Blind people are unaware of the extent of their own sight loss

Trips to the optician are usually quite an entertaining experience. My eye condition isn’t very common, so the optician usually likes to have a good nose around, do a few extra tests and get all the students to come and have a good look around my diseased optic nerves.

I’d recently moved to a new city and around the same time, became quickly aware that my prescription happened to have changed. I made an appointment at my new, local opticians.

It was part of quite a well-known chain but I’d never had an experience with them before, so I quickly informed the, I assume qualified, optician of my visual impairment before she got a fun surprise when she began the tests.

She quickly brushed off my eye condition, telling me it wasn’t that big a deal and began the eye exam. I found this odd, but decided that she would probably realise the extent of my impairment as she moved through the examination. Besides, this was unlikely to affect the outcome of my new prescription anyway.

I dutifully read the snellen wall chart. I prepared for her to examine the back of my eye. I anticipated her shock when she saw the pale and lumpy bumpy surface of my optic nerve… But, no. She made no particular comment and quickly moved on to write out my prescription.

I thought for sure that she would send me for a visual field test - which is pretty standard procedure these days and takes forever on me because I can’t see most of the test - but she didn’t. Fair enough. Would’ve been a waste of my time anyway.

I stood to leave and attempted to centre myself in the doorway (surprisingly difficult). Unfortunately, I was minorly unsuccessful and the right side of my body collided loudly with the doorframe. Awkward.

I laughed it off.  “I’m so blind!” I smiled. Better to keep the mood light and let her know that I was okay, than to grimace at the growing bruises.

The optician, however, did not see the funny side. She responded quite abruptly. “There is very little wrong with your eyesight. You’re lucky to be able to see so well. Clumsiness isn’t the same as blindness.”

Needless to say I walked straight out of Specsavers and went to Boots instead.

Blind people are desperate

I was walking towards a local cocktail bar one night, bundled up in boots, coat and scarf (cane in hand) when I heard two men at the pub to the left of me talking.

“Mate! Look at her!”

You are probably very well aware that this is a fairly standard comment from a tipsy man when a not unattractive woman walks past. I took no notice and continued to walk.

Background info: it is not a myth that some people with sight loss often develop the use of their other senses to help compensate; in my case, my hearing.

“She is at least an 8, and she’s totally blind so she’s probably gagging for it and won’t care how ugly you are!”

Confronting drunk people when alone in the street at night isn’t always advisable. So I felt that I did the men in my life (who would have had words with me for doing just that) proud; I just chuckled to myself as I imagined turning around, ramping up the sass they love so much and responding politely with:

“No, I can’t see how ugly you are, but I can hear your desperation and it puts you at maybe a 2 on my scale. I’m not sure you could handle the sensory adventure a blind girl can provide anyway...”.

Of course i would then turn on my heel and hair flick dramatically as I continued on my journey. It would have been quite spectacular.

Blind people should try glasses... but if that won’t work, blind people should leave the attractive men to people who can see them

We’ve recently acquired a new housemate - let’s call her Plum - after the tragic loss of our old one to a bad case of ambition. Apparently we weren’t good enough to keep her here. It’s fine. I’m totally not sad about it at all.

Anyway, I told Plum I was visually impaired shortly after she moved in. It’s not really the kind of thing you could or should keep from people you live with, so I encouraged her to ask any questions she had. I didn’t want her to ever feel uncomfortable or unsure about it.

She began with the usual: “So what can you see?”

…I recited my well rehearsed speech that usually answers most questions

but she, understandably, had many anyway.

“Have you been to the opticians, maybe glasses will help?”

…and as I explained why this is not an option for me…

“Well isn’t there some kind of laser eye surgery you can have?”

“No, no, this is incurable.” Because y’know, I’m just ignoring glasses and cures for fun!

A look of pity swept across her face, so I put on my biggest smile and happiest tone of voice (as I often find myself doing when explaining my sight to people) in an attempt to convince her that I really am happy and ok with my eye condition and she should be, too.

