Monthly Archives: September 2015

When smoke Gets in Your Eyes

27 Sunday Sep 2015

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This past weekend, I had the opportunity to go “Fall camping”. For those who have never been (like me), it’s exciting and fun… except for the fact that you need to pack gloves, extra socks, toques (warm hats), realize that it takes forever to get a fire going, and layer up your blankets, because by gosh it gets COLD!

I loved it.

But the experience taught me some pretty startling truths – some humorous, some not so much – about my perception of myself, my own expectations, and how sometimes everything going to hell is just what you need to smack you in the face and get you back on track.

Let me preface this by stating that the trip was NOT a complete flop, and not even a bad trip. Just enough things went just sideways enough to make for some great reminiscences for the next camping excursion. Ben and I got to the camp site right on time, after a minor detour to the wrong campsite on the far side of the canal. Unfortunately, pulling in to the wrong campsite – a heavily treed area – signaled to Jenny that yes, yes yes, this was a PARK and this would be FUN, and let’s start whining the WHOLE rest of the way to getting back on the road and on route to our correct campsite. Thankfully this whining thing stopped until we literally pulled in, and she let out one plaintive yowl… and proceeded to hop out of the car and sniff all the trees and bushes within a ten-foot radius.

Our friends had been there for a couple of hours, had tried (unsuccessfully) to catch fish for dinner, and spent thirty minutes to get a campfire going. For some reason, the fly on our tent wouldn’t cooperate, so it took all four of us to actually get the thing assembled (this is what happens when you go camping less than once a year). We sat around the fire, but no matter what direction the wind blew, which chair I sat in, the smoke kept blowing in my face. Thankfully this doesn’t bother me too much, so I just rolled with it, drinking strong coffee and attempting to keep my already cold fingers warm. Jenny started shivering almost immediately, and was ecstatic to be able to lay on her bed on the cold ground. We enjoyed steaks, potatoes, and Greek salad for dinner, then donned extra socks, gloves, and/or sweaters and chatted around the campfire, complete with funny stories, whiskey, and beer, until one of the lanterns went out (about 11:30). Ben and I retired to our tent, and our friends headed to their camper…

Whoever can successfully change into their pajamas in a 2-person tent with their spouse and their dog inside it should get some kind of award. I can say this because I’ve successfully done it. Now, try telling said dog that yes, it really and truly is warmer under the spare blanket, NOT on top of it… one of those useful things they didn’t teach you at guide dog school. Repeat this three times during the night, lose your toque somewhere in your tent and wake up with a frozen nose, realize at 6:00 AM (while your dog has to pee) that your air mattress has a leak in it, and you’ve got a pretty good idea about the awesome time that was had by all in the Lang tent. No word of sarcasm… we had a ball… especially when Jenny woke up at 6:00 AM, wagging her tail against the side of the tent and giving Ben a tongue bath to wake him up; we laughed uproariously, making our friends wonder what in the world was going on just a few feet away from their camper.

The water at the pump had a sign on it that it wasn’t suitable for drinking, so we went into the nearest town (about half an hour away) and filled up on water, gasoline, and coffee. Jenny did terrific guide work in the restaurant, despite the fact that I didn’t have her regular harness with me, and we had to explain about six times that she is a service dog. Thankfully, we had our coffee in peace, filled up our water bottles and our friend’s Jeep’s fuel tank, and back to camp we went.

At this point, Jenny still thought that camp was the biggest off-leash dog park EVER. Her only exposure to wooded areas for the past couple years has been at off-leash or multi-use trails, and the trees and bushes and ground at camp all smelled SO AMAZING. Little matter that I was telling her to do something guide dog related (or even not guide dog related); listening was apparently optional. My city dog just wanted to get out her mojo. So we stuck a railroad spike into the ground, clipped her leash to it, and let her sniff around camp. This pleased her for about fifteen minutes… until she wanted her bed again – close to me, but far from the fire, please.

