P.O.N.U.R.
Perceivable, Operable, Navigable, Understandable, Robust
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This story was written by a woman in Phoenix who has been blind since birth.
A Personal Story from Long Ago
Hi. I've been debating when to share a certain story from my life with this list. Judging from all the posts, tonight is good, so here I go. It's a bit to the long side, so read, enjoy, and feel free to comment. I may divide this up into the story itself, and then a follow-up post talking about the results of it in more detail. I was born in October, 1952. I was two pounds, twelve ounces, and I'm totally blind. My story takes place in 1963, winter, in Phoenix, where I've lived most of my life. I was in the second group of children to be integrated into public school. We went to regular class, and had a special teacher one period per day. One winter afternoon Miss Fry, my fifth grade teacher, was teaching us a unit on poetry. Now the poems in this unit were very visually oriented-sunsets, dafodils, clouds, lots of Emily Dickinson and Wiliam Wordsworth. She said that if we understood the poems, we would be able to explain to the class how and what we felt when we read them. We should be able to have images in our minds, and these would come from our reading the word pictures in the poems. The trouble was that I was feeling nothing from this class exercise. I had nothing to say. I wanted to do well in school. I didn't want to be sent to the blind school, a hundred miles away in Tucson. I was already starting to have great trouble with math. When class was over, I got out of there as fast as possible. For the first time I could remember, I hated being blind, and knew I was a failure. That night I wasn't myself, too quiet. Mother asked me if everything was okay at school. I lied and said things were fine. I don't advocate this practice, but even at that age I had learned it wasn't cool to complain about things, tha all you would get was a lecture about how you shouldn't feel that way. Besides, I had done what I was told to do; if I had a problem in class, I was to tell the resource teacher, the special teacher for blind children. I loved Mrs. Griswold like a grandmother, and thought she would solve things as Mom had said she should. When I told her what had happened, she said, "Because you've never seen anything with your eyes, there are certain things you will never understand. You will just have to accept that." When I asked her what that was and how I should do that, she couldn't explain to me what acceptance was. I figured it would do no good to talk to those dumb grownups, anyway, since they would be no help at all, anyway. I was in a funk; I didn't even stay up to catch SING ALONG WITH MITCH, which I watched without fail every Friday night. However, a little after nine p.m. I woke up. Dad was doing what Dad always did-keeping the TV on and falling asleep. Jack Parr was on, and in a half sleep I heard him introducing Giselle Mc'Kenzie, a singer from Canada who was often on that show. "She's going to perform a song from a new musical that's just come from London to Broadway, STOP THE WORLD, I WANT TO GET OFF." He explained that the song was called GONA BUILD A MOUNTAIN. "Grown-ups have gotten really strange. I'll listen if I can stay awake," I thought. Well, I not only stayed awake, I sat bolt upright in bed, and that was when something happened as this singer performed this catchy song, which would remind you of one of those gospel songs Christians, especially black ones, have at church. I was getting all sorts of images, just as Miss Fry had said. I was receiving those word pictures, thick and fast. There were these little people, short and wide, with tools in their hands, working on a project of some sort, and the foreman in charge was directing them as he sang along with the televission. As the song concluded, I heard this voice say, "That woman isn't the grown-up responsible for this song. She's only sending it to you. If you learn about the place from which this song comes, you'll be all right, and you'll stay at school and not be sent away." Mother walked by, and saw me jumping up and down while sitting on the bed. "Are you okay?" she asked. "I'm fine now, Mom," I said, not a trace of lying to be found anywhere. There was one problem, though. I couldn't tell Miss Fry what had happened. She would think I had totally lost it, if I had said I saw word pictures while listening to a song about some guy who wants to build a mountain. I kept my secret hidden from grownups for a long time, but a year later, when we had to do geography papers, I told my teacher I had to learn about this place called London. "You should write about the British Aisles," she said, and I did that. I've been interested in that part of the world ever since. I never was sent away to blind school, but did public school all the way through Arizona State University. I heard Jack Parr's show of that night in a summer re-run, so I knew I hadn't imagined the song, and besides, Sammy Davis Jr. had a hit with this song, so I heard it on radio numerous times. It was years later, while listening to Ed Sullivan, that I found out about the responsible person, a performer whose work I've come to love. Anthony Newley, who is now sadly no longer with us, had a voice that could tell stories. You never had to see anything in order to know what was on his mind; he sang with such feeling. It's true this guy had the thickest British accent I had known in my young life so far to the point of becoming familiar with him, but I reckoned that was part of the asignment I had received on that long ago night, back in 1963. Well, that's the basic story. I'm inclined to tell you about it all, but have taken up quite a bit of cyberspace and will close this shortly. Rosalyn B. and sleeping Razzle, Phoenix Arizona