A few days later she got brave.

She decided that now was the time to talk about relationships.

“Do you worry that you won’t be able to find a good man because your eyesight makes you less desirable?”

A cheeky, but fair question. It is well known, I think, that people with disabilities are often seen as less attractive (wrongfully so) as they are often portrayed to be less confident individuals that could be quite dependent on a partner. And that is often not the case - definitely not in mine. If anyone dares to help me too much, I get fidgety and make strange noises in protest.

“It is something that has crossed my mind before,” I replied measuredly. “But I feel that, if I can accept it and do awesome things with the sight that I have, that should be enough for other people to accept it too. So no, it’s not something that worries me.”

She considered. “Ah, okay. But since you can’t see all that well… will you take a less good looking man so that the rest of us can appreciate the good looking ones?”

I thought this was a joke.

On reflection, I think she was sincere.

I mean I literally waited for her to signal that it was a joke, but it never happened.

Blind people have feelings too... (what not to say to a blind person)

People offend other people a little bit every day. It is impossible for us to know everything that is going on in someone’s life and how they might be feeling in any particular moment, so it’s inevitable. It doesn’t make us bad people or insensitive souls.  All we can do is choose our words and tone as carefully as we can in the hope we don’t hit a nerve. It is, of course, considerably easier when we know the other person well: then we know which questions are too personal, where sensitivities are, and which jokes are appropriate.

When confronted with disabled individuals, these everyday social navigations can feel like a minefield for a lot of people. And that can be embarrassing. The messages we get from society on how to treat disabled people are mixed: do you go out of your way to be helpful to them in any possible manner or do you pretend you don’t notice a difference? Is there a middle ground? What is it?

There is no definitive list of things that people should refrain from saying to a blind person. But there are a few Dos and Don’ts that I, as a blind person, have learnt from my conversations with sighted people (I’ve had a fair few) that might be of interest to you.  Of course, to complicate matters further, this list will vary between individuals and I’m sure there are visually impaired people who will completely disagree with some of the things I say here - that’s life! All I can do is tell you that I, personally, prefer it when sighted people:

- Do not patronise me. I can’t tell you how many times I have been told to go to the opticians, get glasses, or asked if there is some kind of cure I’ve been ignoring for years. I do understand why people say these things. I’ve just told them something they consider to be awful; they feel helpless so automatically switch to “advice and options” mode. It makes them feel better. But I’d rather they stopped and took a second to realise that I am intelligent enough to have considered all of these things before I bought the cane.

-Do not expect me to be different.  Yes, I am a normal person, with a life, family, relationships and hobbies. Don’t get super-overly-excited for my normality. Yours and my lives are basically the same; I probably just turn my head more, depend on my hearing more, have cooler hobbies (if i do say so myself), and a fun white accessory.

-Do not pity me. I don’t have sympathy for myself when there’s actually something wrong, so why are you pitying me on what is a distinctly average day in my life? Whilst sympathy is very much encouraged when someone appears sad or emotional, I rarely appear these things, especially when talking about my eyesight. In fact, I usually smile excessively as a sympathy deterrent! It’s not necessary. I, like many people that have lived with their blindness for a while, have come to terms with my sight loss and accepted it as a part of who I am.

To look at it another way: sympathy is used to let people know that it’s okay to not be completely satisfied in your current situation. There are a few reasons why I dislike receiving sympathy in my current situation:
1. I did a lot of hardwork to get to this stage of being comfortable with who I am. Your un-invited sympathy encourages the idea that there’s something wrong with me and I shouldn’t be okay with myself. Whilst I know it’s well meant, it can sometimes do damage, too.

2. I don’t accept emotional support from strangers generally, regardless of the situation.

3. It doesn’t matter how pretty or young or otherwise healthy you think I am, it doesn’t make it any more or less of a shame that I can’t see the same way you can. I get this comment a lot, actually, and it’s so frustrating. If anything, it just makes the commenter seem shallow.

