 100% score is a rare thing.

I proudly signed and took my American Red Cross card, stating that I was certified to perform infant and child CPR and to use an AED machine. It was 2:43, and I hadn't eaten a thing since 9:00 in the morning... so I took my card to the closest place where I could both eat AND possibly put my life-saving training to the test:

McDonald's.

Remember Tests?

I went in for a tutoring job today. If you've ever randomly looked through job listings in New York, you've heard of this company: they're constantly hiring. They interview in groups, eight at a time, and they seem to run through candidates the way Homer Simpson downs donuts.

When I signed up for my group interview slot online, they sent me an email with the invitation to ask questions. This, I now realize, would have been an ideal time to forewarn them about my vision. I didn't.

I also failed to mention the blind thing when we went around the room, introducing ourselves and explaining why we were there. I have to interject, on this moment, that everyone (including myself) lied a little. This always happens in interviews, but rarely do you get a chance to hear eight people do it in a row. Everyone claimed an altruistic motive for wanting to work there, and while the job doesn't pay well, it does pay -- and in this economy, that's the main reason for anyone wanting to apply. OK, done; moving on.

After everyone told their tales, the staff member asked us to fill out a short survey. Oe page, pretty simple. Small type. She left the room just as I was taking out my monocular to try and fill it out quickly, but when she came back, I was the only one who wasn't done. I'm used to that from college and such, but it's been a while.

Next, she informed us that we could now turn over the stapled packet in front of us... which was a test. Reading. Math. Science. Tiny, tiny print.

"Start with the section you feel strongest at, so that you don't waste time needlessly," she instructed us. "You have until the clock reaches the three."

As I briefly contemplated the fact that I haven't taken a strictly-timed test since I was... well, really, I can't remember when that was, since my teachers gave me extra time since the fifth grade. So as I realized that, the staffer asked for my survey.

"Sure," I responded as I passed my quarter-finished survey, "but I think we're going to have a problem." I explained that I was partially blind, and I asked if I could possibly have some extra time.

She reacted as though I had just asked for the answers on the test -- not as though I was being malicious, but rather, that I had just asked her something completely unorthodox and unheard of. After a little stumbling and stuttering, she said that she would be outside if I needed her.

I spent about three minutes trying to read a single math problem before I picked up the test and walked outside. I spoke with the staffer for a little while, and then she turned to her boss, sitting right nearby, who offered to have a large-print version printed up the next time I came in. They were nice about it, and I apologized for not giving them the heads-up... because, hey, I didn't.

All told, they handled it pretty well, considering they clearly had never run into this issue before. That, in and of itself, does surprise me. Are there really no other partially blind people in New York who want to tutor? Have these folks never, over the course of college or high school or other jobs, encountered someone who couldn't read small print? Are there really that few of us? Or, do we (as a group) willfully avoid situations where someone might have to accomodate us? In retrospect, I've done that last one a lot.

I'll probably go back in for a more prepared interview (in that they'd be prepared for me), and we'll see whether they and I like each other enough to keep going with the process. In the meantime, I'm going to continue to recover from wisdom tooth surgery, which doesn't really care how blind I am. Ah, pain.

Why I've Been Slacking Off

If you're reading this, you either already know me or like to check up on painfully dormant blogs. In the first case, you probably know this; if not, um... surprise!

This April, I will find out, firsthand, what it's like to be a not-not-blind father.

In keeping with my tradition of not talking about my romantic life on the blog, I'll just take a moment to say that my partner in crime is going to be, to use a technical term, an awesome mom. No one worries about her ability to raise a kid. Frankly, no one worries about my abilities in that department, either. No one has even brought up the idea that being sort-of-blind might make it harder to be a parent.

There are plenty of challenges, of course. Maybe people don't mention them out of politeness, or out of fear that they might offend me. Well, I'm not afraid, and it seems well worth it to list a few potential problems I may run into:

-reading to the child at night
-teaching good eye contact without actually being able to do it myself
-communicating with a pre-verbal baby
-keeping my child safe
-and many others...

On the safety front, I'm doing what I can. I just booked an infant/child CPR class at the Red Cross, in the hopes that I'll never need to use the training. There was one line about disability on the website, basically saying that you need to contact them ahead of time, so I did. The person I spoke to told me that she would give my information to the instructors, and they would call me if they had any questions.

"Ask them to call me no matter what," I said. "There are all different kinds of blind, and there are some things I can do, and some things I'll need help with."

She was fine with that. We'll see if they actually call.

Anyway, that's the big news... As blind-related events come up, I'll actually make an effort to post them.

Oh, and about that visit to the experts: sorry. Really, Part 3 wasn't that interesting. The upshot is that, after spending six hours there, I still have to go back at some point. They need to take photos of my eyes. They say it won't take long. I haven't scheduled the appointment yet. I feel like I have better things to do.

The Search for Spot, Part 2

First of all, sorry to have been gone these long three weeks. I have been moving and settling into a new apartment and, in some ways, a new (awesome) life. More on that soon.

Also, welcome to my fellow Stargardt's victim, who commented on the last entry - and thanks for the referral to my fellow blind-ish blogger, Rich, at The Perfect Focus.

OK... on to the next part of my visit to the experts.

Part 2: Bright Lights

When I first started working on theater projects, I probably had the idea at some point that I would be in the spotlight... that everyone's eyes would be on me. Is it so far off to have a whole bunch of bright lights flashing on my eyes?

Yes, as anyone with a vision impairment knows, ophthalmologists love to do things that make you want to blink, but they require that you don't blink. And I fully expected that to be the case at the experts.

The first thing they asked me to do, they explained, was not required for the study but would be helpful to them. It would take about two hours.

"Sure," I said, "why not?" I mean, I was hoping to catch a train to Philadelphia at some point that night, but ti didn't really matter when.

This was the point at which they started to put wires around my face.

First, they wiped my ears with an alcoholic solution, then attached clips. Then, they wiped my forehead with a solution and tried several times to stick something to it. When it didn't hold, they used tape. (I had a zit for about a week after that, and I'm pretty sure it was from a researcher's thumb.) The wires came next.

With a wire running straight across my bottom eyelids, I asked them if it was all right that I was very uncomfortable.

"Well, we could have used an anesthetic, but that would only last a few minutes, and then you'd blink more."

Fine. The discomfort was fading anyway.

"OK," the researcher said," now I have to leave you in the dark for 45 minutes." This was so that my eyes could acclimate. "Do you have a favorite radio station?"

"No iPod?" I begged.

"No, they give off too much light."

Reasonable enough. "OK, put on 93.9 FM."

That's WNYC, the local NPR station. As she flipped through the dial, I recognized it immediately.. It was my least favorite show - the special guest was a "cactus cabaret" singer from France - but it was mostly music that didn't offend me. All good.

So, for the next fifteen minutes or so, I sat still listening to French cactus cabaret in the dark. At one point, the researcher came back in with a red-light flashlight.

"I forgot to dilate your eyes," she unapologetically stated. "It's harder int eh dark." And, sure enough, she missed the second eye-drop and had to try again.

I still had another twenty-five minutes in the dark, during which the radio program ended.

The new one was RadioLab, one of my favorites. Hooray!

