THE CAT IN THE CATHEDRAL — FONDLY REMEMBERING MY VISIT TO THE WELLS CATHEDRAL [AND WHO I MET THERE]

It’s Market Day in Wells the day we arrive. Cramped and weary from our road trip across southern England, the rising cathedral spires elicit something of an excited yawn as I strain, stretch and stare out the window in waking anticipation from an uncomfortably long sleep. Being squished between the door and my overstuffed suitcase was hard enough, being made to stay there for the duration of the trip from Canterbury to Wells—a good four hour drive—was almost intolerable. But as Wells Cathedral becomes taller and more grand with every kilometer, so does my excitement.

It was my first visit to the UK and I had gone to attend Bible College for a year up north just outside Lancaster. But before my parents dropped me off at school, we spent ten days travelling, beginning in London and moving our way across and up. And now, six days into our journey, we were arriving at Wells.

I imagine Wells might be a quiet, cozy town with historic streets wrapping around the cathedral, a town where life is lived simply and without the clutter of unnecessary modern amenities. This will be perfect, I think contentedly, for a simple girl like me, born and raised in a small town on the Canadian west coast. My Daddy told me that the more I expected, the more I would be disappointed. So as my mother calls out directions from the map in her hands and the streets become windier and closer to the city center, it takes all of my strength to dissolve my expectations. But I can’t help dreaming: What if Wells truly is what I imagine? How delightful!

“Park here. The cathedral is just down the street.” I lean against the window and feel the vibrations lessen as Daddy pulls alongside the curb and parks. Click click click. Our seat belts are off, and I fling open my door excitedly. And instantly, my expectations are shattered.

There are cars as far as I can see, parked on both sides of the street, making a rather tight aisle to pass between them. On the far side of the street, clusters of people are gathered around tables set up beneath tents. I hear modern pop music blasting from an outdoor sound system. So much for a simple, historic existence. But my excitement does not wither.

“Looks like a market over there,” Daddy observes, glancing toward the crowd. “Let’s go check it out.” I grab his arm for guidance and with Mama on my other side, we set out toward the market.

We are now engulfed in the crowd and I cling tighter to Daddy’s arm; crowds make me nervous. Slowly, we move to a table and peruse its contents.This first table is filled with wooden trinkets and I hesitantly reach my hands out to touch.

“Can my daughter touch this? She’s blind and it would mean a lot to her if she could.” My mother’s familiar request, though at the cost of a bit of my pride, has enough innocence and truth to turn the vendor’s favour on us.

The vendor in question, is a short, pudgy woman with round rosy cheeks beneath cheerful aqua eyes. Taking my hand, she places it on the top of a small, smooth box.

“This is cedar wood,” she explains, as she runs my hand across the surface of the lid. “It’s strong and durable wood which is why I use it. Have you ever seen before, dear?” At my nod, she continues. “I didn’t paint this box because I love the natural look of the wood. It’s light and very pretty. And here”—she moves my fingers to the front of the box to the latch—”is the latch that locks the box, and there’s a place for a key at the top.”

Taking the box in my hands, I stroke the sleek wood admiringly. “This is beautiful,” I say. Her smile is almost audible above the crowd. Shyly, I gesture to the price tag and look to Daddy for an answer. “It’s twenty,” he says under his breath. Translating pounds to dollars in my head, I come out at about thirty-eight. I sigh regretfully.

Setting the box down on the table, I reach across to the cheerful woman and shake her hand. “I love your work, it’s very beautiful. But I’m afraid I’ll have to pass this time. Thank you so much for showing me.” She squeezes my hand. Although I don’t know this woman at all, I feel inclined to give her a hug, but I restrain. Her kind and fearless personality touches me in a way that not many people can claim; friends who accept me for my blindness and don’t define me by it are wonderful, but a stranger who does the same only raises my faith in humanity and makes life all the more worthwhile.

From table to table we move, examining various scarves, soaps, bowls and other hand-made trinkets. Once we exhaust the outdoor market, we shift indoors to a room filled with clothing and echoes. We are not there more than ten minutes when I hear a clanging bell from outside.

“I bet that’s the town crier,” I joke. They don’t exist anymore, I think wistfully, though I wish they did.

“Do you want to go see?” my mother asks. We are all growing weary of the amplified sounds in the indoor market, and I am beginning to sport a headache. I nod.

Back in the street market, we follow a crowd moving toward the town square, and to my utter ecstasy, the town crier is there, ringing his bell and attracting quite a crowd of onlookers. I drag my parents to the front of the crowd.

