After graduating from college, I made the big move across the Charles River to Cambridge. I was completing a masters program in education at night and working as an assistant teacher during the day. My last year in Cambridge had been lonely. My college friends had all moved away to take jobs, so I filled my life with teaching, going to school, guitar lessons, kung fu—anything that kept me busy. I only noticed my loneliness when I didn’t have something to do, particularly at night, if I was eating dinner alone or when the building would grow silent on a Friday night. It became clear to me that something was wrong when I had been dating a girl from my class for a few weeks and I invited her to my dad’s home in Connecticut for the weekend. “I’d go with you,” she said, “but it’s not me you want; it’s just anyone.” She was right. I was just tired of having no one to share things with.
Besides being lonely, I was broke. My dad was paying for my schooling and apartment, and I felt like a sponge. I was twenty-two years old, and it was high time I became self-sufficient and began making a contribution to society. So, I decided to look for a weekend job. Not only would a job give me some spending money, but it would also help me to meet new people. A friend told me about a fancy hotel in Harvard Square that was looking for weekend help, and I promptly sent off a resume: Boston College, 3.1 grade point, double major, wrestling team, writer of articles for BC’s literary magazine, certified scuba diver, officer of BC’s Freshman Assistance Program. I got a quick response by phone. The supervisor had a front-desk job for me, and she wanted me to start the next Friday evening. I had landed my first real paying job on my own, and I called my dad excitedly to let him know. On Friday night I went with Wizard to the hotel to meet the manager. I was greeted by the desk clerk, who then disappeared for a long time, and finally returned with the manager. Before they approached me, they stood together thirty feet away, mumbling back and forth. The manager asked me to come into her office, where she nervously explained that the job was no longer open, that the previous desk clerk had unexpectedly decided to stay. I didn’t really believe her. There was a jumpiness in her voice, and she was almost too apologetic. “Is there anything else I could do?” I asked, “like be a bellboy or a cleanup person?” But despite her apologies, she didn’t think I’d be able to do anything that was available. At the end of our short conversation, she said, “By the way—that was a little unfair of you to not tell me you were blind. You put us all on the spot.”
“Honestly,” I replied, “I didn’t think it mattered. I could have done the job.” What was the point of telling her I had spent three hundred dollars on a machine that would read me people’s credit card numbers? A few days later, my classmate and I walked by the hotel, and he told me about the help-wanted sign still posted on the door.
For the next two weeks I looked for work at dozens of local businesses, with no success. Most people were nice, but no job materialized. Discouraged, I finally resolved that I would take a dishwasher job, something I was sure I could easily do. It was hot work, the pay was lousy, and kids were quitting all the time for better opportunities. On Saturday, I woke up early and walked up and down Harvard Square with a Braille list of restaurants with their addresses. The first place I tried was a big restaurant with a large kitchen. The owner was polite but explained that the kitchen was too big. “You’d lose your way,” he said. “There are dozens of cupboards. You’d never remember where to put things away.” Next, I tried a small pizza parlor, where I had eaten two days before. The manager felt the kitchen was so cramped that I would just bump into things and cause confusion as servers hurried through the kitchen, carrying large heavy trays. Sitting on a brick wall outside the pizza place, I put my hand on my chin and thought about their worries. My gut told me they were unfounded, but how could I be completely positive? I had never been a dishwasher. I did know that there were plenty of people with few skills and no education who wouldn’t even take a dishwasher’s job because they felt it was beneath them. I, on the other hand, was willing and eager for the chance to work, for the opportunity to sponge off people’s dirty dishes. Wasn’t it something I could learn, like I had learned in high school to navigate with my tray through the cafeteria and learned to give tours of the Boston College campus with Wizard, even pointing out specific landmarks to the astonishment of my groups? As I walked toward a third restaurant, I told myself the last two restaurants were flukes and this would be the one. I made sure to try a medium-sized restaurant this time, but the owner brought me into the kitchen and showed me the belt that moved dishes into the washing area. “It’s very easy to break those dishes as they come off the tray, and besides, you might burn your hand on a hot pan.” Then I knew he wasn’t going to offer me a job and must have shown disappointment on my face, because he said, “I’m sorry, son, but sometimes, you just have to realize your limitations.”