This episode was about parasites. Boo.

Worse yet, it started with a blow-by-blow description of Ridley Scott's Alien, one of the scariest films of all time. And I got to hear it recounted to me in the dark, complete with audio of the creepiest scenes. Lucky me.

By the time the researchers came back, I was basically numb to humanity. Which was a good thing, because that's when they turned on the machine and started flashing thousands of blinking bright lights at me, all the while instructing me to try not to blink.

The blinking bright lights went on for a while. I don't know how long. I had lost all sense of time.

"OK," said the researcher," good job."

Whew. It was over.

"Now I need you to just sit with your eyes facing this light for the next half-hour. To acclimate."

Right... well, in this case, at least I didn't have to sit all that still to keep my chin on a chin-rest.

"Ready?"

I faced the light.

"See you in half-an-hour."

"Um..." I started. But it was too late. She had turned off the radio, and I was left to face a bright light, in silence, for the next thirty minutes. That's when I started singing to myself.

And that's where we'll leave it until next time.

The Search for Spot, Part 1

Thanks to a few lucky coincidences, I have stumbled upon a team of Stargardt's Disease experts. What's more, they're looking for research study participants. As long as they don't further blind me, I'm happy to oblige.

It took a little while to set up an appointment, but we made one for last Friday. I would try to describe the entire visit on one post, but you probably have better things to do with your life, like taking out the garbage or learning to tap-dance. So, I'm splitting this up hour by hour.


Part 1: Paperwork

On Thursday night, I had been having dinner with a friend when I mused, "Gee, wouldn't it be funny if they gave me a clipboard and asked me to fill out a form with tiny print?"

"Oh, that's ridiculous," she said. "At an eye doctor? If they knew you were sort of blind?"

"It happens everywhere I go," I replied, "but there's always a receptionist who, when I tell her I'm legally blind, helps me to fill it out. I dictate, and they write. But I'll bet you somebody does hand me a clipboard."

So, naturally, that's what I expected at the experts.

The next day, I arrived at the doctor's office exactly on time, at 12:30, gave my name and sat down. Not long after I arrived, one of the researchers came in, and the receptionists pointed to me and said, "he's here." It turns out, "he" wasn't me; they had been expecting a patient since 10 in the morning. But we quickly established who I was.

After several questions, four annoying eye drops, and a few simple eye tests, the researcher had every reason to think that (1) I have Stargardt's, (2) I can barely see the "E" on an eye chart, and (3) my prescription sunglasses don't make that much of a difference. It was at this point that someone informed her that the 10:00 patient had finally arrived, only three hours late, and we went back into the waiting room.

"OK, let's get you registered," she said in passing as she went to the desk.

"Ah," I thought, as I saw her grab a clipboard. "Brilliant. She's going to sit with me and let me dictate as she fills out whatever paperwork there is. Thank goodness, I'm in a place where people know exactly what my problem is."

She handed me the clipboard.

"So, can you fill this out?"

I sat there for what felt like an eternity but probably lasted a mere three seconds of shocked silence. I started: "Um..."

"It's three pages," she explained. "You only need to fill out the top part of the first page. For the next two pages, you have to circle yes or no for each of the [single-spaced, more than fifty] questions. Don't leave anything blank; you have to circle no if the answer is no."

My reply: "Um..."

"So, can you do it?"

"I..."

This is normally where I would explain that I'm legally blind. She had just conducted a test that told her that. She had just asked fifteen questions that made it abundantly clear how poor my vision was. Now, I do have my little monocular, which allows me to do some spot-reading of small text -- I've used it to fill out forms before -- but it had literally been years. Maybe she forgot? Maybe she has really, really bad short-term memory?

"Um," I tried again, "I could, maybe... Are you going to be doing anything for the next forty-five minutes? Because it would take about that long."

"Yes," she replied. Which was true. There was that patient who had arrived three hours late. Unlike me, who had arrived exactly on time.

"OK, I guess I can try it," I sheepishly sulked.

"Great, I'll check back in with you later." And off she went.

I think it may have only taken me 35 minutes to complete the 2.5 pages. Filling out a form with a monocular is a lot like riding a bike: you never forget how to do it, and it involves incredible frustration, bad posture, and eye strain. (It's been a while since I rode a bike, so I'm not sure that last part applies.)

She came back over just as I had finished, and she asked how I was doing.

"Actually, I'm done," I proudly reported.

"Good," she approved. "Here's more."

I filled out the second set of questions and signed one of the forms, but decided to leave the second one blank. I didn't feel like spot-reading five single-spaced pages about a research study, and I really didn't feel like signing my consent to something I hadn't read. I let her read it to me later.

That was the first 90 minutes or so. The guinea pig part came next.

All Museums Are the Same

...at least, it would seem that way if I didn't have friends to read the labels.

I spent a decent chunk of my childhood visiting the American Museum of Natural History, and I went back with my girlfriend yesterday, for the first time in almost ten years. One difference I noticed was that many of the labels are now printed on plastic, using easy-to-replace cards. Back in the day, the dinosaur names were set in stone. Literally. Which, in retrospect, made it difficult to update to the latest scientific information.

Even as a kid, when my vision was much better, I never really read the labels. I could just have easily been going to an art museum. The dioramas were my favorite part -- I went back to see them, and was relieved to find out that they were still intact -- but I still can't tell you exactly what they represent. They just look cool.

True, a museum staff goes to great lengths to arrange its exhibits in a form of narrative, so that you get the story of the species or artist without having to read a word. But, really, without those descriptions, the story usually isn't too important. Museums, to someone like myself, are about seeing cool stuff and wondering how they made it.

I will say, those stone labels were really big and easy to read. Maybe it's because fewer people had glasses back then?

More on Color

You might say that I'm not not colorblind. I wouldn't, but you might.

Yesterday, I mistook a co-worker's dark purple shirt for black. This doesn't happen too often, but it's just common enough to make me think that, while I'm definitely not colorblind, I do seem to be color-slow.

Early on, when my condition was being diagnosed, one of the tests they gave me was a color ordering test. Basically, I had to put a set of colored pegs in rainbow order. I had some time to complete it, and I probably leaned in pretty close to see the pegs, but I did put them in all but perfect order. The one mistake I made, according to the doctor, was one that any perfectly-sighted person might make as well.

Still, when asked to make a quick judgment about color, I make mistakes from time to time. Why?

Well, for one thing, when your brain is used to making stuff up (as mine is, to fill the gaps that the eye can't actually see), it can sometimes go a bit overboard. I've learned not to fully trust my eyes most of the time, especially when there's some kind of a life risk involved, like crossing a busy street. So, naturally, my brain will sometimes assign a color to a shirt that isn't actually there. It usually isn't too far off within the color spectrum, but sighted people get confused anyway.

The other issue is one a friend pointed out many years ago, having to do with peripheral vision. It turns out that in the periphery, the outer corners of your field of vision, everything is in black and white. The center of the vision is meant more for colors and details, and the periphery is meant for tracking movement. You know, kind of like when we were back in the forests, waiting for bears to attack. Not that we're not worried about that now... but I do live in New York City, so the risk is a bit lower.

