Good for you for working!

Much like riding the bus, one never knows what will occur while waiting in line for a grilled cheese.   Lunch is always a mad dash to grab something and consume it within the allotted 30 minutes (if actually taking a lunch break).   The tiny eatery in the lobby of the building I work in is always chaotic.   An ill-planned design that doesn’t allow for a flow of people.   There is always a bottleneck at the salad bar, grill, and cashier which literary are located in the exact same spot.   It’s tough enough to navigate the waves of hungry people, but with a cane it sometimes is a nightmare.   One wants to slip in and out without attracting attention to what you’re choosing to eat or bringing on conversation that will eat up the precious time you have to eat your lunch away from the pings of e-mails and drones of conference calls.  

I seldom slip in-and-out of the tiny eatery without drawing some sort of comment.   Typically it’s someone cringing as they realized they just budged in front of a blind woman or nearly took me out, while they were texting and not paying attention (ironically I am rarely the actual cause of any accidental bumps due to humanity’s obsessive need to check Facebook, tweet, or text instead of looking where they are going).   Today was a “normal” day, while standing in line a woman gasped when she noticed my cane, “Oh dear, sorry I almost budged in front of you.   That would be extra bad.”   Somehow my visual impairment makes rude behavior extra rude.  

After a few moments of awkward standing in line conversation, that woman and I found ourselves waiting at the grill.   “You know my brother and sister-in-law worked with the blind up north,” a prideful smile beamed.   I grimaced thinking how I only wanted a stupid grilled cheese and not a conversation about my blindness.  She went on to explain how they hired an organization that worked with the blind to package napkin/utensils for the cafeteria-style restaurant they had.   “Yes, they made a lot of money on the blind.   Just proves that those that can work, can work.”   There was this deep sincerity in her voice over what she felt was the humanitarian efforts of who brother and sister-in-law in getting the blind to work.   Before she slipped away with hamburger in hand she looked at me, “You work here?”   I nodded.   “GOOD FOR YOU!   GOOD FOR YOU FOR WORKING!”   She explained.

This isn’t an isolated incident.   Most people are rather amazed by me, not because I am truly impressive but because in their world there are no blind people like me.   No blind people like me actually translates to no blind people.   I only appear impressive, because I am the only one.   Take away my cane and I am your typical “normal” person.   There is nothing impressive about me be-bopping around the city I live in.   My Master’s Degree is no great achievement.   I going to work each day is boring.   Each aspect of my life quickly become mundane and “normal.”   However, add my cane and suddenly me walking from the bus stop to my office causes people to randomly say, “Good for you” or “God Bless You” as I walk down the street.

Because there are few blind people that are visible in the world around the sighted world, it sets a low bar.   A very low bar.   Therefore the idea of someone with a visual impairment simply holding down a job somehow springs forth a desire to applaud by some of the sighted world.   One would think how lovely it would be to have the world have low expectations meaning you do the bare minimum and somehow impress.   That’s not always true.   Low expectations can be crippling for individuals with disabilities.  While some become impressed by us simply getting out of bed and wearing matching clothes, there are others that discount what we can bring to the table automatically assuming, “she can’t do that.”

My first lesson in, “she can’t do that,” was at age six.   Newly diagnosed with my eye condition, RP, and declared legally blind, I was embarking on a new world that defined me on my disability rather rather than on my ability beyond the physical.   My mother notified the public school I attended.   In the age of IDEA, an Act that supported students with disabilities with services to be successful in academic pursuits, my tiny school in Western New York told my mother that I couldn’t make it in mainstream education and needed to go to a special school.   With some determination and support from the New York State Commission for the Blind my mother fought the school securing my place and services.  

The school begrudgingly took me as a student, not letting me forget that I was different.   Many teachers made comment openly expressing their low expectations for my ability.   The biggest slap in the face was when, at graduation, my school bestowed upon me the “Against all Odds Award,” for graduating from High School despite the school saying I couldn’t succeed in mainstream education.   What should have been a proud moment was tainted with my school reminding me what they thought my abilities were.

The truth was, I was no better than my classmates.   I only graduated 18^th in a class of 60.   I was a normal teenager participating in drama, sports, clubs, and community service activities.   I was normal in my group of friends; the preppy good girls that could be looked upon to be decorating and organizing school dances or coordinating food drives.   There was really no difference between my closest friends; Heather, Pilar, and Britany, except I was blind.   Pilar graduate first in our class a year a hold of schedule.   She turned seventeen two weeks before graduation and, perhaps, was my deserving of the against all Odds award.   After all she graduated young and early, not the norm.  However, she did’ have a disability.   The bar wasn’t low for here to appear it impressive to simply graduate from high school.

As Heather, Pilar, and Brittany grew up nobody would ever stare at them saying, “GOOD FOR YOU!   GOOD FOR YOU FOR WORKING!”