Seeing the Blind with New Eyes

by Michael V. Hannigan and Andrea Kieffer
The Malakoff News, Thursday, July 11, 1996

Sit and close your eyes.

The first thing you'll do is search the darkness for something--anything. Your eyes will move of their own accord, subconsciously, scanning for what they will never see. Deeper your eyes will probe the darkness, peeling back layer after layer, only to find nothing.

After a short time--an incredibly short time--your brain will forget the eyes and search elsewhere for sensory stimulation. Your ears will come to life, and it is then that you will realize that someone has turned up the volume on the world as the sounds come crashing down on you.

Your fingers will take on the role of scouts as you push your hands in front of you, testing your surroundings, searching out what your ears tell you is there. Eventually you will withdraw into yourself, your world constricting to that within your reach and hearing.

This is what it is like to be blind.

Friday, I was given a chance at the experience myself. From 8 a.m. until 6:30 p.m. I was blindfolded and a day camper at the National Camps for Blind Children/Adults at the Lone Star Camp in Athens. I removed the blindfold for one hour at lunch at the urging of my hosts.

It may seem like an oxymoron in this case, but what I gained was insight.

Situations or conditions occur in life that are at time undesirable, and we will change or adjust to make our lives easier. Sometimes there are no options and life must be lived as is. It is at this point that Paul Moore of Trinidad steps in.

Moore is a representative of Christian Record Services (CRS), a nonprofit organization which since its beginning in 1899 as a braille journal, has expanded to serve the visually and hearing impaired community. They provide programs, publications, scholarships, and other services throughout the United States and 70 other countries worldwide.

One of the best known of CRS's services is the National Camps for Blind Children/Adults.

"Some of these people have never met anyone that can relate or understand their world," explained Moore. "The blind camp that we provide annually gives them that opportunity to share with others and experience events that the rest of us don't give a second thought to."

Nationwide there are only 22 blind camps available, and in Texas there is only one. That one is located at Lone Star Camp in Athens.

Moore said the blind sometimes come from half a continent away, enduring hardships, just to attend camp.

I met my fellow campers over breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast and juice. During the trip through the cafeteria line I inadvertently stuck my hand into my guide's breakfast. Paul took it well. As the local representative of the Christian Record Services he must consider such things as job related.

That early morning meeting included singing, clapping and fellowship for the other campers, and an onslaught of sounds and a panic attack for me.

The noise was overwhelming. Sound piled upon sound until I could no longer hear the voice of the camper I was speaking with. Tilting my head slightly toward her, I found I could focus better on what she was saying.

Her name was Janice Gates, from Oklahoma, and she told me she was a professional musician. I was explaining that I, too, had been a musician at one time when the panic struck. I realized I was motioning with my hands as I spoke.

The familiar, hot feeling in my face let me know, blindfolded or not, that I was blushing. Although I was "blind" I still thought as a sighted person, pointing out what I was discussing.

Then I realized I wasn't even sure I was pointing in the right direction. Consciously, I folded my hands in my lap and kept them there.

Minutes later, a counselor walked behind me and said, "You already have the mannerisms."

Paul had a full day planned. I had the opportunity to go horseback riding, swimming, go on a boat trip and to shoot a bow and arrow. And even with that I didn't do everything available; I didn't have the time.

That's not quite true. Even if I had the time, I'm not sure I would have tried the water-skiing. I was told the story of one completely blind camper who made it twice around the lake--after his instructor and guide had wiped out--but I still don't think I would have made the attempt.

On the other hand, I'm really sorry I didn't get the chance to play beeper baseball.

The best part of my day was the horseback riding, an activity I enjoy at home. I didn't even mind when the counselors led me to a tree and told me it was my horse. Before being blindfolded I would have made a joke about my "horse's" height. On this day, however, a different joke jumped to mind:

"This horse has a bad skin condition," I said.

After losing one race and winning another during the camp rodeo, I was led to my chair. Paul, much too busy to baby-sit one reporter, left me. I picked up my tape recorder to dictate some notes, then stopped.

Was I alone? Was there someone standing behind me that would find my dictation funny?

I cast out to the right with my hand--nothing. To the left--nothing. The panic returned and I wanted to stand up, get ready to move, do something; but I couldn't. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find my way back to my seat.

