Speaking to Blind People Like We’re Normal 101
An introductory course
Hear me read this post on the Deep Sy podcast!
Content note: a person in this story expresses thoughts of suicide.
Many years ago, I was speaking with someone we’ll call Jim, a fake name I’m giving him for a vast expanse of reasons that will become evident shortly. Jim told me his mother had contracted a medical condition which would eventually make her blind.
“Oh…,” I said. I hoped I sounded surprised and empathetic because I felt both. But I was also trying to mask apprehension. I’ve had many conversations like this over the years. They can be lovely. Often the person in Jim’s position is seeking help for their loved one, and I’m always keen to oblige. But these conversations can also devolve quickly.
This one took an immediate, unprecedented nose dive.
“She says when she becomes blind she will kill herself.”
I don’t remember how (or if) I reacted to this. And before I made any progress sorting through the emotional layers, Jim slapped on several more.
“So I told my mom that I know someone who is blind and uses a screen reader and a cane, but otherwise leads a pretty normal life.”
Again, no idea how I responded. I’m sure I did, but it would have been automatic, a skeleton crew in my brain’ doing the best it could while everyone else suddenly took a lunch break to dissociate.
But let me, with the advantage of hindsight, untangle my internal reaction.
First, know that what I have relayed was the entirety of the story. Jim telling his mom I’m normal was the end. In fact, his tone implied that was his main point. He finished a little too casually, drifting off to imply significance. Though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined a raised eyebrow or two. It sounded like he wanted me to know he “gets it.” Disabled people are normal, and he was shouldering the burden of teaching other able-bodied people this truth so disabled people like me don’t have to. He’s one of the good ones.
A quick note on story telling. If you’re trying to make a point, ensure nothing in your story overshadows your point. Diminishes your point. Renders your point totally irrelevant. Don’t, for instance, tell your audience, “Someone said they would kill themselves if they were you.” That will tend to distract them. Perhaps alter their day a bit.
Don’t get me wrong. I felt terrible for Jim. What an awful thing to hear from your parent. Still, maybe talk to a therapist.
But again, this did not seem to be the point of the story for Jim. The first half of Jim’s point was how normal he believed I am. But that only raises further issues because, you see, a defining characteristic of relationships with normal people is you never mention their normalcy.
How many times has someone said to you, “Hey man, you’re normal. Like, when I think about the average person, and then I think about you, I don’t see a significant difference, and I felt it was important to communicate that.”
If your answer is “zero,” congratulations! People think of you as normal. That is not my answer.
The second half of Jim’s point was apparently that he was spreading the news of my normalcy to others. After his story, I was not in the mood to give Jim a proverbial cookie. But also emphasizing what a good friend you are to disabled people while highlighting how little people think our lives are worth living is ironic. Next time someone tells me a story in this vein, I may highlight the irony by telling a story of my own. Let’s say I’m talking to someone named Bill. Here’s my counter-story’s outline:
A friend of mine told me they would be miserable if they had Bill’s fashion sense. I told my friend, despite Bill’s ugly clothes and miserable personal hygiene, he manages to lead a normal life. The friend pointed out they hadn’t mentioned Bill’s hygiene. I said I knew that, but it was implied. My friend agreed. We both laughed. My friend thanked me for changing their perspective by showing them that even Bill can be normal despite looking and smelling like a cave troll.
Then I would conclude by raising my hand and saying to Bill, “High five for being allies!”
I think most people I encounter believe they should treat disabled people like they are normal. But putting that idea into practice is tricky. A number of things get in the way. In Jim’s case, part of the issue was probably a simple lack of experience. I’m guessing Jim didn’t think about how what his mom said would affect me because no one has ever said anything like that to him. To be fair, no one had ever said anything like that to me either. But stories like this are somewhat common among disabled people, so I was not altogether shocked.
Ego and insecurity can make things hard as well. Like if someone wants to be socially rewarded for their allyship and they become eager to share, with completely the wrong person, the wild, highly-personal things their parent said about blindness.
So, as a public service, here are five examples of other things sighted people say to me that impede normal interactions, and some speculation about where they come from. I’ve heard a couple of these a few times. The rest I’ve heard more than 100 times.
1. “You can hear that? You must have heightened senses”
This is an oft-repeated biological myth that stops making sense after a few seconds of thought. Which is more likely? I have a lifetime of practice using my non-visual senses in ways you don’t, so I’m better at using them than you; Or my senses have been “heightened” to compensate for my blindness through the process of, you know, brain science stuff or whatever?
It’s not like you lose your eyes and grow an extra ear. The hardware you always had is the same. The signals to your brain from that hardware are also the same. You just pay more attention to those signals.
Why do people believe the myth? I’m guessing it’s the trope of blind people being mysterious. The idea of living without vision is incomprehensible to many. It produces, I believe, an image of impenetrable darkness in the minds of sighted people, and a feeling that is best described by waggling ones fingers and saying “Woooooooooh.”
Speaking of mysteriousness…
2. “Even though you’re blind, you can see things others can’t”
On the few occasions people have said this to me, I imagined them looking at me significantly and nodding slowly, as if saying to me, “Yes, I agree with you. I am profound.”
Sure, I might observe some things sighted people don’t, or have a perspective they find foreign. But the people who said this wouldn’t know that because they didn’t know me at all. I’ve only ever gotten this one within my first or second conversation with someone. It’s pure, finger-waggling stereotype. Also, if you meet a particularly observant blind person, consider the possibility that you are meeting a person who is blind and observant. Your thoughts on the matter could end there.
3. “You’re blind? A friend/family member/co-worker/acquaintance/guy I saw on the street once is also blind!”
I give this a mildly interested “Oh,” and nothing more. The silence that hangs after is fun.
Alternatively, I ask the other blind person’s name. If they say Steve, I say, “Oh I know Steve!” The silence after that is also fun.
Usually the issue here is excitement born of unfamiliarity. If you only know one blind person, and you like them, you might become excited when you meet a second. Not thinking about how unremarkable the existence of other blind people is to us, you may find yourself blabbing on about Steve.
4. “Man, you’re lucky you can’t see this [insert gross thing sighted person is looking at]”
Hang on, it’s your belief that I would trade a lifetime of discrimination, bigotry, social exclusion, and so on to avoid seeing this one dog pooping on the sidewalk?
This is a classic case of a sighted person seeing a way to make a joke about blindness to a blind person, which sighted people often find exciting, sometimes positively titillating. But the excitement typically overrides their ability to come up with something funny or original (I’ve heard this one more times than I can count). If you can tamp down this particular instinct, much normalcy will follow.
5. “I’m blind without my glasses”
You are not. The problem here is claiming a disability is often the default way to exaggerate any difficulty we have involving our bodies. For instance, someone in a room with loud music says they “can’t hear anything,” though they are only complaining because they can hear the music. Or someone who just ran a marathon says they “can’t walk anymore” while walking. Finding different ways to describe your bodily problems will help avoid awkwardness in interactions with disabled people. And I have good news! English has a wide selection of words for you to choose.
So, sighted reader, avoid these pitfalls and you will find a much smoother path to happier relationships with blind people. But this takes time. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. If you can’t quite manage to speak to us like regular humans, I promise I’ll make sure blind people know you otherwise lead a pretty normal life. High five!