Five Lectures on Blindness

by Kate M. Foley

"A voice came in the darkness
And lifted the curtain of Mind;
I saw that fingers could be
Also eyes to the blind.
I touched, I thought, I saw,
And the dark shades rolled aside.
And to you my heart pays tribute.
Dear teacher, friend and guide."

These lines were sent to me by one of my blind pupils after he had learned to read and write the Braille characters. They express the purpose of re-education, and indicate the means by which it may be attained. Rehabilitate, reconstruct, re-educate—these are familiar terms in this hour of stress and world conflict. To the minds of many, these words may present problems that are entirely new, but to the social worker, and those whose lives have been spent in the service of the handicapped men and women of our civil communities, the problem presented is no new one, the only difference being that, whereas, hitherto, only a few recognized the problem, today, stirred by the knowledge of war and its frightful consequences, every one is eager to share in the rehabilitation movement now sweeping over the land. The re-education of the blinded soldier is, after all, only the re-education of the blind adult, and he has been with us, lo, these many years! Adult blindness has increased alarmingly in the past half century, and the problem of providing for this unfortunate class has assumed proportions. The prospect of having to care for thousands of blinded soldiers has led to a consideration of the blind and their possible rehabilitation, and much good should result from the united effort. We extend a cordial invitation to all to "come over to Macedonia and help."

The California State Library has been engaged in the re-education of the blind adult since it opened its Books for the Blind Department in December, 1904. At first it supplied books to those who already knew how to read, but soon it became evident that its field of usefulness could extend to the adult suddenly deprived of eyesight, and not eligible to a school for the blind. And thus the need for home teaching became apparent long before the State Library could employ such a teacher. I realized this need, even before leaving school, and it was my privilege to teach as a volunteer for twenty years prior to my appointment as home teacher for the State Library. During that period I taught the blind of this and neighboring states, and, before books were made available by the State Library I copied stories and poems suited to the tastes of my individual pupils. In this way I came in close touch with the blind and their problems, and my every waking moment was devoted to their service and although there were

"Heavy burdens in the load,
And too few helpers on the road,"

I clung to the belief that some day help would come, and I should be permitted to enlarge my scope of usefulness, and reach all who needed re-education. And this hope was realized in July, 1914, when the State Library asked me to accept the position of Home Teacher of the Blind of the state.

As early as 1890 Pennsylvania started home teaching in this country, but its work was privately maintained. Since then other states have established such departments, Massachusetts, New York, Ohio, Illinois, but these have special appropriations for carrying on the work. Our State Library is doing it out of its general appropriation, and as a phase of its extension. It is the only state library maintaining such a department in connection with regular library work. Some of the large cities have reading rooms in their public libraries, where books are loaned on application, and where reading is taught to those who can go there for lessons.

The duties of the State Library home teachers are manifold. This department has steadily grown in importance until now it is recognized as the very bone and sinew of work for the blind in this state. Some of the teacher's duties are, first, to teach raised type to all who can not see to read ordinary print, (a person need not be totally blind in order to read in this way, as many learn who can see to go about alone): second, to search for, and when possible, place either in the school at Berkeley, or the special class in Los Angeles, all blind children who have reached the age of six years; third, to conduct a campaign for the prevention of blindness and conservation of vision in adults and children; and, lastly, to set forth the needs of the blind, convince the public that its attitude toward them is often an added affliction, and correct a few of the many mistaken ideas concerning those deprived of eyesight, who are, necessarily, somewhat handicapped in the race of life. The importance of this last duty can not be overestimated, and so my next lecture will present this subject in its many phases, with the hope of creating a better understanding between the blind and the seeing—an understanding which will not only help the blind adult now in our midst, but aid materially in the re-education of the blinded soldier. My task is not an easy one, but I love my work and my pupils, and I have come to know that the public needs, not so much to be instructed, as to be reminded.

Our first borrower was a lady of ninety years, and so we realized at once that there was practically no age limit in this work, thus proving the truth of the well-known saying, "we are never too old to learn." A man of ninety, with hands toil-worn and crippled from rheumatism, was able, after a few weeks of study, to read with pleasure, his only regret being that he had not learned twenty years before, when blindness first came upon him. When it is considered that, during all those years, the man had not read a single word, his progress is truly remarkable, and the fact that he is reading has stimulated others who, on account of their advanced age, hesitated to study the raised types. The requirements for study are simple—a love for reading, persistent application, and a determination to succeed. If a person did not care to read with his eyes, he will certainly not be willing to learn with his fingers. This is a fact not well understood, and it is very generally supposed that all blind people want to learn to read. Among our elderly borrowers are doctors, judges, ministers, teachers and authors, and to them the reading has given a new lease of life. There are invalids among our elderly people—men and women in wheel chairs, with crippled limbs, sometimes deprived of the use of one hand—but they are reading, and their pleasure is beautiful to see. One woman of eighty-seven, who has not walked for four years, and blind one year, learned to read last January, and since that time she has read twenty books, besides knitting squares for the Red Cross.

The type read by the elderly borrowers, and those with toil-hardened hands, or suffering from some nervous affection, was formulated by a blind man, Dr. William Moon, of London, about 1845, and is called Moon type. The characters are large and distinct, many of them being shaped like the ordinary printed letters. They are easily learned, and this type is invaluable, not only for old people, but in cases where, in order to restore lost confidence, a quick return is imperative. Dr. Moon lost his eyesight in early manhood, and spent the remaining years of his life perfecting his system, printing books and pamphlets, and going about teaching the poor of London, thus inaugurating home teaching for the blind. Moon type books have been printed in many languages, and thousands of men and women have been blessed and brightened by the unique philanthropy of this blind man. His son, Robert Moon, brought the type to Pennsylvania, and that state and ours lead in the number of Moon books in circulation. Often when a borrower has read Moon for six months or a year, he is able to learn the Braille, his fingers being trained by the Moon to remain in a proscribed space, and his confidence in their ability fully established. This is a potent factor in mastering a dotted system, as the progress is generally slow and laborious, especially for elderly people.

The fact that an adult can learn to read with the fingers seems very wonderful to the uninitiated, and, indeed, it is a long step forward, but the ability to substitute fingers for eyes is only one of the marvels wrought. Helen Keller has truly said that "idleness is the greatest burden of the blind," and this is why our work with them is so acceptable, though the reading is, after all, only the means to an end. While training the fingers to perform their new functions, I strive to renew hope and courage in the hearts of the pupils, assuring them that they may still do many things that were possible before their blindness. Self-reliance and helpfulness—minus self-pity—this is the formula I use when urging the pupils to make the most of life; for when a man is sorry for himself, he is on the road to despair, and his condition is well nigh hopeless. When the pupils are able to read and write once more, after having given up all hope of ever doing so, their confidence is restored, and a way is opened to new and hitherto undreamed-of possibilities. Old aims and pursuits, relinquished when the eyesight failed, are once more remembered and discussed, and, in many instances, resumed, thus bringing back the light, not to the eyes, but to the mind, through work. John Newton says: "You can not shove the darkness out of a room, but you can shine it out." I see this miracle performed every day, yet to me it is ever new, ever wonderful, stimulating me to greater efforts for my people—because the blind are my people, and their joys and sorrows, triumphs and defeats, find an echo in my heart.