AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Why I ended up at the School for the Blind in Halifax and what it was like when I lived there from 1958 to 1967: that’s what the book is about. It’s not a detailed history, a gripping novel or a disapproving rant; it’s the memories of one boy, lost for a time, and the school that found him.

Because I lived on the boys’ side at the School, the book is mostly tilted in that direction. I’m quite sure, however, that what’s written in these pages is pretty well what the girls would have said and probably said better. One voice or another, we were all the beneficiaries of a school with a proud history of accomplishment in the field of education, vocational training, and advocacy on behalf of the blind.

The School for the Blind in Halifax, formerly the Asylum for the Blind, was the first residential school of its kind in Canada, opening its doors to four students and two teachers in 1871. By the 1920s, annual enrolment had soared to 120 pupils, a testament to need, centuries of neglect, and the foresight of those who laid the foundation for what became one of the most highly regarded schools for the blind in North America and abroad.

It started with a generous donation of $5,000 and a large parcel of land in downtown Halifax from a wealthy merchant, William M. Murdock. Charles Frederick Fraser, later to be knighted for his years of service to the blind, was the first School Superintendent, a post he would occupy for all of fifty years.

Sir Frederick was himself totally blind and probably the first blind person from anywhere in Atlantic Canada to receive a formal education, and that, thankfully, from the world-renowned Perkins Institute for the Blind in Boston. The proven practices of the school in Boston provided a sound foundation for the new school in Halifax.

By the turn of the century, the School offered studies in reading, mathematics, history, piano tuning, massage, organ and piano, broom making, chair caning, gymnastics, crafts, and mobility training. The focus of studies, as Sir Frederick insisted, was on sound academic training and skills for later employment, a legacy that lasted throughout the life of the School.

As they did at the Perkins School in Boston, Sir Frederick gave preference to hiring blind teachers to work alongside those with sight, thereby providing successful role models for students and their families. For me and thousands of other students at the School, seeing firsthand what blind people could accomplish, whether as teachers, administrators, musicians, or support staff, was one of the most meaningful aspects of the old School.

Sir Frederick was a skilful, passionate leader and lobbyist, and under his direction the School flourished with more classrooms and residence space, innovative teaching methods, community outreach initiatives, and programs for the prevention of blindness.

Apart from its role in the field of educating blind children and adults, the School established the first circulating library of raised print and Braille books in Canada, and lobbied successfully for free postage of material for the blind, a privilege still afforded to this day. The School was also a leader in the development of advanced methods for doing mathematics in Braille.

Sir Frederick was instrumental in supporting the establishment of the Canadian National institute for the Blind and a number of self-help organizations of blind people aimed at advancing their own cause for employment opportunities and social gathering. And when called upon in 1917, the School, with help from the Perkins Institute and the American Red Cross, opened its doors to almost 200 men, women, and children who were blinded in the Halifax Explosion.

By the time the wrecking ball had taken down the old School in 1984, literally thousands of blind students from all four Atlantic Provinces, and a few from Quebec and the Caribbean, had passed through its doors. For most of them, it was a life-altering journey toward self-reliance, away from dependency at home, from the streets, the poorhouse, and hidden rooms.

For every story told in these pages, there’s more to tell and other blind students to tell them, but not for much longer. I thought of that as I worked on the book. I thought of the dedicated teachers and other staff who worked there and the kids I lived with during my nine years in residence.

I kept thinking, as well, how fortunate we were that our residential school was not like the ill-fated schools for Aboriginal children. I could face being away from home, but I couldn’t imagine having to face what some of them, regretfully, experienced.

Of course, not every blind student will see the School or what it did for them in exactly the same way as I describe it in these pages. Why? Because it’s personal, life at the school as I saw it: two eyes upon the world, one entirely blind and the other not much better.