Anyway, until your brain assigns a color to an object, your peripheral vision won't know what color it is, so the brain makes a guess. I use my periphery more than most people, so naturally, my brain guesses about color more than most. Thus, purple shirts off to the side of me look black.

I'm happy to say that the purple-shirt-wearing colleague was not offended. No one takes offense at being accused of wearing black. Some people might get offended at the reverse, but we can deal with homophobia in a future post... if we really have to.

Monkey See, Monkey See Color

Apparently, male monkeys are red-green colorblind. In this sense (and this alone), I do not resemble a monkey.

In recent research, scientists seem to have found a cure for colorblindness in monkeys. The method is gene therapy, which has often been floated as a possible cure for my condition. After about five months of gene therapy treatment, male monkeys were able to see the difference between red and green.

The adorable story is on NPR:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=112897277&sc=emaf

The scientists in this story ask the same question that I have often asked of myself: namely, if you were to cure the physical eye, would the brain synapses still exist to process the image? In the case of the monkeys, the answer was a resounding "yes," despite the nay-sayers. I wonder if the same would happen for me.

Well, for the moment, this research is still monkey business. But, hey, in another five years... you never know.

Guest Post #1: Oouch

I got an email from my friend Andrew, who has the same vision impairment that I do, and we both thought it was worth sharing with everybody else. And as I took the short amount of time to post this, I found myself twisting and cracking my neck. Funny how life imitates descriptive prose.

Anyway, here it is:

I had the notion to peruse your blog this morning in search of confirmation that other not-so-sighted people might share my pain in a particular area. Notably, my neck. It is my suspicion that, unlike totally blind or fully-sighted people ("Sighty", as they are refereed to in my family), those harboring visual impairments also carry proportionately more stress between their shoulders. Craning my neck has been an occupational hazard that seems to slowly be taking a greater toll each time I bend over to read something with my magnifier or arc my chin toward the computer screen. The encumbrance of being legally blind is well-documented as far as the difficulties limited reading ability brings, but rarely is the physical stress of day-to-day low-vision operation acknowledged.

As a playwright, you might face the same thing. Even with easily adjustable screen enlargement applications, I find myself hunching toward the computer much of the time instead of increasing the magnification. It's natural, especially for those of us who grew up with more vision than we have now: when you can't quite see/read something, you get closer to it. You lean. You squint. With books and magazines (in the rare instance I attempt to interact with them such plane takeoffs, barbershops) I've gotten better at lifting them vertically to my face rather than lower my back to the flat surface they're on. But still, I'm choosing between extended elbow pain and the shadow of my head for the former or an awkward position and added pressure on my poor neck for the latter.

All of which is to say: ouch. Anyone else?

Back to wrestling with my instincts to lean toward the computer...

Don't let Sight get you down,

AB

Thanks, Andrew! Much obliged.

Not Not Blind Returns!

We're back! Welcome back to you, and I hope your summer was superb. Mine changed my entire freaking life... but we'll get to that in a future post. For now, here's a preview of what you can expect to read in the next few months:

Teaching Anecdotes

Camp was full of fun eye-sight-related stories. Plus, I will be working in a lot of different kinds of schools this year, and I expect that every group of kids will react differently to my "when I'm not looking at you, I'm looking at you" bit.

Medical Research

I'm planning to participate in real-life, actual research on my condition. As they do stuff to me, and as I learn new stuff, it will magically get posted right here.

Guest Entries

My old friend Andrew has already contributed a great insight into the experience of being partially blind -- watch for it in the next week or so -- and I hope it's the first of many. Others are welcome to contribute as well.

???????????????

There's a whole other category. It's a big, big deal. I don't want to give it away yet. Soon. I promise.

Dumb Observations (and Non-Observations)

You know... the stuff I normally post.


That's the table of contents. Chapters to follow, not in that order. Glad to be back.

Just Passing Through

I've spent most of the last two months teaching, preparing for an upcoming move, getting ready for my summer job, and writing plays. It's been pretty great, all told, and I have not come up with too many unique (or even dumb) thoughts about being not-not-blind. However, I'm about to spend two intense months working with artists, both kids and adults, and more stuff is bound to make me think. So, come the fall, I expect to post new and interesting ideas that will make you stand up and cheer for America... or,, at least, not bore you to tears.

Until then, have a great summer, and please think of your less-than-perfectly-sighted friends. I don't know why. I just think it's important.

Call Me GPS

The plan, today, is to go upstate. I will not be driving, of course. But just in case the driver needs help with navigation, I intend to be ready.

"But how?" you ask. "You can't read the highway signs."

Excellent point. I can't. However, I did print out directions on MapQuest and translate them, using my own personal code, into large brown-magic-marker abbreviations on the back of the sheet.

So, as long as I can remember what road we're on, I'll know which one we're supposed to be looking for. At least, that's the plan.

As for the ability to identify nearby rest stops and gas stations, we will be at the mercy of the highway commission.

Would That I Were Blinder

There are some things I would rather not see.

I would rather not watch Elizabeth Edwards turn her competent, intelligent, articulate image into that of a wronged soap heroine. Among all the candidates' spouses (and the candidates, for that matter), she was best able to articulate policy goals during the campaign. Now, all anybody asks her about is her set of proverbial horns.

I would rather not watch any more instances of the SNL Paterson parody. I do laugh at it now and then, but now I walk away less offended than saddened.

As an old friend of Judd Apatow once openly worried, I really do think that comedy of the bully is making a comeback. Woody Allen and others had once been the champions of the bullied, but those voices are getting diminished now, and we're left to make fun of the half-blind black man whose worst sin, as far as I can tell, was to bungle the publicity about a political appointment. Sure, Paterson has a terrible approval rating, but no one seems to have a good reason for it. He did make the mistake of chiding SNL for being a bully, though. So there you go: never call a bully a bully.

One last thing I would rather not see: Dick Cheney's face. Ever again. Do they make blind spots just for that?

Keeping the Public Informed

Tonight, I "revealed" twice in the span of a couple of hours. One mention at a meeting for an upcoming teaching project, the other after a show I had just seen. Both went fine.

The first one went something like this:

"By the way, I know that some of you aren't aware, so you should know that I'm slightly blind. The only way that should impact you is that if you hand me a written note and expect me to read it, I won't be able to do that. But if you want me to pretend I can read it and make it up as I go along, I'm pretty good at that."

The key seems to be getting the other person to laugh. This has always been Governor Paterson's approach to setting people at ease, and it's something I learned by trial and error over the first ten years of being not-not-blind. It does work, in that it gets the information across while simultaneously conveying that I am not a total weirdo.

Humor is a warm connection that does not require eye contact. But there's also a part of a reveal that, subtly, makes people feel more distant. There's a reading that does, "Oh, you're mysteriously blind? That's different from me. You're not quite like me." Not to say that people consciously think this, but I do feel that there's an element of that, even in social surroundings.

Whatever the case, it's necessary, and it does feel good to get a laugh from a room. I've known the latter since I was nine years old, and it's taken me a while to figure out the former.

Not Colorblind

I'm no botanist, but I'm pretty sure the "cherry blossoms" that spring up this time of year have nothing to do with cherries. I have yet to see actual cherries growing on trees in New York City. I may be missing them ,of course.