Too big, too small, too fast, too hot, like a twisted version of the three bears—the story repeated itself again and again. I had thought somehow, that with my force of will, with my ingenuity, with my tenacity, I could eventually win people over and get what I wanted out of life. I hadn’t realized there were doors that would remain locked in front of me. I wanted so badly to break through, to take a battering ram to them, to bash them into a million splinters, but the doors were locked too securely and their surfaces were impenetrable. I never got a dishwasher job that year in Cambridge, but I did choke down an important lesson, that people’s perceptions of our limitations are more damaging than those limitations themselves, and it was the hardest lesson I ever had to swallow.
A few weeks later, while walking to the store, I heard the jingle of a dog collar in front of me and then heard a lady’s strained voice. “Left! Straight! No! I said straight!” She exhaled in frustration. I figured it was a blind lady walking with her guide dog. What were the chances, I wondered, of two blind people with their two guide dogs crossing the street at the same time and place? Their meeting is such a coincidence, a special connection exists before they even meet. I reached the top of the curb and Wizard stopped. The lady was already crossing, but something was wrong. I heard the jingling collar zigzagging around the road and could hear a car approaching fast. I thought about rushing out, and then I heard the screech of tires as a driver desperately lay on the brakes. Then it was silent, except for the slow hiss of exhaust escaping from the engine. I imagined the driver inside letting out a deep breath and sinking back into his seat, knowing that he had narrowly escaped splattering a blind lady all over the road. Then he opened his door and rushed to her side. “Can I help you?” the driver asked, and before hearing her response, rushed her across the street. When the car had driven away and the street was silent, I darted across and caught up to her.
“Hello!” I said, extending a hand. Two blind people shaking hands is a little tricky. You can’t see each other’s hands hovering in front, so I put my hand out and lightly poked. When she felt my hand, she grabbed it and softly shook it. Then I blurted out, “I live in the neighborhood. I’m blind too. I have a German shepherd guide dog.” She told me her name was Laura and we talked about our guide dogs for a while and she told me that hers was not working out. “First of all, she doesn’t cross streets very well.”
The next time I came across Laura, she was heading to the grocery store and wasn’t sure how to get there, so I walked with her. This time, Laura walked with a tall white cane. We had to cross one major highway. Cars were merging from many strange directions. It was a typical Boston road, twisting and turning and overlapping with other roads. Only the first section had a traffic light. I had had trouble crossing it once before. Now I had to get both of us across safely. When I heard the cars stopping, Laura took my arm and we started walking. I imagined the amused stares of the drivers stopped at the light and I knew we were providing them with a convenient joke to tell the guys at the office about the blind leading the blind. When Laura and I got to the island, Wizard weaved us around a shrub and a pole and we crossed the next section, stopping and starting as cars whizzed by in front and behind. When we finally reached the last curb, Wizard, sensing the end to his extra responsibility, paused for a second before leaping up onto the unusually tall curb. I felt his leap and barely managed to clear the curb with my foot, but Laura wasn’t so fortunate. She tripped and sprawled on her belly, half on the road, half on the curb. Her cane flailed out of her hand and clattered down the street. My mind was screaming out in misdirected pain, not for Laura, who I knew was OK, but for my knowledge of all the people who were surely witnessing this display. As I pulled her up, I prayed no Good Samaritan would rush out to save us. Luckily her cane was not too far away and I found it accidentally by stepping on it, bending it slightly. I felt like I had set the blind movement back fifty years. The beauty of being blind, however, is that since you can’t see anyone, it’s possible to convince yourself that they can’t see you either.
