“What do you mean, I’m blind?”
Fall is one of the most beautiful times of the year for me. I love the
fresh smell of fallen leaves, the crisp air, and the incredibly clear
blue skies. It was such a day in the fall of 1972, October 18 to be
specific, when I walked out of Building 14 at the Goddard Space Flight
Center in Greenbelt, Maryland and strolled across the parking lot to
my candy-apple-red BSA motorcycle. The leaves were skidding along,
pushed by a light fall breeze. Soft white puffy clouds bounced along
in a brilliantly blue sky. What a day to remember! It came to be one
I’ll never forget.
I threw my leg over the
bike, settled onto the saddle and pulled my helmet on. I switched on
the fuel and kicked the engine. Rump, Rump, Rump. I felt it come to
life under me. I dropped it into gear and headed down Greenbelt Road.
It was time for my annual eye checkup. With the breeze tossing my
hair, the sun warming my face, and the 650cc BSA humming under me, I
was taken by the beauty of the day. Life doesn’t get much better than
this, I felt. It was a picture-perfect day for a Driving Vision!
I found a parking place
right in front of the medical building, switched off the bike, and
headed for Dr. Starr’s office. As I walked in, I tossed my helmet and
jacket on the rack, and greeted the receptionist. “Hey, Brenda!” I
flirted, giving her a
broad smile, “How about a date?” This was my usual custom.
“Sorry,” she responded in her usual custom, “I’m busy.” We played this
game every time, and we both enjoyed it.
“OK, Romeo!” she said, pointing down the hall. “Dr. Starr is ready for
you now.”
An hour later, I wasn’t the same flirtatious guy who’d strutted into
the office earlier. With a quick “See ya” to Brenda, I slipped out the
door.
What had changed my
entire demeanor in just an hour? Dr. Starr had given me some shocking
news, telling me I was already legally blind, with retinitis
pigmentosa. My retinas were slowly dying and I’d be totally blind in a
short period of time.
What to do? Where to go? How to get help? All these questions f lashed
through my mind. How will I get to work? Can I continue to do the same
job? What about cooking and shopping chores? How was I going to read
my mail and pay my bills? All these questions fueled my fear of the
unknown.
After getting home, I called Dr. Starr, desperately seeking some
answers. He suggested I contact the Office for Blindness & Vision
Services of the Maryland Division of Rehabilitation Services. With
fear as my motivator, I made an appointment and, a week or so later, I
rode the BSA over to the state agency. The receptionist took my name
and told me a counselor would be right out. I found a chair and
waited.
“Mr. Colbert?” the rehabilitation counselor called out.
“Yes!” I responded, and stood, switching my helmet and jacket to my
left arm, and extending my right hand to meet hers.
She looked down at my
helmet and asked, “How did you get here?”
“Oh, I rode my motorcycle,” I said.
She was shocked and almost shouted, “Are you crazy!? Don’t you know
you’re blind?”
“Yeah, I learned that last week at Dr. Starr’s office,” I answered,
“but I rode my bike there, too, and I figured since I made it to his
office, I could get here as well.”
“Man! You need to be rehabilitated!” she blurted.
As we sat in her office, the counselor began to describe a program I
could attend that would teach many of the skills and techniques I’d
need to live an independent life. The agency was near Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. Since the state of
Maryland had no such program, they’d send me to this residency center
to complete a 14-week course in orientation and mobility (learning to
use a white mobility cane), with lessons in Braille, using a slate and
stylus, and various techniques for daily living (cooking, ironing,
etc.). We agreed on a date, and I made arrangements to go.
With a great deal of
trepidation and uncertainty, I embarked on this new experience –
Learning to be Blind. I didn’t want to be blind, and I wasn’t
interested in learning how to be really good at it either.
Nevertheless, I got on the plane for
Pittsburgh the following month.
When I arrived at the Guild for the Blind, I was greeted by a warm,
friendly lady who informed me, “They usually gather in the dining hall
about this time, so why don’t you go down and join them?” She was
smiling.
I wondered, “Who the heck is “they?” I soon discovered “they” were the
blind individuals living at the center. Well, I darn sure didn’t
consider myself one of “Them!”
The counselor pointed to the stairs and asked if I could make it by
myself with my remaining eyesight.
“Yes, I’m sure I can find the room,” I replied, heading for the
staircase. I could hear laughing and talking coming from an area in
the rear of the building’s lower level. As I walked into the room, I
knew right away this wasn’t the place for me. About 25 individuals
were seated around the dining area talking.
What struck me right between the eyes was their behavior. I was
shocked. If this was what it was like being blind, then I didn’t want
any part of it! Most of the group were around 20 years old. Their
heads were bobbing up and down, and their bodies rocked from side to
side. Some held sugar packets in their hands and shook them as they
spoke. Some
were rapping on the table, as if it were a drum.
“I’m out of here,” I
said to myself, and quickly walked back to the front office. “I’m not
staying,” I announced. “This isn’t for me. I refuse to learn to do
THAT!” I started for the front door.
“Wait, Mr. Colbert!” the counselor called, running after me. “You
don’t understand!”
“No!” I replied, turning to her, “You’re the one who doesn’t
understand. I’m not going to learn that stuff!”
“Please,” she pleaded, “let me explain. Those young people downstairs
have been in residency programs all their lives. These are the only
behaviors they know. They’re here to learn what you know about social
skills. You’re here to learn
what they know about being blind, the skills and techniques that will
help you live as an independent blind person. You can learn from one
another.”
It began to make sense to me but, even though I wasn’t convinced, I
relented, and allowed her to escort me to my room.
