Five Lectures on Blindness

by Kate M. Foley

We have, then, the senses of hearing, touch and smell, each playing its part in the development of the blind child, and each playing it so well that the lack of eyesight is not keenly felt in early childhood. Not until it is old enough to understand the thoughtless remarks of well-meaning people, to catch the pitying tone, to feel the compassionate touch, does it realize that this lack of eyesight is to prove an almost insurmountable barrier to its future success.

I was in my sixth year before I understood the meaning of the word "blind." Up to that time, I had romped and played with other children, climbed trees, jumped ditches, accepting bumps and bruises as part of the game, and having no sense of fear, since some child always held my hand. In fact, in those days, all the children held each other's hands, and it was easier going, so. Is it not a pity that, in later life, we feel so self-reliant we are unwilling to admit that the way could often be made easier if we resorted to the childish game of holding hands, and moved forward together as we faced the more serious struggles of life. My first realization of the meaning of blindness came when, one day, after hearing some people call me "poor child," and expressing their sympathy to my mother, I asked if we were very poor, poorer than my playmates, and why I could not go to school. My mother explained that we were no poorer than the others, that the ladies did not mean it in that way, but were sorry that I could not see and did not think I could ever go to school. But my mother assured me that I was going to school, and that there I would learn to see with my fingers, better than the ladies did with their eyes. My childish mind was aroused then, and I asked every one what it meant to see, and soon realized that I did not know what "seeing" really was, at least, not in the sense the other children used the word. I was filled with wonder, since my world had hitherto seemed so complete—I heard things, or felt things, or smelled things, and was satisfied—and yet there was another medium of knowledge entirely unknown to me, and until then unnecessary. How eagerly I looked forward to the time when I should learn to see and my heart was filled with childish rapture on the day when I entered the school for the blind at Berkeley. My first question, on meeting the Superintendent, was, "are you going to teach me to see?" How well he performed this task, how wisely he guided my childish feet, how carefully he developed my eager mind, stimulated my ambition, and renewed my faltering courage, I did not realize until I was called upon to face life, with its trials and opportunities. And here, where his work is so well known, I wish to pay my tribute of love and gratitude to Dr. Warring Wilkinson. He was my great-hearted, great-souled teacher, father and friend.

When I found myself in a place with children some of whom were, like myself, blind from infancy, and others whose eyesight had been lost through various accidents, and yet others who could see to go about, to tell the color of our ribbons, and advise us of the approach of a matron or teacher my wonder grew apace. This process of learning to see was varied and absorbing, but I soon found that it had its limitations, and that, after all, eyes were very useful possessions, and without them I could know nothing of color, could not picture the sky, or any of the heavenly bodies; nor could I distinguish different people, unless I heard their voices or steps, though no two had faces alike. I found, too, that some children who could see colors, could not recognize faces, and I came to realize that vision, however slight, was greatly to be desired. I could distinguish light from darkness, and this enabled me to locate doors and windows; but color, with its varying shades, was then, and is now, a mystery profound. But in my desire to see, to be just like other children, I resolved to learn all I could about color, and so I memorized the list of colors, which ones harmonized, which were most pleasing to the eye, which were bright, which produced a sombre impression. Thus I soon learned to speak of color with a degree of intelligence, and to select my gowns with a view to pleasing the eyes of my friends. I soon learned to associate certain phrases with certain colors—for instance, blue as the sky, green as grass, yellow as gold, black as night, red as fire, and brown as a berry. I also learned that a color had a variety of shades, and that at times colors were changeable, it being difficult to distinguish blue from green at night. The sky, with its starred phenomena, was even harder to conceive, and I could not understand how clouds obscured the sun, or how old Sol could put the blackest clouds to rout.

My ears and fingers continued to flood my mind with knowledge, and the want of eyesight did not distress me. When I touched an object, or listened to a lesson, my mind stored it away for future reference, and often now, when recalling some facts in history or geography, I can hear the voice of the teacher who read the particular passage.

I was eight years old when I first examined a horse, although I was familiar with the sound of its feet on the pavement, and knew whether it walked, trotted or galloped. The horse I examined had been driven a long distance, and so was very warm; when my hand was placed upon its mane, the hair was damp and clung to the back, and there was an odor of steaming flesh. A fly was tormenting the animal, and, as it tossed its head impatiently, I could hear the rattle of harness, and the sound of its restive foot upon the ground. These impressions have always remained with me. My knowledge of the horse was acquired through the senses of hearing, touch and smell. And so with the cow. I can hear its low "moo, moo," hear the milk dropping into the pail, feel the hard outer shell of the horns, and catch the odor that is ever present in the cow's domain. The cat and dog have their peculiarities, too—the mewing of the cat, and the sounds heard when it purrs while washing its face—the dog's quick bark, and the sound it makes when panting for breath, as it rests after a long chase. I know the animals have different colors, peculiar to them, but this knowledge has no place in my mental conception of them.