It is pretty damn cool to see the trees change from skinny brown to bright cherry-red to lean green over the course of two weeks. The way I see them, it's not so much that I'm looking at individual leaves -- that's hard -- but instead, especially in the breeze, one big moving organism.

I do like trees. And, to quote Lex Luthor, so does your average Cocker Spaniel. I also like Cocker Spaniels.

Branding

I have never been a fashion-conscious person. In high school, I found it downright mysterious that anyone would pay attention to a commercial label on a pair of pants or a shirt.

It was pretty easy for me to dismiss this as adolescent shallowness at the time, but then I got to college. Everyone (except me) seemed to be aware of who wore J. Crew and who wore Gap. I mentioned this to a friend of mine, who I thought of and still think of as an intelligent, substance-oriented person, and he responded that while some labels mean nothing about the people who wear them, others do.

"If I see someone wearing Tommy Hilfiger, it means they want to come off as a certain type of person," he explained.

What type of person?

"You know, the type who wears Tommy Hilfiger."

Right.

What he was expressing was neither stupid nor shallow. Even mass-market fashion serves as a form of expression, broad and unspecific as it might be, and it's a language people use to communicate before ever speaking a word to each other. If you heard last weekend's This This American Life, you know about a great example that involved acid-wash jeans. Of course, that turned out to be a communication that neither party understood, but that's life.

Even people who don't specifically look at the label -- and, again, I am physically incapable of doing so without putting my nose up to some one's sleeve -- still take a message from the style and cut of the clothing. Had someone trained me, or had I trained myself to do this when I was a kid, I probably wouldn't be at too much of a disadvantage now.

At the same time, I'm a little proud to be out of the fashion game. Well, not entirely -- I do put a little thought into what I wear -- but cheap and comfortable are ideal for me, and no one seems to complain. I may be contributing to slave labor by buying cheap, but that's an entirely different issue.

Full disclosure: I do own two paris of Tommy Hilfiger bedsheets. They were given to me. I happen to like them because they're comfortable. If this communicates anything about me, I do not need to know it.

Boring is Good

I went in for my annual eye check-up today, and my eye doctor chastised me for being boring.

"You're not giving me much to do here," he scolded.

My eyes haven't changed since last year, the year before, or the year before that. Even my light prescription is still the same -- and I only wear glasses in movie theaters.

Back when I was twelve, a specialist in Boston told me that my vision would not change for most of my life. In other words, I can expect not to expect anything new.

Medical science gets headlines when they discover cures or new diseases, but rarely for the ability to predict that nothing will happen. I, for one, am glad to make no headlines today.

Whoops

Last night was great. Staged reading of my ten-minute play, It Glows, the touching saga of two hapless slackers and the mysterious box that landed in front of their garage door.

This was part of a staged reading series which involved a bunch of other plays, and there were six actors who played all the parts in the evening. All I had to do afterward was thank the actors who were in mine.

One of the actors was tall and had facial hair. Easy. I spotted him as soon as I got to the front of the theater space. We had a great mutual admiration session, and then I went looking for other people to thank.

The other actor approached me. Unfortunately, I did not know who he was. Despite that I had just watched him play three parts, I did not know what his face looked like. Whoops.

We talked for a while, and I think I masked my confusion pretty well. Only later, when it was obvious to me who he was -- this was a separate conversation, in another part of the room -- did I casually play it off as, "Hey, man, we should stay in touch. You were great." Had I been in his shoes, this would have at least seemed odd.

It's times like that when I briefly think about disclosing -- which, by the way, I do when I can in casual situations, but hadn't had the chance to do here -- but I just didn't have it in me last night. I was riding the high of having just kept an audience in hysterics for eleven minutes. I didn't really want to pull out the blind card.

Like I said, it was a great night, and even that annoying incident didn't change that. I went out for drinks with the director and a few people from the cast, and we had interesting talks about the economy and the bubbles people trap themselves in. My vision didn't come up once. I even managed to guess what beer they had on the menu. People kept giving me compliments on my writing all night.

Every now and then, I get a break from being "that guy," and it's good to know that it's out there.

Footpath Rage

I was walking through the farmer's market today when I heard a British voice behind me say, "For f***'s sake, come on!"

I stopped and asked the person who passed me if he was talking to me. His response:

"Walk in a straight line!"

He said this as he stomped away, so I quickly threw in, "I'm sorry sir, but this is a market, and people walk around." By that point, he was probably busy cursing someone else's back. There was a small part of me that wanted to inform him that his accent was crude and lower-class, but I refrained. It was probably enough for one of us to throw a childish tantrum.

Once, when someone asked me if I could drive, I joked, "Dude, I can't even walk straight." But unless I'm meandering aimlessly in a farmer's market, I don't think my footpath is much wavier than anyone else's. The odd thing about having a blind spot is that you're never entirely sure whether you're normal in any respect. But, then again, 20/20 vision doesn't seem to solve that either.

A Creative Solution

The FDA has approved a treatment for what I have. It's not something I'd want to pursue at this point, but that's the first time I can say anything remotely close to the previous sentence, which is pretty damn cool.

My friend Andrew, who has the same condition, pointed me to the article (short and easy to read):

Implantable Telescope for the Eye

There are several reasons this isn't something I'd jump to get. First off, after about 19 years of having the exact same quirk in my vision (namely, a blind spot), I've gotten used to it. I can't really imagine what it would be like to see big things in one eye and the whole picture in the other. I already have spotty depth perception, and this probably would exacerbate the issue. I also can't imagine having to constantly switch from one eye to the other. Plus, there are the usual risks associated with any invasive surgery, especially one that involves as sensitive an organ as the eye.

I have the luxury of what is generally functional vision, so I have the choice. There are others with much worse cases of macular degeneration who could really benefit from this. And, hey, maybe I'll opt for it at some point. It's nice to know that it's out there at all, and that people are actually working on fixing this.

Today's Fib

While I was teaching today, I asked a visiting actor to remind me what the title of a script was. He showed me the page and pointed to the title, which of course I couldn't read. But, at that moment, I remembered what the title was, said it out loud, and thanked him as if I had been able to read it.

So, was this a lie, or was I just being expedient? Do I owe everyone the truth of the moment? I really don't know.

The fact that I'm sort-of-blind came up later in the class, when I said that I didn't know the name of someone who had handed me a nameless script the week before. This, I contend, could have happened just as easily to a fully sighted teacher -- I only see these students briefly, twice a week -- but it was a good excuse.

Viewing Race

Many weeks ago, I promised a post on race but never delivered. To those of you who asked for it, thanks for actually expecting me to live up to my word.




It's my experience that race has a lot to do with the face.

People usually think of skin color, but if you just looked at someone's hands or neck, you'd have a hard time distinguishing between a black person with a light complexion and a white person with a serious, well-worn tan. OK, maybe that wouldn't be too difficult for someone who pays attention to this stuff, but you get the idea. Color obviously plays a part, but not as big a part as it's made out to be.

So, how do people make snap judgments about race? Well, considering that I'm pretty slow on these things, I'm guessing it has something to do with facial features. It's the first thing that most people see, and it's the last thing I see.