Periodically I would come out of my apartment and hear Laura arguing with her dog. Laura’s guide dog was a cute little golden retriever, but she would do her own thing—sniff crotches, eat banquet wieners off buffet tables, run off down the street when she was supposed to be “getting busy.” Once Laura asked me to join her for lunch at the local Chinese restaurant. The owner was flustered, seeing two blind people with guide dogs walking toward his restaurant. He was somehow convinced that we and our dogs could not fit through the front door or down the four stairs which led into the restaurant, so he led us around to the side of the restaurant and pulled open a huge garage door used for grocery trucks. Hearing the giant door rolling up, I couldn’t erase the mortified grin off my face. The owner, an older Chinese man, was so friendly and sincere that I just didn’t have the heart to straighten out his misperceptions about blindness. He wanted to help, he just had no idea how. There are times when a person needs to stand up and assert his rights, but there are also times when it just isn’t worth it, when an amused smile and a shrug are enough for the time being. I knew the next time I came in, I would simply walk through the door and down the stairs before he could react. That would accomplish more than a lecture.
“Much better for you,” the owner said graciously as he proudly ushered us inside. He had a waitress read us the menu. Mindy, Laura’s guide dog, must have shown great interest in the plates of food passing near us, because the owner returned and said happily, “Dog look hungry. He like chicken wing? Good chicken wing.” Laura replied emphatically “No. He’s a guide dog, a working dog.” But the language barrier must have been too much for the overly anxious man. Ten minutes later, as Laura and I enjoyed a great meal, I heard chomping and slurping from under the table. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Laura. I bent over and reached under the table. I felt Wizard’s head lying obediently against the wall, but a few feet to the left I felt a heaping plate of chicken wings with Mindy’s head attached. She was quietly chomping away at the wings, enjoying her own feast. She licked my hand, imploring me to keep her secret.
After several outings, Laura invited me over for a night of Braille board games. She had Braille Monopoly, Braille backgammon, Braille Yahtzee, and Braille Scrabble. We played a lot of scrabble. While it was her turn, I’d sneak in letters on the board to form dirty words. I thought she didn’t notice but later her fingers would come across my extra additions, and she’d laugh. During one game she told me that she wanted to be the first blind talk-show host. “The first blind Oprah,” she joked. I didn’t see it as a joke, however. I had heard she was beautiful, was well-dressed; she had a smooth TV voice and was articulate. I thought she had a good shot at it. She had earned an internship at a major talk show, but the host was worried that Laura’s big guide dog would scare her own little dog who often sat in her lap on the set. The producer had told Laura that the job was hers as long as she didn’t bring her dog, but Laura had quietly turned down the internship. She seemed satisfied to wait for her big break. “I’m just waiting for a few more weeks,” she said. “A friend of mine might have a job for me at a radio station, and there’s a cable TV job I’m waiting on.” I couldn’t fathom why she didn’t choose to fight for the internship that seemed so vital to what she wanted out of her life.
I knew, though, Laura was a fighter. She’d told me how she began to go blind when she was eighteen. The doctors were baffled because her eyes seemed to be working perfectly and, then, when it was almost too late, they discovered the problem was in her brain. She had had a massive brain tumor that was destroying the part of her brain that processed vision. In removing the tumor, they had to remove a part of her brain. Laura had to learn how to walk and talk all over again. Although I didn’t notice, she told me she still slurred her speech a little bit. Laura had fought and won the battle for her life, but she didn’t know how to wage this new kind of battle when the enemy was not as obvious as a brain tumor, when the enemy was elusive.
Weeks went by and Laura was still waiting for her big break. She was on social security and her apartment was paid for by the state, but she didn’t have enough money to go places and do things. Most Friday nights, I’d head to the Chinese restaurant for takeout, next door to the bakery for cheesecake, and then to Laura’s house for an evening of Scrabble. Laura would keep the window open, and I could hear the sound of traffic and people walking to restaurants and bars in Harvard Square. I felt like I was missing something, like there was something beyond cheesecake and Chinese takeout, and Braille Scrabble on Friday nights. I didn’t want my life to be a waiting game, hoping for the right circumstances that would propel my life into fulfillment. I was ready for a change.