The fish weren’t biting. And the new campfire was taking forever to light. And the barbecue Ben was using slipped and fell off the picnic table, spilling a sizable chunk of bacon on the ground. Thankfully, we had enough bacon in the cooler – and eggs and Greek salad in the ice box – to make a terrific lunch. Undaunted, our friends wanted to go further up the canal to see if the fish were biting there, and I wanted to take Jenny for a hike…

But Jenny had other ideas. She didn’t get the memo that I had this awesome hike planned for us. Wouldn’t it be fun? No no no no no! It’s GRASS!!!!! And what do I mean that I want her to stay on-leash? This looks like a dog park! And not pulling? Pffffft. She’s off-leash at the dog park and doesn’t understand why I’m not happy. We spent the next thirty minutes like this, in a heated power struggle, until we walked back to camp and Ben and I reassembled the tent and loaded up the car. Our friends came back (still no luck fishing), minus a good lure that got caught in a log. As we drove away from a spectacular 24 hours, they were headed back out to give it one more try.

Camping has always taught me many lessons. As a small child and young teen, I was able to get away from the city and explore nature, pitch a tent, think my own thoughts, and just rest in the quietness of a summer night. This experience was wholly different, because I expected in some ways to be that same young girl with skills to assist those who were camping with me, even though I haven’t used any of those skills since I either had more vision or finished grade school… or both. I also expected Jenny and I – true city dwellers) to simply pick up and act like camping and hiking was no big deal, just another fun activity, not realizing that – like building a fire, catching fish, or cooking over a camp stove – it takes skill and practice to become profficient. Jenny and I both lost out in some big ways this weekend thanks to some expectations that I – ever the perfectionist, dreamer, nutcase – somehow got into my head. But we also walked away with some things, too. I’ve got a game plan for whatever remains of this fall, and next spring, to get out into more woodsy areas. Even if we never go hiking as a guide dog team, simply letting Jenny be a dog on leash and her understanding those limits will transfer into a much less frustrating camping trip the next time around.

By the way, I’ll go camping again. Even with gloves, toques (even ones that go missing), no fish, fires that take forever to light, and warm sunshine right next to nearly arctic shade, I far prefer fall camping to summer. You know why? No mosquitoes!

Accessibility: A Right, a Privilege, or Plain Good Business Sense?

19 Saturday Sep 2015

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This morning, I received a text from a friend who invited Ben and me for brunch at a downtown diner.  As I had never been to this diner before, I figured I would search around and see if their menu was posted online.  I find this helps my independence in several key areas:

  1. None of my companions would need to read the menu to me. Most people don’t mind, but it seems that if I can do something for myself, I should.  Perhaps that’s the perfectionist in me, but it’s always a little awkward when someone reads the menu out loud in a restaurant (Confession: I always feel a little bit like a small child who hasn’t grasped the concepts of reading yet).
  2. I could think about what I wanted to eat, and if I changed my mind or someone recommended something awesome, I’d at least know what they were talking about and not worry about missing something truly yummy.
  3. If I go back to this diner (something I will DEFINITELY do) and decide to go alone, i would already know their prices (something important for a cash-only business), their breakfast and lunch options, and not have to ask serving staff to take time out of a busy shift to help me out.

I was thrilled to find their menu online, but was disheartened to discover that it came in the form of pictures embedded onto their web page.  As someone who uses screen reading software, I could not access the text that is part of those pictures.  Mildly frustrated, I took to twitter, which I now realize is generally an ambiguous thing, because everyone has something to say on the subject.

 

But what came out of a pretty heated exchange was an ultimately complex discussion about asserting the rights of people with disabilities, when demanding accommodation is unreasonable, and when it is better to catch flies with honey by requesting accessibility or accommodation as a good move for a business’ customer base as a whole.

 

I will never completely understand what it is like living my life, navigating in a wheelchair, but I have friends who do.  Many of them have expressed frustrations about apartment buildings with only one elevator, or workplaces where the accessible washrooms are on a completely different floor, or having to avoid shopping at certain stores because the shelves are too close together to safely navigate a chair.  If I ask a restaurant to pretty-pretty-pretty-please re-post their menu online in alternative format, or (a rarity) ask if they have a braille menu on site, this is an infinitely easier accommodation than requesting them to alter their building structure for accessible washrooms or replacing stairs with a ramp.  In no way am I saying that doing one means a business can’t or shouldn’t do another, but that one is more a matter of education than architecture, carpentry and physics.