Luckily, I'm rarely in a position where I have to tell the difference, but it can be difficult for me when I do. I do a lot of work with kids, and most kids (like most adults) imitate the voices of their peers. Accents can be very misleading. And, as I said, color only takes you so far. SO when somebody asks me where"you know, that short Hispanic kid" is,, after I'm done being offended, I actually have trouble telling who they mean. Most people don't seem to have that problem. They probably see patterns that I don't.

Really, it seems like a weird way to categorize people. The concept that because my face looks different from yours, I should give you a different classification, doesn't really ring true. As a white person living in a diverse city, it's very rare that anyone identifies me racially -- unless I'm working in a place where I'm in the vast minority. But, then again, as a "disabled person," I have my own minority to identify me. People also identify me by my face, although it's more specific to my eyes and where they're looking.

I just wonder where this comes from. Are we so tribally minded that, despite our vast similarities, we need to create distinctions based on such subtle characteristics as the shape of a nose? I wish I could say that I don't -- in the case of the nose, I physically can't -- but I do find myself trying to peg the race of the person next to me on the subway or on the sidewalk. I don't even know why.

I hear stories from black friends about women clutching their purses when they pass by, and it makes me angry, of course. But I think there's something more subtle and insidious about how comfortable we've become with labels, single words that are supposed to sum up the ethnic and cultural background of a human being. It seems so much more interesting and honest to think of a person in terms of their rich ancestry, coming from many parts of the world.

But that's not likely to catch on. After all, you can't discover a rich cultural ancestry by taking a quick glance at a face. At least, I can't. Can you?

By the way, if this topic interests you, you must check out this episode of Radiolab. They ask some startling questions about race and get unexpected answers. It's also one of the best podcasts available. Seriously. What, you don't believe me? Fine, be that way: don't be shocked and amazed. It's not my problem.

On the Road

Today, I'm writing from a beautiful public library in Oregon, where I'm using an "adaptive technology" computer. It has a nice big screen, a copy of ZoomText (VERY fancy zooming software for the PC), and lots of gadgets I would never need.

It's fun to be able to type and see every letter I write -- not typical for me at all -- but I don't think I could get used to it. It's like hearing your voice echoed back to you as you speak. It's distracting, and it makes me a little self-conscious. I'd rather just write stuff and not care too much about the previous word. As I say, though: very fancy. I can see why they charge hundreds of bucks for it.

The first few times I came here, I checked with someone at the desk first, making sure it was OK for me to use it. Today, I decided to just sit down; and, sure enough, someone came over to say, "Just so you know, this is for people who can't use any of the other computers."

"That's me," I replied. "I'm legally blind." And that was the end of that.

I really should take it as a compliment that so few people guess that I have anything like a "disability." I'm 6-foot-2, able-bodied, in good shape, and under thirty (for a little while, anyway). None of that translated to "disabled," and even people who constantly work with the visually impaired can forget how deceptive appearances can be.

The funny thing about this expensive software that I'm using is the speech capability. It does like to talk. It took me ten minutes to figure out how to get it to stop telling me what my mouse was pointing at, or what word I was typing. But I can't figure out how to get it to read a freaking web page. I'm sure it can, really... but didn't they design these things for old people, who are scared to even press a button? I am not one of those people. I should be able to read a web page, even in Oregon. This is a free country, right? Are you with me, people?

Eh. Maybe next time.

Practice, Practice, Practice

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Parents love to perpetuate the myth that if you practice often enough, you'll become a classical music superstar by the time you're nineteen. I maintain that no amount of practice would have vaulted me or my cello to even the least prestigious orchestra. Despite my musicianship, decent sound, and ability to memorize, my fingers never quite got everything right. I doubt that added practice would have solved that: talent does seem to count for something.

Still, practice also counts for something.

This weekend, I was waiting to cross a wide avenue when I looked for the "walk" sign. After a few seconds of searching around with my eyes, I spotted it -- or, at least, I thought I did. I saw an orange spot that was, from what I could tell, the "stop" signal. But I wasn't sure, and it took another second for me to figure out: Was that really an orange hand, or was it my imagination?

As it turns out, itwas real, and I waited for it to change, but it got me thinking. I use my imagination a lot. Just walking around the city or even looking around a room, my mind fills in all kinds of details that may or may not exist. This can be frustrating, especially when I turn out to be wrong -- You mean, that wasn't the toaster oven? -- but it does give me plenty of practice.

This may (partly) explain why, unlike many adults, I have no problem jumping from reality to imagination and back. I do it all the time. Like every other writer, I go through good and bad streaks and sometimes can't settle on what to write, but I rarely have trouble entering the world of my play. Where other people get stuck in the real, I slide back and forth pretty easily. I might have made a great Bush official... if only I wasn't so darn liberal.

Typically, people think of artists as daydreamers, people who have their heads in the clouds. There are plenty of us who are generally grounded and sane, but there's nothing wrong with a little daydreaming, or even a split-second nap from reality, right? A blind spot, a deaf ear, or a bit of dyslexia can be a handy thing, even for someone whose profession has nothing to do with art. It's good practice for the imagination.

By the way, to answer the question posed at the top of this page: Take the N, R, Q, or W trains to 57 Street. Alternatively, you can walk from several other subway stations, such as the F, 1, A, B, C, or D trains. No worries; you'll get there. Just don't ask to walk on stage.

Raising Cane, as a Subject

Rich's most recent post got me thinking about an episode I had long forgotten.

When I was a kid, a social worker came to my house to offer services. I didn't really think we needed any, but my mom thought it would be worth finding out what was available.

He walked in with a big, friendly smile. When I told him what my vision issue was, he dropped the smile, and put on a sad, slightly stern face..

"Now, unfortunately, your condition is degenerative, which means it will only get worse," he informed me.

Well, "informed" may not be the right word: he was actually incorrect. While "degenerative" sounds a lot like the general name for my condition, "macular degeneration," I had it on good authority that the degeneration of my retina had already occurred. In other words, my eyes weren't going to get any worse. But the social worker would ear none of this from a twelve-year-old, and he proceeded to tell me what I needed to do.

"First, you'll have to get cane training," he told me.

"I don't have any problem getting around."

"Oh, but you will, because your issue is degenerative."

Clearly, this gentleman had just passed his vocabulary test, and I wasn't about to correct him again. He went on to inform me about the medial jobs that I should start training for now, for that inevitable day when I would no longer be able to see.

The social worker's intentions were good, and he seemed like a nice enough guy, but in retrospect, this was pretty horrific. Social workers should not be giving out medical diagnoses, and they certainly shouldn't contradict what doctors say. I happened to have been to experts in Boston who had been very specific about my prognosis, or else there's a good chance I would have either lived in fear of total blindness or had to visit another battery of doctors.

And, just for the record, there's absolutely nothing wrong with canes: they're a simple, low-tech, extremely helpful mobility aide. I just happen not to need one. I have plenty of other gadgets.

A Lone Thought

A thought popped into my head a little while ago, when I precariously placed a plastic tuna salad container on the edge of a counter, and it promptly fell to the kitchen floor:

"Because of my vision, I can't afford to be stupid."

