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.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 16, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 9, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 6, 2009
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.
"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.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
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.
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.
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