All around me I could hear the din of voices, but trying to listen to them seemed like eavesdropping.

In the center of a camp, surrounded by people and just minutes from the exultation of winning a horse race, I was alone and waiting miserably for my guide to come and get me.

The highlight--and lowlight--of my day and all within minutes of each other.

Unlike other programs, CRS strives to seek out and assist those they serve. There are more than 100 representatives for CRS across the United States and Canada that are responsible for educating the public on how to meet the needs of the blind and deaf, setting up fund-raisers to support programs and services, visiting, shopping, or doing other activities for the impaired person, and contacting potential individuals that need assistance.

With about 55 million blind worldwide, CRS representatives get spread fairly thin. Moore works 19 counties in Texas and Oklahoma. This is actually smaller than last year, when he had 39 counties. Still, within his territory there are approximately 2.5 million people and 45,000 blind.

Small wonder that he has logged over 30,000 miles since January 1, 1996.

Paul sits across from me. I know this from the direction of his voice. Out of courtesy he stays in one spot, and I've learned to appreciate this. By this time I've already had my fill of the embarrassment of looking toward someone to speak to them, only to realize they've moved when they answer.

Besides, of course Paul is across from me. Where else would he be while we play checkers?

My hands grope across the board; his pieces round, mine square. After each move I must feel the board again to "see" what happened. At the moment I am winning after a fortuitous triple-jump.

Paul talks about the blind in his area.

"People don't think about the blind," he says. "There are 949 blind in Henderson County and this year we raised about $2,200."

The figures match closely to last year's total, even after a major fund-raiser at Winn-Dixie in Gun Barrel City. Without that fund-raiser, the total would have been closer to $600.

Last year, as a representative of his organization, Paul spent about $20,000 for services for the blind in the county.

The cost for sending one person to camp this year was about $350. According to Paul, that price will increase to closer to $400 next year.

It is an ongoing battle and Paul has already begun planning next year's camp while we push our checkers across the board.

"I wish the reach of the people could meet the needs of the blind," he said. This coming from a man that has already traveled over 30,000 miles for the blind in 1996.

This year six blind from Henderson County were able to afford the trip to camp. Paul said that number could easily have been multiplied by 10 if funds were available.

As he talks I realize that while I have written a number of stories about the blind in our county, I have never given even one dollar.

By the end of the game I have been whipped, my one checker running from Paul's six kings.

Funds are always a problem in a business where expenditures are $20,000 and income totals $2,200. Even with the accomplishment of dropping his allowed administrative costs from 25 percent to 7.8 percent, Moore faces a very visible deficit.

"It's like having someone else raise your child," said Moore. "Within the 19 counties that I am responsible for, there will be a county that even though it has few visually impaired residents, will somehow manage to carry the other counties that have the majority of them."

Moore summed up the situation. "The only restrictions of the blind are what the sighted put on them."

James Black is the camp director at Lone Star Camp. I got a chance to talk to him while the rest of the campers were swimming in the pool at the Cain Center

"Last year we were worried about the recreation part of the camp, because we were wondering if anybody would be having fun," he said.

"But fun is fun and it doesn't matter because if you're teaching water-skiing then you're teaching water-skiing. If you're doing archery, you're doing archery. If you're riding a horse, you're riding a horse. If you're swimming, you're swimming; there's only one way to splash and that's with your hands, not with your eyes."

I nodded. After spending an hour in the pool with the other campers I had to agree with James. We sang, we clapped, we danced, and we splashed each other. We did things the sighted would never do for fear of how they looked.

For the first time that day I felt sorry for the sighted.

Returning from the Cain Center, the time had come for me to remove my blindfold and see where I had been all day. The sun scorched the back of my eyes and I felt the beginnings of a headache that would last all weekend.

Paul led me around the camp, pointing out the different places I had been: "There's where we did archery," and "Here's the boat," and "You see how the steps go down here, now."

He led me toward the pavilion where I started the day. On impulse, I ran to a table. "This is the one I sat at," I said.

He nodded. "Which chair?"

I walked around the table and pointed. Wrong. One to the left.

Closing my eyes--I knew Paul was right.

As we spoke, the buses arrived from the Cain Center with the other campers. They filed by me, still being led as I had been led most of the day. But, where I may have once looked on in idle curiosity, I now saw friends.

All it took was a little insight.