* * *
I was about to graduate and my teaching job was ending for the year. It was a perfect time for a move. A change in location doesn’t necessarily change your life, but the excitement of it gives the mind some extra motivation. As I took a train to the New York City school job fair, I knew that if offered a job someplace new and exciting, I would take it. At the conference, independent schools from all around the country were recruiting graduates from East Coast schools. Many of my interviewers felt like my blindness created insurmountable problems. One such interviewer asked a series of questions: “How would you keep up with grading papers?”
“I could have my students read me their essays aloud, and I could speak my comments on a tape, or they could hand me a computer disk.”
“Well, what about textbooks and all the literature you have to read?”
“I’d read them in Braille or on tape.”
“How would you keep classroom management?”
“When kids are fooling around, usually they’re just talking, and who better than a blind person to hear talking?”
“How would you . . . ? How would you . . . ?” I tried to stay positive, but no matter how I responded, he kept repeating, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” As soon as the interview ended, he rushed over to my chair, hauled me up under the armpit with his forearm, and began dragging me toward the door. “Really,” I tried to mutter. “I can walk,” but I probably wasn’t forceful enough, because I really wanted the job. Wizard was puzzled, trailing along behind us on his leash. I was practically walking on my tiptoes, with his strong arm hiking me up and pressing me against his shoulder. Toward the end of the interview, he had been strangely silent. Now I realize he probably wasn’t even listening to what I was saying but, rather, racking his brain over the problem of how he would get me to the door and rescue me from tripping over a chair. How did he think I had gotten to the interview in the first place? How did he think I had gotten to New York? How did he think I had gotten from my friend’s apartment, where I was staying, to the lobby of the hotel, or did he think someone had hiked me under the armpit all the way from Boston to the threshold of his cubicle? Outside his door, I shook his hand, a little bewildered, rubbed my armpit that had gone numb from his forearm pressure, took Wizard’s harness, and walked down the hallway to my next interview.
A handful of interviewers thought my blindness could perhaps be an asset. “What an interesting proposition,” one principal said. “You’re definitely qualified, and besides teaching English and math, I can imagine all the extras you can teach our students.” When the conference was over, surprisingly, I had five job offers, more than most of my sighted classmates.
I visited several schools. One school was in Charlotte. It was located on a huge, green campus with beautiful fields, old Victorian buildings, and an indoor swimming pool where the Olympic team had practiced. It seemed perfect, but I needed an adventure. I had lived on the East Coast nearly all my life. I wanted to go to a place I knew little about, a place so different that even simple things like finding the grocery store or the barbershop would be an adventure. By forcing myself to step out of my comfort zone, I’d enable my mind to learn and grow. I sensed that a new exploration would make my life exciting again. I wanted to go west.
I had a friend who had gone to school in Phoenix. He’d come home for Christmas talking about sunshine and an apartment complex with a giant pool surrounded by women in thongs. I imagined the raging Colorado River, the Grand Canyon, the amazing volcanic pinnacles jutting out of the desert floor.
I was offered a job at a tiny but prestigious school called Phoenix Country Day School. Peg Madden, the head of the school and the one who hired me, later shared with me the reason why I was offered the job. “Your resume was excellent. Your grades were excellent. You were articulate and you had good ideas for your classroom, but I still had reservations,” she told me. “A teacher has to do more than look good on paper. They have to be able to handle the responsibility of a classroom full of kids. What really sold me was something that happened after the New York interview was over. I had asked you if you needed help to the lobby door, but you had replied no. I was doubtful that you could find it. You had to go up the conference stairs, past the elevators, down a hallway to the left, to the front desk and down some stairs. I had followed you because I thought you still might need help, but you and your dog found it beautifully. Wizard had even pointed his nose at the door handle. Your finding the door through that maze was more real for me than anything you could have said. That’s when I knew you could do the job.”
Everybody can look back at a few choices that they make in life, choices in the face of countless possibilities. Some of these choices, like my move to Phoenix, turn out to be catalysts that shape your life in ways you may not have expected.