-Do not make assumptions about me. Just because I am blind does not mean:

• I wish I wasn’t (a lot of us are perfectly comfortable with our eyeball function).
• I am incapable (please trust my judgement on whether I require assistance).
• I am unhappy or lonely (cue: the hundreds of street preachers that launch at me like an easy kill).
• My standards for a partner are lower (maybe I care a little less about the aesthetics, but the fact you’ve commented on this possibility means you’re probably not my type).

-Do not make me out as a hero. “I don’t know how you do it! I wouldn’t cope half as well as you do! You’re so brave!” Nope, I’m just your everyday, ordinary 20-something dealing with blindness as I’m sure you are dealing with something, too. Please don’t make out my life to be so much harder than yours; it puts me on some awkward pedestal that isn’t necessary. Everyone has difficulties in their lives, it’s not a competition.  

-Do not give me a sight test.  Seriously. Don’t. I’ve had more than you probably will in your lifetime.

-Do not make me a game (not even if you’re my brother and I’m forced to deal with your ridiculousness). His favourite party game is to see how close he can get a finger to my eyeball before I notice. Aside from this actually being quite dangerous (I could turn my head and impale my eye), it’s an invasion of my personal space and, quite frankly, utterly annoying.

-Do ignore my cane. At least long enough to ask me my name.

-Do ask about my sight.  It’s not something I’m ashamed of and I’ll give you the information I think you need or deserve (based on the level of trust between us). Plus, I’d much rather you ask, than stare awkwardly at my iris, dislocate your neck trying to avoid looking at my cane, or feign ignorance of the topic altogether.

-Do feel free to find my impairment interesting. I do. It allows me to view the world in a unique way (literally and metaphorically). When getting to know me, you will undoubtedly be introduced to my impairment and learn how it has woven its way into the fibres of my life; influencing much of what I do and how i think. But….Don’t forget to find the rest of me interesting, too. I am more than just how i see.

Blind people all know each other

One of my housemates invited over a group of friends for some drinks. Some of them I knew, some of them I didn’t. I didn’t hang around this particular evening, having had plans of my own already in place.

The next day whilst we were all recounting the events of the night before, my housemate asked:

“Do you know *George? From last night?”

“No” I replied, dredging up the brief glimpses of faces I’d seen at her gathering. There were only 3 guys I had seen arrive… I knew two of them, so I suppose the last one would be the one she was talking about. Nope, didn’t know George.

“Oh, are you sure?” my housemate continued, oddly mystified. “You have a lot in common, so I just assumed you know each other.”

“Oh, how interesting,” I commented, genuinely interested. “What do we have in common?” Did we take some of the same classes? Had we attended the same events?

“Well, he’s visually impaired, too!”

...right. I’d forgotten about that telepathic network that all blind people share.

Blind people are just....people

Seven years ago… (my memory is a little foggy but i’m sure it went something like this)

“I’ve been to see the specialist,” I said slowly. Nervously. It wasn’t like me to be nervous. “He says he doesn’t know how much sight I’m going to lose, or how quickly.”

I felt like telling him he could leave if he wanted to, and I wouldn’t blame him. Yes, things had been going really well, but we’d only been together a couple of months. A broken girlfriend probably wasn’t what he had in mind.

He nodded thoughtfully. “So… when do you get a guide dog? You love dogs. Or do you get a cane first?” He grinned. “I can’t wait to move things round the house so you can’t find them and trip you up with your cane! It’ll be great; winding you up is going to be so much easier now!”

Even now, seven years later, I can’t think of anything that he could have said that would have been better. In those few sentences, he made me feel like it was just a fun challenge we were going to get through together. He pointed out the perks (like a free dog). But more than that, he told me that I was still the same person to him now as I had been five minutes before I told him.