“Wells is a beautiful city,” the town crier begins in a loud, dramatic voice. “Take in the breathtaking scenery, the market, and Wells Cathedral, built in 1175. Why not take a tour there or explore its beauty and historic stain glass images at your leisure?” With unmitigated delight, I realize that he is not only the town crier but also a tour guide! I am eighteen, but my childish excitement cannot be contained as I clap my hands and let out a high-pitched squeal.

“There’s actually a town crier! They have a town crier!” My shock and delight are repetitive, for as my parents and I walk down the street toward the entrance of the cathedral, it is all I am capable of saying in my amazement. As we draw closer, my former shrieks of delight change into quieted awe. Nothing makes one feel so small and insignificant than when faced with such immense beauty. I look up and take in its outward grandeur and wonder what greater beauty may lie inside.

What first greets my eyes is not what I expect. In the front entrance perched on the receptionist’s desk is a bony, black and grey cat. An identification tag hangs around his neck, and he sits stalk still next to the computer keyboard. As I approach, he scowls at me and flattens his ears. Despite his threatening demeanor, I laugh.

“This is Louis,” the middle-aged receptionist explains in a welcoming tone. “He kind of just lives here in the cathedral. You can pet him, but please don’t pick him up. He might claw a bit.” Smiling wide, I reach down and stroke Louis’s back. Just by one touch, I can see that Louis is an old cat, his bones sticking out at awkward angles all over his frail figure. His fur is a bit matted, but nonetheless, I fall in love. So it’s not just old cathedrals that have beauty, I think, old cats do too.

“Someone loves you, hey Louis?” The voice of the speaker I discover, is an elderly man with a thick British accent and spectacles to match. I nod happily and he moves beside me to scratch Louis’s head.

“Come on Rhi, we better get a move on into the rest of the cathedral,” Daddy says, and I know that I cannot stall. As I move to join my parents, the old man follows and shakes hands with my Daddy. “My name is Neil. I would love to show you and your daughter around the cathedral if you would like.”

“Oh, that is very generous of you. That would be wonderful.” The four of us set off down the main hall, and it is not long before Neil stops at a statue of the Virgin Mary. Taking my hand, he gently shows me the features of her face, veil and body, explaining how it was constructed and its significance to the cathedral.

I don’t say much as Neil explains, but I listen intently. I find it all fascinating and quite beyond me: As he takes my hands and shows me ancient statues, stain glass images, trunks and other relics of the Catholic faith, I feel as though I have travelled beyond anything of my own world and am in contact with things I am unworthy to touch. They are sacred, and I am not, but yet, I am with them, touching them, and experiencing them. And the experience is something I can hardly describe nor understand.

A good hour passes before Neil returns to the front desk and my parents and I exit the cathedral. To my disappointment, Louis is not at his post on the reception desk, but I’m told he is wandering about the cathedral. “It’s completely normal,” she assures me brightly, “he’s a cathedral cat.” I’m not quite sure what she means by a “cathedral cat” but I smile and wave farewell to Neil and the kind receptionist and wonder if Louis might be perched upon the Virgin’s shoulder or a thirteenth-century trunk.

I walk out of Wells Cathedral, down the street where the market is now closing down, back to our car and climb in. I am overcome with a sense of wonder; the woman selling the cedar boxes and kind old Neil in the cathedral both greeted me with kind and fearless smiles and took me in in ways many people are afraid to. What may have seemed like a mere moment to them became timeless to me, offering me more than trinkets or historical facts and stories—they gave me acceptance.

And as I lay back in the car and close my eyes, I think of Louis and his perpetual scowl, and smile. The spires fade from view, the crowd noise disappear and I fall into dreaming with the feeling that I have left home washing over me. But I know I am not alone as the car takes me farther and farther away from this delightfully unexpected city. For the most unexpected thing of all is still with me out of the corners of my eyes and at my fingertips: Louis, the cat in the cathedral.

LET’S MEET BETH — AN INTERVIEW WITH A TEACHER OF STUDENTS WITH VISUAL IMPAIRMENTS

Today, I’m so happy to welcome Beth to the blog to chat about her career as a Teacher of the Visually Impaired [TVI]. She had a prolific, 33-year career, but what I’m very excited and grateful for is that Beth wasn’t just a TVI… she was my TVI!