 

So when do my rights end and a business proprietor’s begin?  When is a request for accessibility unreasonable, untenable and rude?  I don’t have the answers to these questions.  To say that accommodations should never be requested (or even demanded) means that would put disability rights and dignity back into the dark ages.  But to say that every possible accommodation can and should be made just for the asking brings us to a no-mans-land we’re in now, where businesses are afraid to address out-of-control fake service dogs and deny a legitimate service dog team service because ten minutes ago they kicked out a faker.  Ultimately, the more people who can access a business, the more everybody wins.  So the more who stand up and calmly explain that general accessibility – to the physical building structure, to a menu, or to the point-of-sale pin-pad – benefits everyone, the more likely a business is to take the request under advisement.  Maybe wholesale change won’t happen overnight, but nothing worth fighting for ever does.

 

I won’t bully or brow-beat, but  maybe I’m not the only one who can’t read the physical menu, and even the digital one.  I felt right at home in that diner, and the food was stick-to-your-ribs comfort food.  You better believe I’ll be back.  So I, for one, am going to contact that diner and request an alternative format for their menu.  After all, the food is great, and more people should eat there!

I’m a bad _____, But It’s Not because I’m Blind!

13 Sunday Sep 2015

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I don’t know what it is, but I run across many people in my daily life who assume that blind people are super dependent on others for every little life task, or can do anything and everything extraordinarily well.  To muddy the waters even more, there are subsets of blind people who have both spoken and unspoken rules of engagement for all blind people, regardless of ability, inclination, and work ethic.  One subset, affectionately dubbed “Super blinks”, act as though ALL blind people should have the skills to cook 4-course dinners, clean floors well enough for a Royal procession, and travel independently everywhere no matter what, asking no one for assistance for anything.  The other, a more defeatist point of view, feeds in to the idea that blind people should be insular and keep to ourselves, acknowledge that life is hard, and just embrace the hardships without doing anything to improve our lot in life.

 

Thankfully, most blind people I know and associate with regularly – both online and in-person – fall somewhere in the middle of these.  Some have terrific skills and are wonderful and encouraging, pushing me and others to at least try and do new things, without judgment or condescension.  Others have been kicked in the teeth by families, prospective employers, and even complete strangers, who are wonderful supports when life just sucks and a blind person feels like no one else “gets it.”

 

But what happens when people we know well, especially families or colleagues, assume certain lack of interest, ability or competence are the case because we cannot see?  A friend was over at my house a couple of weeks ago, and she mentioned a comment that was made to her about the cleanliness of her house.  She’s not the best housekeeper in the world, but it’s honestly not in complete disarray.  She said she wished people would just understand: “I’m a lousy housekeeper because I just don’t give a crap; it has nothing to do with my being blind.”

 

Recently, a news story about a blind mom in the kitchen made the rounds of social media.  It was touted as an inspiring story of a family coming together despite a very sudden sight loss, and a mother who cooks well – and enjoys it – despite not being able to see.  Molly Burke, a well-known Canadian advocate for the blind, responded to this news story by stating that she’s a bad cook because she hates cooking, not because she can’t see.

 

As for entertainment, there are many comments on my choices of leisure activities.  Personally, I don’t like TV shows much.  I have a few favorites, but overall, TV and movies don’t interest me.  I have always preferred to be transported to new places and meet new characters through books.  Many people tell me that my disinterest in such things are because I cannot see them.  I can’t possibly know if there is any truth to this, but based on how I view the world, I would say this is likely untrue.  If I had perfect vision, I doubt I would be fixated on the newest Netflix series, or the next Batman movie, just because much of what is out there just doesn’t hook me on an emotional level; an author at the height of their craft does that for me as well as good cinematography does for a movie buff.

 

So why do we make these comparisons?  Why do people who know us well assume that a disinterest or poor skills are because we cannot see, and not because we simply don’t care about such things?  A sighted person who doesn’t like cooking or doesn’t clean their house well is viewed as a person who just doesn’t like cooking or can’t be bothered to clean.  Why are we viewed as less capable because we have these particular preferences, foibles, or lack of interest?  And unless another blind person is so defeatist in all things, what business is it of mine (or yours, or anyone else’s) if they can’t cook that four-course meal, or require assistance to navigate the airport?