I don't really have anything to add to that. The tuna was fine.

Comic Books

I used to love to read comic books when I was a kid. Actually, the truth is, I loved reading. Period. But comic books were cheaper, updated more often, and available at the newsstand when my dad picked up the Sunday New York Times. Hence, I read a bunch of comic books.

For some reason, I never really caught on to any one superhero. I was a DC reader (rather than Marvel) and ended up with a bunch of issues of The Flash and Green Lantern for some reason. Maybe I wasn't interested enough in flight or bodybuilding to read a lot of Superman, but it didn't hold my attention.

As my vision began to change, I had more and more trouble getting through comics, to the point that I could only really read the pictures without a magnifying device. At a point, even magnifiers didn't help, and I didn't have a color CCTV yet. So, at a point, I just dropped the habit.

This may explain my joy at first watching Spider-Man in a movie theater. Sure, there had been comic book movies before -- I had always been a big fan of Christopher Reeve's skinny Superman -- but here was the real thing, a true comic book universe portrayed perfectly on the big screen. I didn't realize it at the time, but the movies were about to enter an era when I could finally enjoy comic book reality again... even if I don't like reading the actual comics anymore. The Dark Knight was the latest in a series of films that have made me very happy, and even if there are a few duds in the bunch (just because I'm blind doesn't mean I liked Daredevil), it's definitely an improvement in my life.

I have a couple of friends who have kept up with comic books. I happened to have read the issue when a character named Superboy Prime was born, and my friends tell me that he practically destroyed the universe. That's nice. When they make the movie, I'll watch it. In the meantime, I still haven't see the sequel to to the first Hulk movie, and as bad as that one was, I do want to redeem it... and, simultaneously, please that little boy in me who wants to read about a big green guy who smashes things. Childhood is so innocent.

A Not-Not Public Service Annoucement

I briefly co-hosted a sports talk radio show at my college, and every so often we were required to read PSA's (public service announcements). My co-host did the announcing. In retrospect, I could have memorized a few and done it myself, but it wasn't my top priority.

Anyway, my friend Andrew (who will hopefully write his own contribution to the blog soon) passed along this information for people with vision issues. I'm well aware that most people who read this are fully sighted, but if you know anyone who isn't, please pass this along... and thanks, Andrew!

We are looking for highly motivated and talented participants for the 2010 IISE course. To be able to reach blind and partially sighted potential candidates around the world we would like to ask you to send a small IISE advertisement to the friends and people in your networks. Please find below the advertisement in English. On the following link you can find the same advertisement in several languages: Advertisement IISE .
If your organization happens to have a Braille magazine, we’d be delighted if you could run the advertisement. Thank you very much for your help!

---

Attention! Attention!

Are you a blind or partially sighted person over the age of 18?

Do you experience social discrimination?
Is it your dream to change and improve the situation?
If yes, the International Institute for Social Entrepreneurs (IISE) is the right place to be.
The IISE seeks to empower people, especially blind and partially sighted, to become social entrepreneurs in your communities.

Candidates from all over the world who are at least eighteen and older and who can read and write English are invited to apply for this one-year program before the 30th of June 2009.

Computer literacy training, public speaking, fund raising, and management are some of the courses offered here.
For more information please visit our website at http://www.bwb-iise.org/

You can also write to file:///G:/aproject/ABWB/BWBnew/ENGLISH/BrailleWB@gmx.net or per regular post to:

Braille Without Borders - IISE
c/o P. Kronenberg
Vivekanenda Nagar, Vellayani, Ookode, Nemom PO , TRV 695020
KERALA, INDIA

or fax your questions to: Fax 0031848307904

Google Can Map My Heart

Thanks to Google Maps, I will get to work tomorrow.

Having grown up in a gridded borough, I get a little confused when I get to Brooklyn. In fairness, I think everyone does. But sometimes I forget, despite its location in the city of New York, that Brooklyn does not have a convenient system of numbered streets and avenues that tell you how to get where you want to go.

This is where Google comes in. Whenever I'm Brooklyn-bound, or really whenever I'm going somewhere new, I like to scope out the territory on Google Maps. If I know a few street names and can mentally walk the path from the subway to the destination, it makes the journey a lot easier.

The only problem is that, for the most part, it's hard to tell north from south when you step out of an underground subway station. This is where the Street View tool comes in handy. Store fronts make excellent landmarks, and if I can see them ahead of time, I can orient myself before I start walking. This saves a lot of wrong-way travel.

I'm teaching at a school in Brooklyn Heights tomorrow, and although I've been there before, I haven't gone alone . Also, the path to the subway was a little complicated, so I didn't remember it. Google has allowed me to look around the outside of the subway station, walk down the correct street, and slide right up to the door of the school without getting up from my desk.

Now all I need is a Google tool that will allow me to teach my class without leaving my apartment. It's a theater class, so I'm guessing that one is only in the R&D stage.

Subtitles 2: The Reckoning

Sometimes, the crowd is wrong. That lone, piping, contrarian voice is the one you ought to listen to. I was reminded of that last night.

Even before the Oscar buzz, I had been interested to see Slumdog Millionaire. Several friends had seen and liked it, and some recommended that I see it. One friend did warn me, by email, that a good portion of the film was in Hindi. But three or four others shrugged it off, saying that the subtitles were only in passing, and that much of the film was not subtitled.

"You'll understand what's going on," they assured me.

I should have been suspicious of this. It's the same language that people used to get me into Fellini films. But I went with the crowd.

Sure enough, more than half of the first half of the film is subtitled. Worse than that, the parts that are subtitled are the parts of the film that actually forward the story. I had no idea which young child was playing the main character as a boy. I had no idea that he and the other boy were brothers. I knew there was some kind of awful treatment going on, but not why or for what purpose. I did figure out what had happened, but not until the second half of the movie, which is completely in English.

It's hard for me to define where the line is between films that rely too heavily on subtitles for me to understand them, and films that have subtitles but do not depend on the viewer to read them. I will say this, though: Slumdog crosses the line, and Gran Torino does not.

For various other reasons, I think Torino is a much better film anyway. Apparently, the Academy disagrees. Maybe, in this case, I am that lone, piping voice in the wilderness. Or maybe I just don't like Bollywood.

Yes Wii Can

I can, at least. Sort of.

The first time I played a Wii, I figured out pretty quickly that bowling was my game. I'm not a terrible bowler in real life, but I'm a better Wii bowler because it doesn't require any vision at all. You just press a button and move your arm. I can see well enough to tell what pins are left, but even if I couldn't, I would do what I do in a real bowling alley: ask someone.

Wii Baseball and Wii Tennis do require some eyesight, mostly for the timing. I may never get the hang of the baseball game. Much like real-life baseball, it really does help to see that little ball moving through the strike zone so that you can hit it. Tennis might be another story.

This weekend, I played tennis -- doubles -- and helped my teammate sweep every match. I'm still not sure how I did this. I was able to sit close ebnough to the screen to see the basics, but a lot of it was guesswork. Maybe the rhythm of the ball is predicatbale enough for me to guess correctly. Maybe my teammate sent psychic messages. Whatever the case, we won a lot, and I really did not screw up too often.