I began school in grade two after being diagnosed with cancer and becoming totally blind, and from grade two to grade twelve, Beth was my constant advocate, teacher, and champion. I’m excited to share her perspective today.

Rhianna: Before we chat about your work as a TVI, tell me a bit about you. What are your hobbies? How do you fill your time now that you’re retired?

Beth: I love reading, hiking, traveling, knitting, swimming, listening to live music and exploring birds and photography. I belong to a photography club and to MARS (a rehab centre for birds and animals) and the Rocky Point Bird Observatory. I have been taking zoom classes on birds and wild animals. I also do some artwork, including taking classes with Chinese artist, Richard Wong. I belong to the local Retired Teacher’s Association and meet with them once a month. My family is very important to me and I keep in close touch with my son and his girlfriend in Ottawa and my brothers and sisters and their growing families as well as my deceased partner’s daughter and son and their families. So I’m pretty busy and enjoying retirement!

Rhianna: Why did you decide to go into teaching, and in particular, teaching students with visual impairments?

Beth: When I first started university, I wanted to help people, especially children, so I got my degree in psychology with some education courses. I started out working as a Social Worker in Lillooet and Lytton. I took extra courses in counselling and I think I was good with people, but I felt there wasn’t a lot I could do because of government policy. It was quite sad and stressful at times dealing with abuse, alcoholism, mental illness and poverty. I liked going into the schools so I decided to try elementary school teaching and went back to university. I was hoping to be a counsellor in elementary school because again, I wanted to help individual kids rather than deal with a whole classroom, but the job I got was teaching kindergarten through grade three for emotionally disturbed children which also included family counselling for the Ministry of Health in Burnaby. That was even more stressful, so I looked at the special education programs at UBC [The University of British Columbia] and I felt a connection with the Vision Teacher program. My aunt’s uncle, Charles Crane, was deafblind, and had donated all his braille and audio books to UBC to set up a library for blind students. Also, one of my early babysitting jobs had been with a baby boy who was blind and an amputee and a great little guy. I loved the story of Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller. Anyway I talked to the instructor and she encouraged me to take the training and the rest is history!

I’ve worked in about a dozen communities in BC–Terrace, New Westminster, Prince George and Campbell River, and travelling to nearby small towns, as well as Los Angeles. I’ve never regretted that decision!

Rhianna: What was your favourite part of the job, and what aspects were more challenging?

Beth: My favourite part of the job was getting to follow individual students through the years. I loved getting to know them and have a small part in making their education and development go well. I wanted to try to make sure they had the best chance for success and happiness, and that they developed their full potential. I tried to help make sure they didn’t miss out because of their visual impairment. I also loved getting to know their families and developing a relationship with them. I also loved it when teachers and other school staff felt that they had good support from me and that included the educational assistants and braillists.

The most challenging part was that I was pretty much on my own to figure out how to solve problems that came up, mostly from technology. I liked that though. Sometimes, I just needed to get the answers from SET-BC or from PRCVI [Provincial Resource Centre for the Visually Impaired] from technology staff at the school or district, from an internet search or from other specialists or the companies who sold the technology. And sometimes, I was happy that I figured things out myself. Another challenging aspect was that my bosses kept adding to my job because they figured that I had too few students, as they compared me to a teacher in a regular classroom or a psychologist who just tested students and then moved on to others. I had to travel a lot and in the last year, I was working only 3 days a week for two school districts, so I spent a lot of my own time doing the job. I don’t think there were many people who understood what I did until they had one of my students and gained a bit of an understanding and appreciation.

Rhianna: Why is teaching young students to read Braille important to set them up for success?

Beth: I always felt that it was so important that blind children who couldn’t read print learn to read and write in braille. Listening and speaking are important tools for understanding language but they can not completely replace the written (brailled) word. Spelling and grammar can not be learned auditorily. They can be enhanced but there is no replacement for physical contact with language. Personally, I can’t remember a new word until I see it in print a few times. The latest example for me is the word “cassoulet,” a delicious meal I had to look up in print before I could remember it!

Rhianna: But it’s not all about braille. Can you give us a snapshot of a day in the life of a TVI? Lots of the work is behind the scenes–what did you do?

Beth: There was a lot to learn in Braille to be able to keep a step ahead of my students. This involved learning how to teach Braille and coming up with my own ideas to make it fun, help with any problem areas and Learning formulas in Math, Science and Music as they came up. Later, I learned the changes to the Braille Code with Unified English Braille [UEB]. I learned the technology for producing and reading braille which involved not only producing it myself and helping the Braillist with their production but also learning the devices my students used and keeping up to date with new things. There was a lot of problem solving with the technology, either by myself or finding the right people to help.