 

I’ve said it before: to my sighted readers, we are only human.  Especially if you love us, our lack of cooking ability, a tolerably untidy house, or our declining an invitation to the movies often has more to do with our own personal preferences than the fact we cannot see; please don’t throw it in our face.  For those who cannot see, and want to make yourselves feel better because you have skills that someone else doesn’t?  STOP IT!  Until you walk in their shoes, you don’t know the life they’ve led.  If they want your assistance, or you think that you can encourage them and they are receptive to advice, offer such with grace and empathy.  And those who just don’t care about anything, who are rude, who think the sighted world owes you because you’ve been dealt the hand of blindness: you’re making life for yourself, for me, and for all of us that much harder the next time we’re out and hope for assistance, a job offer, or that course we’ve dreamt our whole life to take.  I don’t expect everyone to get it right all of the time, but the more we view each other as humans, the more likely we are to be viewed as flesh and blood in return.

Pass me a Screwdriver… the Tool, not the Drink

05 Saturday Sep 2015

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Every now and again, life throws you some introspection, some minor way of making you look at your childhood and thank God, your parents, teachers, the neighbor down the street, or plain dumb luck that you were shown or taught something at an early age that made your adult life so much easier.  As a very young child, you remember thinking – as all children think – that everyone’s parents taught them how to cook four-course dinners, name all the birds in the sky, or (in my case) use hand tools and identify the size of drill bits by touch.

 

Last night, Ben and I put together a bookshelf.  Leaving aside the really annoying fact that the delivery company left an 8-foot tall box leaning up against our house, making it impossible to move it inside single-handedly from my 6-foot-wide porch, I was thrilled that our music room would soon have an additional book case.  As everyone knows, braille books take up an insane amount of room, and Ben’s huge collection of paperbacks are relatively scattered, with no set place to go.  So last night, we were putting our new shelf together with screws and nails, and (obviously) a screwdriver and hammer.  I had been struggling tightening a screw, so I opened the top of the screwdriver and grabbed the #3 Robertson bit… it worked like a charm!  Ben asked me how I know what we needed, and how I could tell the #2 from the #4, or a Robertson from a Phillips by touch.  I told him that my father taught me the basics as a child, and other friends along the way have had me set up stage sets and other things, and when I first moved out on my own I did most of my minor home repairs myself.

 

As a child, I thought it was perfectly normal to go down into my father’s workshop in the basement (and later the garage) and hand him tools while he was working.  But it was a rude awakening when I was about seven or eight, and I told someone to hand me the hammer so I could fix something or other.  The reaction was just priceless: “Um… no! You can get hurt!”  No amount of begging, pleading, telling them I’d fixed things before would make them relent.  I can’t remember the general outcome, or even what I wanted the hammer for in the first place, but I remember feeling so dejected; my father believed in my abilities, but no matter what, to this neighbour, I was still viewed as the blind kid who dared to want to wield a hammer.

 

Fast forward several years, and I had moved in to my own apartment in Edmonton.  My kitchen cabinets were loose, and I just grabbed a screwdriver and within five minutes they were good as new.  The empowering feeling is almost indescribable even now, more than ten years later.  When Ben and I bought this house, I took delivery of a new bedroom set, and put it all together, with the exception of the bed.  Little things come apart, and I can put them together again… and there are few better feelings of accomplishment in the world than simply being able to get them done.  This was all made possible because I was the daughter of someone who not only believed that I could learn about tools and perform these tasks, but that I should, whether or not I could see what I was doing.

 

I know that this blog has blind subscribers, and I know there are parents of blind children who read this blog; I may be preaching to the choir here.  Those who are blind, don’t let anyone clip your wings.  If your family does not believe in your abilities, I am so sorry… but don’t give anyone the power to tell you that you cannot do something before you try and succeed, fall on your face, or somewhere in the middle.  For parents, relatives, or friends of blind children (or even adults), please resist the temptation to jump in and do for them something that they may really want to do for themselves.  Would you deny a sighted family member an opportunity to make mistakes?  For most, the answer is no.  So if you have the skills, show them.  Give them the opportunity to fly.  I may never use a table saw, and that’s OK… but pass me that screwdriver… this table leg is wobbly.