For the record, real-life tennis is my worst sport. At least I used to watch a lot of baseball. An old friend used to insist to me that he could teach me how to play. He might be right, but if it meant running around on a clay tennis court in the summer heat, I woudl probably have to pass. The Wii allows you to play in room temperature. I prefer that.

Subtitles

People used to tell me I should see Fellini films. The conversation would go something like this:

FRIEND: You should see Eight and a Half.
ME: Isn't that in Italian?
FRIEND: Yeah, it's amazing.
ME: I can't read subtitles.
FRIEND: You don't have to read the subtitles. It doesn't really make sense anyway.

Well, I saw it, and I'm pretty sure it made about 100% less sense to me than it did to anyone else in the room. Call it a wild guess, but I'd surmise that the subtitles did help a little.

Fully-sighted people don't understand just how helpful those little words at the bottom of the screen can be when every word of the film is in a foreign language. I do speak French, but I don't understand it when other people speak more than a sentence at a time, so I'm pretty much relegated to films in English. My French class took use to a film about a French queen once, and at the end of the movie, I figured out who the king was.

Having said all that, it's also pretty distracting to sit in a movie theater and have somebody whisper the subtitles in your ear. It's necessary sometimes: I went with friends to see Kill Bill, which we expected to be in English, and half of it turned out to be in Japanese. Had it not been for my roommate reading me the subtitles, it would have been a lot like Fellini (except for the bloody sword fights). But I do prefer to just watch the film and pick up on what's said by the context, if possible. I'd rather just hear the actor speak and concentrate on the stuff I can see.

I saw Gran Torino last night. There were a few subtitles, but it was brief, and I could tell the tone of the lines without knowing the actual words. People did laugh, and knowing the subtitles would have clued me in to the specific joke, but it was funny to me too. And, luckily, they stopped subtitling once we saw the Mung families through the old bigot's eyes. I thought it was great.

Incidentally, my favorite film set in a foreign country is Lost in Translation. There are no subtitles. We're all in the same boat.

I Am Backwards

I just might defy science.

Dr. Oliver Sacks is one of my favorite all-around thinkers. I've been reading his latest book, Musicophilia, which describes a bunch of neurological oddities he's come across that have to do with music. Even if you know a bunch of these stories (as I did before starting it), it's still an interesting read.

Anyway, I just finished a section on people who lose their vision and, consequently, gain musical talents. I've never been a musical genius by any standard -- maybe I'm not blind enough for that -- but I do have a good ear and can make a pretty good sound on the cello. It's not the blindness, though.

Here's the thing: everyone in my family is a musician, and I'm the only blind-ish one. In fact, I probably have the least interest in music of anyone in my family. My musical tastes are broader: I like and know a lot more about rock and jazz, and my grasp of contemporary classical music (nice oxymoron) probably outdoes my mother and sister. But when it comes to the actual attraction to and practice of music, I lag far behind.

My parents were both born into non-musical families. My father was a conductor, a cellist, a pianist, an accordion player, and a music educator. He could look at a page of a score and immediately say what piece it was from. He would sit on subways and read orchestral scores the way most people read novels. My mother trained as an opera singer, studied music teaching at Harvard, taught choruses, and currently plays the flute as an experienced amateur. My sister majored in violin at one of the top conservatories in the world, and now plays with orchestras and chamber groups.

Me? I did take cello lessons for sixteen years, many of those by choice., but never even considered a career. I scraped by to get through recitals. In orchestras, I faked my way through rehearsals, memorizing the tough parts but guessing at the rest. No one confused me for a professional, and if anything, I got away with more because people knew I couldn't read the sheet music.

Long story short, losing vision did not make me a better musician. I do have the ability to recognize music pretty quickly, but I blame that on my family upbringing and my genetics, not on the eyes.

Dr. Sacks would be so disappointed. But, on the bright side, I just found out that we live in the same ZIP code. I might see him around the neighborhood. Or, at least, I might bump into him.

Better

Tonight's Saturday Night Live bit about David Paterson was a considerable improvement. I actually laughed, which was not the case last time... but, again, whether or not it's funny is subjective and not the point. To put it simply, this one didn't focus on his blindness. And as the governor himself would probably admit, there's plenty else to lampoon.

It's probably unfair to say that he's "not a good governor," considering the circumstances he's inherited, but it's just political wisecracking. For the record, other than making a circus of the senate appointment, he seems to be doing pretty well. And, of course, they keep referring to his having done cocaine once upon a time... just like the current and former presidents.

But, really, the only part that still bothers me is the bit about being disoriented and lost behind the desk. It's just not him. And I don't think people know that. But I guess the only way that's going to change is if the governor, or someone like him, changes the image with a more memorable one.

I have to admit, it was a little surreal to see him take out a pair of binoculars and pretend to read something. I don't do that with binoculars, but I use a monocular (you can guess what it looks like) to do the same thing for spot reading. It's awkward, difficult to do, and just generally an inefficient way to read stuff. I never thought it would end up as a gag on SNL.

Live and learn, right?

Look, Honestly

I was planning to post about race, but then I heard this segment on one of my favorite podcasts, On the Media. Suddenly, my world has changed.

From the interview:

ROOKE GLADSTONE: The character who plays you in the show, Cal Leightman, says that liars are more likely to look at you while they're telling the lie because they want to see if you’re buying it.

DR. PAUL EKMAN: Well, it’s more than that. They also believe this false idea that if you look away, it means you’re lying, so they don't want to be caught, so they look at you more than anybody else ever looks at you. [LAUGHS] And so, in fact, maintaining unbroken eye contact very often suggests that you’re dealing with a liar.

The myth of the honest person who looks you in the eye when he tells the truth is... well, just that. A myth. The fact is, since that myth is out there, liars often work harder to look you in the eye. That's been my experience too, in having to figure out whether people are lying or not. I'm often wrong at the time, but in hindsight, many of the people who lie to me have done so with unblinking focus.

If you think about it, what would prevent a liar from looking straight at you in the first place? Shame? Liars have significantly less shame than people who value truth and facts. I won't comment on the previous administration. No, the only people who have actual barriers against eye contact are people like me.

I can't say for sure, but it's a pretty good guess that in job interviews of the past, when I haven't revealed my vision issue -- nowadays I always do --potential employers would think of me as shifty-eyed and probably dishonest. I hope some of these people get a wind of the new Fox show that Dr. Ekman is advising. In the meantime, since I do have employment as a teacher, I get to meet hundreds of kids a year and subtly erode the myth of eye contact and honesty. I can live with that.

Now I have a couple more days to think about that race thing.

An Open Letter To Governor Paterson

Dear Governor Paterson,

As I'm sure you know, Hillary Clinton has now officially joined the Obama administration. Due to overwhelmign approval by the senate, she is now the Secretary of State. This will make it rather difficult for her to continue her duties as the junior senator from the state of New York.

You have hinted, during this long and laborious process, that you will name Senator Clinton's successor soon after her confirmation. The rumor mills have given Caroline Kennedy the best odds, and I am aware that you have interviewed her along with the rest of the potential senators.

As one partially blind person to another, I have a simple request for you:

DON'T.