Blind people must wish their sight was better

I realised not so long ago that I have become somewhat attached to the unusual way in which I view the world. In short, if someone offered me a pill that would restore my sight to a full 180 degrees of vision I would be inclined to say no. Although my blindness does not define me, it is responsible for a lot of my history, personality and behavior. Saying goodbye to my visual impairment would be like saying goodbye to part of me, much like when I said goodbye to my sight and the future I envisaged for myself aged 15.  Why go through that again when I’m happy as I am?

I have explained this to multiple people, usually to looks of confusion and stuttered broken questions as they struggle to understand how anyone could be truly happy with about 10 degrees of vision; but I think the most notable response came from my mother and my sister :

“How utterly ridiculous. You don’t mean that. You’re just being stubborn.”

Blind people have lower standards

*names have been changed

My housemate and I had gone to our friend *Tom’s house for dinner and games. There were quite a few people there, including many that I had not met before. One of these happened to be a particularly lanky ginger. Let’s call him nitwtit. He was really rather interesting with a lot to talk about, and it wasn’t until my housemate and I began our walk home that the story really emerged.

Clearly half-entertained, half-outraged, my housemate filled me in on a conversation that she’d overheard as I was in the bathroom.

Nitwit: “I’m having a great night! Thanks, Tom. The girl I’m talking to seems cool.”

Tom: “Yeah, she’s great- did you realise she’s actually really blind?”

Nitwit: “Oh, no way! I might actually stand a chance with her then!”

I remained friends (JUST friends) with Nitwit and am still waiting for the perfect moment to remind him he said this.

Blind people use canes

As you can imagine, I don’t go around declaring my visual impairment to the world or to every single human that I meet. That does mean that I sometimes lose track of which acquaintances know and which don’t.

A large group of us were in an airport waiting to fly to an awesome European destination for a photography adventure.  As we vacated some chairs to walk towards our gate, I flipped out my cane like a light saber, pointed it at a 30 degree angle towards the floor and began to follow the crowd.

At which point one of the boys in my group shouted across the airport lounge, “Crikey girl! You’re keen, getting your selfie stick out already!”

This happens a lot. Which upsets me because I have a deep and rooted hatred of selfie sticks.

Blind people have a responsibility to accept all help offered

I get on the tube with 3 or 4 of my close friends. It’s quite a full train so we hold onto the pole in the middle and I let my cane dangle from the elastic around my wrist. We’re having a nice chat about which market we should go to next when a lady sat in a priority seat offers to move for me.

I say thank you, but no, it wouldn’t be necessary, we weren’t on the train for long.
She stood up and moved anyway, then proceeded to look at me.

My friend suggests I should just sit down because it was nice of her.

But how is it nice to completely ignore the words that leave my mouth? Why did this random stranger, and more painfully, my friend, not trust me to know my own capabilities?

I’m sure the lady felt fantastic for her good deed for the day, but I just felt small, pitied and misunderstood. My friend should have stood up for me. My eyes function differently, but my legs are fine.

Blind people are sad and lonely

Location: Leicester Square Central London

I stood on a bench, my cane hanging from its elastic loop around my wrist. I was looking at the scene through a lens, concentrating on capturing the business of the square in a photograph.

Someone tapped on my leg. I glanced down to see an older man, staring up at me, clearly eager to ask a question.

“Are you visually impaired?” he asked without hesitance.

I flicked onto autopilot and began to give him the explanation of my vision that I have given so many times.

“So… can you see my face?” he interrupted, somewhat tentatively.

“Well,” I considered. It usually takes me some time to examine people’s faces and build up a useful 2D model in my memory. A two-second acquaintance wasn’t really enough, but this didn’t seem worth explaining. “Yes. Parts of it; you are stood quite close so not all of it at once.”

Judging by how these conversations usually go, I half expected him to ask why a VI girl bothered with a camera - another rehearsed speech I have.

