How I Learned to Walk with a White Cane

Sometimes freedom tastes like concrete

One day when I was a kid, I was walking around one of the Orlando theme parks with my family. I don’t remember which. I was legally blind at the time but mostly had enough vision to get around, so I wasn’t using a white cane. It was crowded, but I was doing alright following my dad’s back through the throng with my mom and siblings somewhere behind to snag me if I lost track of him.

I was holding what could only be described as a bucket of Sprite. Cups in a size that only exists in theme parks and 7-Elevens because no one else has the sheer audacity to sell them. Worse, the cup was flimsy, and I was dangerously close to a lot of passersby. I had to be less than 10 at the time, so I hold my parents responsible for the exceedingly predictable accident that followed.

Laser-focused on my dad, I missed an older kid who was walking right at me without looking. We collided with the drink directly between us. The cup’s floppy sides immediately gave way, unleashing a tidal wave of Sprite.

The deluge only got the other kid. I don’t know how that was possible. I must have instinctively tilted it toward him. He yelled. Having no idea how to respond and not wanting to lose my dad, I just dropped the cup and kept moving.

As I passed the kid’s mom, she said, “Gosh, couldn’t you see him?”