by Deborah Armstrong
Nowadays, nobody rejects us. We can walk into classrooms and sit at desks with other students. We can apply for jobs, ride the bus and join committees.
Discrimination isn't blatant. But its more subtle nature is depressing, because it could cause us to stop believing in ourselves.
Thank goodness, as a child, my parents taught me to believe in my abilities. I walked to my public kindergarten several blocks away with a few of my little friends. I never knew that my dad followed a block behind for the first few weeks, to ensure we were safe. He showed all of us how to look and listen before crossing the street, without calling special attention to me, but not leaving me out either. My dad says I was good at reminding the other five-year-olds to look both ways!
Ten years later, I won the coveted summer job of 4-H camp counselor. I had the usual teen anxiety by then, worried about how I could control sighted children and how to make sure they would look up to me as an authority. But my parents reminded me I could ask for help without becoming helpless. If a child guided me on a hike, I was still in charge, and if I needed directions to the dining hall, it simply meant I was communicating with my charges as an equal rather than as a boss.
I found by welcoming assistance from the kids, I became part of their group, respected as a leader because I was older and more mature, obeyed because I was respected. "Who's missing?" I'd ask when we gathered around the campfire, and "What did we do with the knot-tying rope?" — things any sighted counselor would also ask if what they needed was not in plain sight. When one little boy grabbed my cane and said, "You don't need the magic stick, because I'm here now!" I realized that his taking responsibility was helping both of us grow.
Today I work at a community college, where I often see students with disabilities whose pride gets in the way. One student, losing his vision, walked around our unfamiliar campus in 100-degree temperatures, until he collapsed from heat stroke because he was embarrassed to ask someone to read signs and help him find his air-conditioned classroom.
The opposite is also true. Students who regularly ask for help with even the smallest tasks give others the impression they will never succeed. For example, one of my sighted students with severe dyslexia wouldn't take a computer class unless her mother was present.
The 112 acres of our campus can be daunting for any blind person's mobility skills, but I make a point of traveling to unfamiliar buildings on a regular basis so I stay oriented. On the other hand, if I'm concerned I will be late to a meeting, I don't hesitate to ride the shuttle for the physically disabled.
Though I cannot use the office photocopier, due to its inaccessible touchscreen, I'm the unofficial tech support solution when my co-workers have computer issues.
It's not just us blind folks who struggle with interdependence, knowing when to ask for help and when to try on our own. Building partnerships, I believe, is the solution. It helps us master skills while removing the shame we could have felt when we were unable to accomplish something independently. Plus employers and volunteer coordinators always look for people with a teamwork mindset.
If we want to truly belong, we must know our own strengths and what we can give back. A blind student can participate in visually oriented group project by taking notes, arranging meeting times and locations, baking snacks, procuring equipment like whiteboards and projectors, creating and administering an agenda, making suggestions to improve the project and following up afterwards to ensure everyone is on task. Even if the project results in a report full of photos and diagrams, the blind student knows he's fully contributed to the outcome. The student did not need to hold the camera or do the actual drawing to be a vital part of the group.
In my early entry-level jobs I eagerly got everyone's coffee, answered phones, greeted visitors, neatened up the office, edited the employee newsletter, and volunteered for every project within my skill set. So if I needed help formatting a document, locating a building, filling out forms, filing some papers or even getting a ride, my co-workers did not feel put upon. I worked as hard as they did, and helping me, for them, was often more fun than the task they would have needed to complete, had I not volunteered for it already.
Of course I made mistakes. Sometimes I spent more time trying to figure out how to do something instead of just asking someone else to quickly do it for me. Other times, I asked for help when it was something I could easily accomplish myself. But interdependence is a learning process, and many failures simply means you've committed to practicing becoming better.
And this truth follows us throughout our lives. We may be included because nobody wants to discriminate, but we truly belong when we bring meaningful contributions.