But like you said, that was only part of the job. I spent a lot of time meeting with teachers, parents and/or other staff, individually and in teams, answering emails and phone calls. There was a lot of paperwork,–I wrote up assessments and educational plans for every student, interpreted eye reports from eye doctors, wrote up daily school visits, applied for fuel assistance and attended conferences. There was a lot of driving!

I had various roles in the BC Vision Teachers’ Association including being president for quite a few years and I was the Vision Teacher Rep on the PRCVI Advisory Committee for a long time. These all included more report writing! I was involved in organizing four provincial conferences for those in this field of teaching which involved lots of planning, writing funding applications, recruiting speakers and helpers etc. I was also the Set BC Coordinator in Campbell River for many years. I enjoyed doing extracurricular activities such as planning and attending social and recreational activities for my students–Christmas crafts, sports days, Orientation & Mobility with the instructors, going skiing and doing blind hockey and more. I signed on to work at CNIB summer camps and I took students to the National Braille Challenge and Space Camp for the Visually Impaired which were lots of fun. I took low vision students to eye exams and clinics and learned and provided them with technology and devices. I spent a lot of time getting and returning items to PRCVI, applying for special projects and for purchases.

Rhianna: What advice would you give to fellow or up-and-coming TVI’s?

Beth: The main thing is to enjoy the students and laugh with them! Look for their strengths and weaknesses and provide stimulating activities with positive reinforcement for both. Look for their interests but also try to expose them to lots of different things in and out of school. Visit lots so you can provide suggestions and/or advice and support as things come up. Do everything you can to support the Braillists and classroom teachers because they spend the most time with the students, even if that means putting your job on hold while you do the Braillist’s job so they can take a day off, helping in a class so they can produce braille, or going on field trips with a student’s class!

Rhianna: You were my TVI for 10 years. What is a special memory from our time together?

Beth: I have lots of great memories of time with you, Rhianna! You were so much fun to teach braille to. You had a great sense of humour and even laughed at my jokes! You were very athletic and I enjoyed taking you to ski with the Disabled Ski program – I made my colleagues jealous when I could sign in with “Gone Skiing!” instead of listing all the schools for the day. I remember the O and M trips around town, including going for ice crean cones. And I chuckle when I remember assisting you to play tag and you got angry with me whenever you got tagged! But then I helped you tag someone else. All the recreational activities were so much fun, including camps, crafts, a couple of trips to Vancouver for the symphony, workshops, art classes, etc. I remember Ripley, the guide dog in training I organised to visit you in elementary school; He looked so proud walking with you in the halls! And when you graduated from high school I felt so proud of you and I will never forget the lovely dinner, flowers and gift your wonderful family surprised me with!

Rhianna: Thank you for sharing! It’s been wonderful getting to hear about everything that went into being a TVI, and in particular, all the ways that I never knew you were advocating for me and setting me up for life after high school. I didn’t appreciate it then, but I do now, so thank you, thank you, thank you! Those memories bring back lots of fond ones for me as well. Thanks for doing everything you did for all those years, for me and your other students. The impact is tangible and so invaluable to helping me become who I am now.

I’m grateful to Beth for sharing her perspective and wisdom as a TVI with us. I hope you found it enlightening and encouraging. And I’m so grateful to her for being by my side all those years and pushing me to become the best person I could be [even though that “push” was uncomfortable at times!. Thanks, Beth!

Did you learn something new from Beth? Let us know in the comments!

SIX LESSONS I’VE LEARNED FROM MY THERAPIST

Therapy is for everyone. No matter if you think you need it or not, we are all human and have things we need to work through. Therapy is a wonderful, and for me, lifesaving tool.

This month, I’m celebrating my sixth anniversary of beginning my counselling journey. As I reflect on who I was when I first began to who I am now, it is a world of difference. I have a long, long way to go and there’s always more to learn, but I’m just so grateful for the therapy that I’ve been able to access, the gift of growth, and of course, my therapist.

Starting with the Foundation: Three Lessons

I. Having Cancer was Traumatic

Having been diagnosed with bilateral retinoblastoma at the age of four, I grew up with the “C word” being commonplace. I learned, whether explicit or implicit, that because I was fortunate enough to survive and be healthy now, I wouldn’t be traumatized. I survived, I was healthy, and I had a bright future ahead of me despite the challenges of my blindness.