In judging people, the voice is my infallible guide. I am instantly attracted or repelled by a voice, and my estimate of character is rarely incorrect. By the voice I am able to form a very accurate idea as to height, weight and age, so here again I do not feel the lack of eyesight. The voice is an unfailing index to character, and the trained ear is quick to catch the slightest variation in tone, and can detect traits and moods hidden from the eye, because not registered upon the face. There is a strong voice, a brave voice, a voice full of hope and cheer; a tired voice, a crafty voice, a voice full of dull despair. And so here again I do not feel the lack of eyesight in noting differences in my fellow men. I know that there are distinguishing marks, that heads are shaped differently, and that hair and eyes have different colors, corresponding to the various types, as blondes or brunettes. All this I know abstractly, but it is just one of the bits of information tucked away in memory's storehouse. I do not suppose many of you have ever heard a smile. I have. I hear a smile almost before the lips can register it, and to me the sound is as musical as the laughter of a very young child. I think hearing a smile must be like seeing the light in the eyes, and so lack of eyesight is no deprivation in this connection.

All during my days at school, I went on acquiring knowledge, learning to see many things, scarcely realizing the handicap of blindness, because every help was given me, and I was surrounded by those whose condition was like my own. But when I went out into the world, I found that many seeing people, so called, had very little vision, although their eyesight was perfect. I found, too, that, although I knew many things, and was well equipped to earn my own living, my lack of eyesight was responsible for a corresponding lack of confidence upon the part of the public. This was a great disappointment, for I knew I could succeed, if only some one would give me the opportunity. After waiting twenty years, the State Library gave me the opportunity. This lack of confidence upon the part of the public is one of the most depressing features of adult blindness. Thus far, I have considered the subject from the point of view of one who has been blind from early infancy, but now I shall view it from the standpoint of one deprived of eyesight in adult life, who is taking his first step in the dark.

M. Diderot says: "The help which the senses reciprocally afford to each other hinders their improvement," and so the adult whose movements are no longer directed by his eyes, feels utterly helpless and bewildered, as one who finds himself on a strange road, very late at night, with no ray of light to guide him. As the blinded soldier is uppermost in our thought today, I am considering the mental condition of an adult suddenly deprived of eyesight, not that of the man whose blindness has come on gradually.

The first sensation when thus plunged into total darkness is that of unreality, and, just as the light of day dispels the gloom of night, so the sufferer clings to the hope that any minute he may open his eyes, and find things as they were before the darkness settled down, with all its weird shadows, to fill his soul with dread. The continued darkness causes a feeling of depression and repression, very hard to combat, and so the sufferer is in need of "first aid"—in need of a friendly hand and a cheery voice to help him through these trying days. Of this period, M. Brieux, Director of Re-education of the Blinded Soldiers in Paris, says: "The blind are, for the time being, put back into the helpless condition of children. They have to be sustained and given a new education for life. They have to begin many things all over again. Spiritually, they have lost their bearings, and are drifting about in restless anguish. Physically, their whole organism has been shaken by the wound they have received, and must have time after such a violent shock to recover its equilibrium. Their power of judgment has often been temporarily destroyed. They are weak in body and uncertain in mind. This double weakness lays on those who surround them a double duty. Much will have been done when their material welfare has been assured, but the responsibility will not have been discharged unless they have also attained to tranquility of soul and a sense of their own dignity. One must have confidence, in order to give them confidence. Most of us have no idea what powers to meet new demands are inherent in our organs. We have within us capacities unknown even to ourselves, inactive, so long as they are not necessary, awake and efficient, as soon as there is need of them. They are reserves which most of the time we never call on. They are a hoard which we do not touch. Our resources and our power of life are greater than we imagine. The sudden loss of sight gives, after a time, something like the lash of a whip to the whole organism. All the other senses are roused to greater sharpness. When the blind soldier fully realizes this, he will perhaps arrive at a state in which I have seen some men blind from birth, the state of being proud of being blind. Why should they not be proud, when they feel that they are as capable of accomplishing certain things, of practicing certain trades as other men? If, with their lessened powers, lacking the power that we consider of supreme importance, they can do things as well as we, are they not, therefore, cleverer than we? Instead of talking to them of resignation, incite them to revolt at the limitations of their condition. Inspire them to conquer circumstances. Insist that they can. Picture life to them, its beauty and its power, and tell them that it is good."

In administering to the needs of this readjustment period, the volunteer should be an optimist, and should exercise common sense in guiding the adult over the first lap of the unfamiliar road. I have advised the volunteers who are now in France, and those preparing to go there, to take writing boards, games, bright, pithy stories, and a lot of nonsense verse. I have told these Red Cross workers that they themselves must know how to laugh, must be able to rise above the horrors about them, for they are there to serve heroes, not cowards, heroes who will laugh with a sob in their throats; heroes who, after a short respite, will reach for a new sword with which to resume the battle of life. God grant we may have the new swords ready for them—swords of hope, swords of confidence, swords from which all the old prejudice and misconception have been removed—swords of occupation and independence!