“Your roommate is already here,” she explained, as we entered the
dormitory wing. “Let me introduce you. Larry Colbert, this is Bob Nale.”
Bob and I exchanged quick hellos as our counselor left the room.
Bob was about 55 years old, and was sitting on the bed next to mine.
He didn’t rock and roll when he spoke. He didn’t tap on the bed or
shake his hands in a weird manner. He appeared “normal” to me. This
was somewhat reassuring!
That evening, and for the next seven weeks, I came to know Bob. He was
blind from diabetes. Until six months earlier, he’d worked in a
brickyard. He’d been making bricks since he was 14 10 Insights from an
out of sight guy – just about all his life. Wow! And I thought my life
had been rough!
Bob and I talked a lot about the loss of our eyesight and how our
lives would be impacted. We were the two most senior students at the
center – Bob at 55, and me at 28. The rest of the students had been
born blind. Learning the techniques and skills they’d mastered was our
motivator.
One of the first steps to major independence for a person who’s blind
is movement in your environment. The class was known as O/M, for
Orientation and Mobility. We learned how to investigate and travel
through space, using a white cane held in front of us. Since I still
had some remaining vision, I learned under a sleep shade, often called
a blindfold. Hmm! I thought the word “blindfold” was a little cruel!
Bob had no residual sight, so he didn’t need one.
Each day, my O/M instructor, Jack, and I left the building to practice
on Pittsburgh’s streets. Believe me, I didn’t like this one bit,
especially the parking meters! One frustrating afternoon, I beat that
white cane into a corkscrew shape trying to
move them out of my way!
Eventually, every parking meter and I became best friends. Before
long, I could tell you exactly where they were, the distance between
them, and how hard they were when I ran into them, which I did
frequently in the first week or so!
Eventually, I got the
hang of it, and began to navigate a straight course down the city
sidewalks. The sounds of the cane tapping on the concrete echoed in my
ears. Eventually, with Jack’s careful and insistent instruction, I
came to learn the signals the cane was sending me. Buildings,
driveways and open doors all made different “sounds” as my cane moved
back and forth in front of me. Soon I was able to move faster, and
with more accuracy.
My confidence started to
grow, and I got into it. Jack and I worked in a small neighborhood
near the Center. On nice days, we’d drive there in his sports car with
the top down. He’d stop at a parking lot or on a side street. I’d put
on the blindfold, or excluders, and we’d start our routes through the
town. I learned to listen carefully for the different sounds echoed by
my cane. My fear was greatly lessened by Jack’s comforting footsteps,
always just a few paces behind.
One day, after about
five weeks of this, Jack asked me to put on the excluders before we
entered the neighborhood.
“Why?” I asked.
\Well, today you’re on your own.” He revved the engine. “I’m just
dropping you off on this street, and I’ll hook up with you at the
corner store,” he explained.
“Whoa! Wait a minute!” I hesitated.
“Look, Larry,” Jack replied quickly, “You’re doing great. You should
have no problems.” His last words hung in the air as the sports car
roared off. “I’ll see you at the store!”
What a final exam this was! I stood there on the sidewalk for a few
seconds listening. There was a slight breeze and I heard a clanging
sound. I headed toward it. “Yes!” I exclaimed. I recognized the
clanging as the flagpole at the post office. I took off at a rapid
pace, knowing exactly where I was.
“Jack’s gonna think I’m the greatest,” I said to myself as I tapped
down the sidewalk.
Suddenly, my cane tipped off the edge of a curb. I halted abruptly.
“Ah ha,” I said, “Second Street. The store is just up ahead.” I felt
confident.
I listened for traffic. Hearing none, I started across the street,
anticipating the opposite curb. But it wasn’t there. Where is it?
Suddenly, I doubted myself. Frankly, I panicked, and that was the
wrong thing to do! I was now totally disoriented, with no clue where I
was. Second Street, yes, but which corner?
As I nervously stood in the street, Jack’s words came back to me.
“When you’ve made an error at a street crossing, stop where you are
and make a 90-degree turn. You will find a curb.”
That’s exactly what I did. Sure enough, I found one, but which curb? I
hadn’t a clue. So, I started down the sidewalk again. Within a block,
I’d regained my bearings.
Picking up my pace, I made for the store. The little bell attached to
the door jingled as someone entered. I made a beeline for that jingle,
and walked in, smiling.
“Had a little trouble back at Second Street, did you?’ Jacks voice
came up from behind.
“Yeah!” I confessed.
“Well, you recovered nicely. You did it all in textbook style. I’m
proud of you.”
I blurted out, “Thanks! I think you owe me a beer!”
“Forget it, Larry. You really weren’t all that good,” Jack said.
Negotiating our environment was of primary importance, but we didn’t
just walk the streets learning proper mobility. Classroom time was
spent on Braille, household skills, and learning new electronic
equipment. The younger students grew up using Braille, but Bob and I
were learning an entirely new language. A reciprocal relationship
evolved: we helped them with their social skills, and they assisted us
with our Braille studies. It all worked out.
When I returned to my home in Maryland weeks later, I promptly put my
“blind tools” – the Braille equipment and the white cane – in my
closet. Hey, when the time came, I’d be ready. I’d mastered all the
skills and techniques. When the full
impact of the blindness hit, I’d be prepared!
"Larry may have challenges with eyesight, but
it's clear that his "vision" is most assuredly on target. You
will laugh and learn at Larry Colbert's sometimes "outa-sight"
antics as he shares these lessons of life. So come along for a
"wild ride" with a man who really knows how to put you back in
the "driver's seat!"
-- Edward E. Scannell, CMP, CSP, Past
National President, ASTD, NSA