But this optimism, while well-intentioned and a means to cope on behalf of those closest to me, lead me to question my mental health and search for the root cause of my anxiety and depression. And what my therapist, who is both a Christian and a trauma-informed practitioner, explained to me was that my cancer experience was indeed traumatic, and many of the issues I face are due to that trauma. Knowing this has freed me and allowed me a way to understand and move forward in my life in a much healthier and more fulfilled manner.

II. Spiritual Bypassing

Out of my years of therapy, spiritual bypassing is a concept I’ve only learned about within the last few months. Yet, it is revolutionary for how it has opened doors for me to begin deconstructing particular patterns and relationships.

Spiritual bypassing is defined, according to John Welwood, the psychotherapist who coined the phrase, as a “tendency to use spiritual ideas and practices to sidestep or avoid facing unresolved emotional issues, psychological wounds, and unfinished developmental tasks.” It is a fascinating concept which I am in the midst of delving into more deeply to gain a fuller understanding.

III. My Body Has Answers That I Don’t

I used to believe that I knew better than my body. It was just a collection of organs and physiological processes, right? But thanks to my therapist and the abundance of research available, I know that the body is much more than that. Our bodies and our minds are intimately connected, making our mental and physical health inseparable. The body remembers events and traumas that we’ve forgotten or buried. And if we learn to listen to its wisdom and signals, we will be closer to gaining an understanding of our pasts and how we can use that knowledge to shape a healthier future.

Building On the Foundation for a Healthier Future: Three More Lessons

IV. Let Go of a Toxic Self Image

Umm, let’s just say that my self image needs work! In my 26 years, I have become incredibly skilled at crafting an image of myself based solely on everything negative, shameful or uncomfortable that I have done, said or believed. While these are parts of me that I can’t erase from my past and will continue to work on, they are not what defines me and not [usually] how others view me. I hope to learn to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made [and will make], and define myself by God’s standards rather than the world’s.

V. Deconstruct the Unhealthy Parts of My Faith

I have been a Christian since I was five and grew up in a conservative household. As I’ve matured into adulthood, I was able to begin disentangling what I’d been taught by the Church, the Bible and other Christians, and I want to continue this journey. This does not mean that I’m being selective in which parts of God’s teaching I believe. However, there are toxic teachings I have adopted which aren’t bringing me closer to God or showing His love to others. It’s these teachings and beliefs which I am hoping to shed as I continue to learn, grow and develop as a person and a follower of God.

VI. How to Talk to Others About My Journey

Talking comes naturally to me. Talking about deep, emotional and often traumatic experiences is another thing entirely. I’m hopeful that as I continue going to therapy, I will learn to balance my emotions with the knowledge that my mind and body hold, and engage in conversations that can help those around me understand and validate the journey I’m on.

Have you gone to therapy? Tell me about your experiences. What’s something you’ve learned there that you use in your life now?

THE PROBLEM WITH PET FRIENDLY BUSINESSES AS A GUIDE DOG HANDLER

Imagine being able to take Fido with you everywhere you go. To the mall, the movies or on a plane. This is the privilege granted to guide and service dogs and their handlers, and it needs to stay this way.

Sorry, Fido [and Fido’s owner]. But you need to stay home for this one. But keep reading: You do need to hear this.

It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? You no longer have to worry about leaving your fur baby home, wondering if he’s peed on the floor, chewed up your shoes or worried about how little exercise he’s getting since you left him in his crate when you left the house. Why not take him with you on your afternoon errands? After all, the sign says “Pets Welcome.” No harm, right?

But there is harm. The privilege that allows guide and service dogs to enter public facilities is not there to give handlers an extra advantage or special treatment. It’s there to level the playing field. This is because of two factors: first, service dogs are not pets, and second, service dogs are trained to perform a service that mitigates the challenges of a disability.

When pets are allowed in public spaces where the community gathers, there are three things that can result, and they are what I call the Three D’s: danger, distract and detract. Let’s take a moment to go through each.

It Can Place the Team in Danger

Service dogs are highly trained to provide a particular service to their handler. My guide dog, Saint, spent four months of intensive training to learn how to guide a blind person. This meant learning to avoid obstacles, stop at elevation changes such as stairs, curbs, keep a straight orientation when crossing streets, and how to keep safe around moving traffic. It is a rigorous process, and only 50% of the puppies bred into the guide dog program graduate and are matched with a handler. It is not a job for the faint of heart; it is physically and mentally taxing. The responsibility they carry of ensuring their blind handler stays safe and out of danger is not for just any dog.