You have been a great spokesman for those of us who, despite our disabilities, possess skills and qualifications for jobs. We deserve employment, not because we deserve special treatment, but because society should not waste our talents.

There are many great potential senators in this state, all of whom have extensive legislative experience. Do for the senate slot what you would want others to do for you or for me: pick the candidate with the best qualifications, regardless of gender, race, orientation, disability, or family name.

Thank you for your efforts to keep this state solvent in tough fiscal times.

Sincerely,
Me

P.S. As I wrote this letter, I found out that Ms. Kennedy withdrew her name from contention last night, making my plea irrelevant and moot. I don't mind.

I Have a Job

Governor Paterson often calls attention to the staggeringly high unemployment rate among the legally blind: nearly 70%, by some accounts. But, as a friend recently reminded me, we are not statistics.

I got a call this afternoon confirming that I have been hired for a job.

It's not full-time work, but as a teaching artist, my goal is to cobble together enough part-time work to support myself as I write plays and participate in theater. Sometimes, I get paid to do all three.

Most organizations that hire teaching artists keep a roster of them. I already belong to one such roster. Getting onto this one involved a highly competitive interview process, two separate stages of training, a third stage of training (if you make the cut-off), and a trial teaching unit, where they send you into the schools. This process started when I interviewed way back in the spring.. It ended today.

This still means that I have to spend a good amount of time looking for work, but I'm guaranteed a certain amount of employment now, which certainly takes off some pressure. Interviewing for jobs is hard enough, even if you don't have to deal with the whole, "I can't make eye contact, but please hire me anyway" thing.

I think I can actually relax this weekend.

Ah, Memories

Today, I went to meet up with an old friend who is starting to have similar eye issues to mine. Luckily, it's happening much later in life for him, and his sight is A-OK in one eye, so he can still drive.

The odd part was walking into the doctor's office. It was a big retinal specialist's place; I had heard of it, but I hadn't ever gone there, even when I was making the rounds as an undiagnosed kid. My friend was still being treated, so I took a seat in the waiting room.

Ophthalmologist's offices are strange places. The patients all speak a little more loudly than you would expect, and no one asks them to fill out forms with tiny print. No one expects them to be able to read them; if they could, they wouldn't be there in the first place.

This was one case where I didn't need to identify myself as not-not-blind. I told them what I was there for, and they casually mentioned a second waiting room where I could look. I looked around for a moment, flipped on my iPod, and tuned out.

When I was ten years old, I spent a lot of time in places like this. I remember the lights being brighter. Other than that, I have no recollection of lots of patients walking around, not sure exactly where they're going, and lots of doctors who know exactly where they're going. I don't know what my state of mind was, but I don't think I was aware of anyone else have vision problems.

I do remember long office visits, hours at a time, going from specialist to specialist and machine to machine. At first, when they said, "Open wide," I opened my mouth. After a while, I got used to it, but my dentist was confused when I opened my eyes at his command. Once you've been to enough people in lab coats with bright lights, the habit does set in.

I had the half-thought of stopping one of the doctors on his way out and asking if they've come up with a cure for me yet. But I think I'll save that for the guy who predicted a cure "in five years." If my math is correct, that would have made it 1996. Yup.

Menus

Why do people spend so much time reading menus?

The rational part of your brain runs out of juice after seven or eight choices, and most menus have twenty or thirty at least. Why not just ask the waiter what's good, make sure you're not allergic, and order?

When I go out to eat alone (which, yes, is pretty rare), sometimes I take out a little telescope ("monocular") and look through the menu. But sometimes, I just like to wing it, and the food I get is inevitably delicious. And I haven't spent all that time reading lists of ingredients, or trying to brush up on my Italian.

I think what I'm trying to say is that if none of us could read menus, we'd all have a lot more time on our hands, and we'd eat better. Plus, since specials tend to be more expensive, restaurants would make more money.

More productivity? Better diet? More commerce? Sounds like the solution to the economy to me. Mr. President-Elect, it's time to ban menus.

iPhone = Guide Dog?

Maybe. Someday. I don't need a guide dog, but sometimes I wish I had one anyway. Dogs are awesome.

Anyway, my friend Amy drew my attention to a great New York Times article about T. V. Raman. I had never heard of Mr. Raman (as the Times so politely refers to him), but I've heard of most of his innovations in accessibility. I had no idea the same person was responsible for all of them.

For the Blind, Technology Does What a Guide Dog Can't

I'm particularly grateful for my computer's ability to read PDF files aloud. It comes in handy all the time.

As for the iPhone that can tell you which direction to walk in, it's probably not that useful to me; I don't have any problems getting around. I do like that my new iPod talks to me. It tells me what songs it has, what's playing, and what menu is up on the screen. It's awesome. I named it Hal.

DMV Breaks Speed Limit

Sometimes, people who know that I'm legally blind ask if I can drive. This isn't as crazy a question as you might think: drivers make extensive use of their peripheral vision, and mine is well above average. Unfortunately, you use the middle part to see stuff like signs, curves in the road, small children, and large animals. No one should let me drive.

I do have the equivalent of a driver's license: the New York State Non-driving ID Card. Lots of fully sighted people have this. New York City is full of people who have never learned to drive because they never needed to. I would have liked to, but it doesn't affect my life while I live here.

Last month, I got a notice that my ID was about to expire in February. I finally got around to it today. I filled out the form at home, grabbed my social security card (the flimsiest piece of Federal ID in the world), and headed down to the DMV "License Xpress" on 34th Street. I expected a long wait.

The great thing about the Xpress branch is that it's small and open. They only take care of renewals and changes, so they only need a few windows and stations to take care of everyone. They're also surprisingly friendly. They call you "dear, honey, buddy, my friend," and just about anything else you can think of within the limits of polite society. What's more, they're efficient.

I told the clerk at the ticket counter that I was legally blind, and she didn't flinch. She just handed me a ticket, told me what number it was -- the print was actually large enough for me to read easily -- and told me what number they were calling just then. A clear, audible electronic voice announced each number. Within ten minutes, my number was called, and after a great conversation about rent prices in NY and PA, I was on my way with a temporary ID and the promise of a new one in two weeks. Done.

I don't know how many places there are in the world where a partially blind person can walk into and out of a government agency in fifteen minutes, having secured a state identification card and renewed faith in humanity. All I can say is, thank goodness for the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles.

Yes, I did write that.

A Toast

Several years ago, at a party , I ended up in a small group near the table of booze. We had each just poured some wine, and a striking woman offered a brief toast. We all clinked our glasses. After the toast, the striking woman chided me for not making eye contact with her. She recited a superstition about not making eye contact during a toast. I won't repeat it here, but I will say that it is not true. I checked.

Whether or not you are physically capable of making eye contact, and whether or not you realize that I'm posting this well after New Year's Eve, let's toast to a great New Year, and let's hope for the best from a new president and a sort-of-new congress. I believe the original title of Stephen King's The Shawshank Redemption was "Hope Springs Eternal," so may we all (SPOILER ALERT) slowly chip our way out of prison, crawl out through three football fields worth of sewer, and revel shirtless in the rain.

Happy 2009, and thanks for reading.