“….and my colour?” he asked.

I stared.

“Yes, I can see that you are a black man. “

At this point, I was a bit confused. Did he think I was racist? Did he think that I couldn’t see colour or shade? My confusion was resolved fairly quickly. It wasn’t a question about colour, not really. It was an attempt at comradery, in the weirdest form.

“God can help people like us, you know. People that are different.”

Different.

Right.  

He told me all about the grace of God and how he did not discriminate for any reason and – before I could interrupt – assured me that people at his church were friendly and inviting.

Now, variations on this scene are not new to me. But this one just kept hurtling on towards the realm of the bizarre.

I told him, quite cheerfully, that I did not believe and wasn’t particularly interested in being converted today, but I was happy to answer any specific questions he had.

I may as well not have spoken.

“It’s a great place to learn to be happy” he continued.

I had to stop myself being slightly affronted. Because, I’m sorry, do I not seem happy? I’m in central London, with a camera, on a lovely day. Anyone that knows me knows I’m pretty damn happy right now.

“…and it’s a great place to make friends!”

Do I appear to not have any? If you look around a little more, you may notice there are five or six people stood to the right of us, with matching photographic accessories, looking quite confused at why I’m speaking to this strange man, probably wondering whether to come and save me. These are some of my friends.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Offence took a back seat; I was momentarily amused. Part of me was reluctant to answer, but I was so interested to see where he was going.

“No, I do not.”

“Well, the church is a fantastic place for someone like you to find a man! Someone caring and loving that will give you the help you need.”

Let’s just take a step back here and a small moment to think about all the assumptions and implications he’d felt quite at liberty to make so far. I’m holding a cane, therefore I must be:
- sad (I was definitely smiling though it was beginning to be a conscious effort)

-lonely and in need of friends (I was there with several friends, and that’s not even all of them!)

-in need of love/companionship (Do I exude desperation? Because most people tell me it’s confidence.)

-in need of help (At no point did he offer to help me off the bench which could have been a hazardous activity for a blind girl…)

- in need of a divine being to help me through all of this (I did my “getting through this” a while ago. At a catholic school.)

It would have been quite easy for me to go into detail about just how rude he had been in the past few minutes; how his relentless refusal to acknowledge my happiness in my independence was the worst thing he could do to any disabled person (and indeed his general refusal to listen to anything i said). But instead I decided to use some of the knowledge I had gained about him in the few minutes he spoke to me and offend him harmlessly based on his clearly conservative Christian views.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather have a girlfriend. They tend to meet my sexual needs better.”


A sure way to end the conversation quickly :)

Blind people can't see anything

Location: Undergound walking towards the Jubilee line in Waterloo Tube station.

Cane in hand, glasses on, I aim for the travellator: a wonderful invention that speeds up your commute by providing a flat, moving floor. They’re quite large and not very difficult to see in a lit room, especially when wearing prescription glasses. I’m about to step onto this wonderful contraption (thinking about how grateful I am for it to be located in this extremely long tunnel when I’m running really quite late) when a pair of large hands grab my shoulders and pull me back and to the side.

A scream escapes me as I tense, suddenly in full-on fight or flight mode. The hands turn me to face my attacker…

…who announces, very loudly and sloooowwwwly: “You… were about to walk… onto a travelator… It moves… and you were going to trip over….”

I shake him off, looking him dead in the eye that I could see. “That’s what I was aiming for!”

The man looks confused. “But… I thought you couldn’t see anything.”

“I’m wearing glasses! Obviously, I can see something!” I didn't feel the need to also point out that the type of cane I use doesn't even touch the floor, which would imply I have some sense of what is in front of me. I couldn't expect him to know all the types of canes and their uses.

Of course in this situation you could probably criticise me for being angry at the man that genuinely thought he saved my life; but in my defence, I thought I was being mugged.

He really could have said “excuse me” first.