But it isn’t only the guide dog that gets trained. Handlers spend anywhere from a couple of weeks to a month learning to work with their guide dog. It takes upwards of a year to become a solid working team, and a big portion of their success is that both the dog and handler has a trust and respect for the other, particularly in situations that may be dangerous or distracting. That’s how they get through… together.

The world is rife with dangers for people who are blind. While we learn skills and techniques to keep us safe and independent, we are still living in a world that isn’t designed for disabled people and poses many challenges. Drivers of vehicles that don’t check for pedestrians can make crossing busy intersections risky. Encountering aggressive dogs who may be off-leash or not well-controlled pose safety risks for both the dog and handler. A guide dog helps to bear that weight. But it becomes increasingly difficult if the dog gets distracted.

It’s a Distraction

Service dogs may be highly trained, but they are still dogs and thus, will get distracted. They are expected to stay focused and avoid distraction while out in the community. But distractions are everywhere: people, food and other dogs being the most enticing of temptations.

If a working dog does get distracted, often, it takes only a simple verbal or light leash correction to get them back on track. But it can be more. And when a guide dog is distracted, it takes their focus off of their job and their surroundings; their focus transfers to how to get what they’ve just discovered–that piece of pizza on the ground, a pet from that nice lady making kissy noises, or a sniff of that cute girl dog. In this state, without the dog watching out for the safety of their handler, the team may walk straight into danger. Imagine what might happen if a guide dog gets distracted while crossing a busy road? They may veer into the traffic rather than keep a straight line across. I don’t have to imagine–I’ve experienced it. And it’s terrifying.

Guide dogs are inundated with possible distractions whenever they venture out of the house with their handler. And your pet is a perfect opportunity. *sniff sniff*

It Detracts From the Dog’s Purpose

But the greatest problem is a simple one of entitlement. If I get to take my dog with me wherever I go, why can’t you?

It’s simple: My dog is a mobility tool. He keeps me safe. He helps me navigate spaces that are difficult to do independently because of poor or inaccessible design. He levels the playing field, giving me access to equal opportunities that I may not have access to otherwise.

Your pet does not.

If pets are permitted to go places where only service dogs have the privilege, it detracts from the purpose of the service dog. Not only does it make the dog’s job that much harder, but it undermines the dog’s reason for being a service dog; to do its job, the dog needs to stay safe and focused so that it can provide the service it was trained to do. If any dog is allowed anywhere, then the privilege that these dogs have as working members of the community becomes meaningless.

I know it’s hard to watch someone walk into seemingly any establishment they wish with their dog at their side. But it isn’t always easy: almost every handler has experienced denial because of their service dog. Sometimes, this results in the staff learning about the rights of guide and service dogs, but too frequently, the handler is forced to go somewhere else because their legal right to enter a public facility was unjustly refused. And it happens more often than you think. This happens because people are unaware of the laws and rights surrounding guide and service animals, but also because someone has had a negative experience–a disturbance or aggression–by a pet, and to keep their businesses and customers safe, they feel that refusing all animals is the only option.

But in that moment, a disabled person has been denied the access that able-bodied people take for granted because of something that wasn’t their fault.

You might tell me that your dog is trained, and that he’d never do such a thing. He never even barks. To that I say: that’s wonderful! I’m so glad and thankful that you’ve taken the time and energy to train your dog properly. But that still does not give you the right to bring him with you when you go into the community because if you do, you’re undermining the tens of thousands of dollars it takes to train one service dog, and the work they do for one disabled person so that they can live their life with a little less challenge, and a lot more freedom.

WHEN CHRISTMAS WAS SIGHTED — SIX HOLIDAY MEMORIES FROM THE TIME BEFORE I WAS BLIND

As Christmas approaches and the world descends into a frenzy of holiday activity, I take a walk down memory lane, and reflect on the six Christmasses with my family before I became blind. I don’t remember many of them as I was so young, but there are bits and pieces that I recall which form the fondest of memories and the warmest of feelings. And I want to share them with you.

Here are six special childhood memories that I will always hold close to my heart and take with me as I celebrate this and many more Christmas seasons to come.

I. Frosty in Footprints

One winter while my grandparents were visiting, Grandpa and I were playing in the backyard, when Grandpa said “follow me.” He began walking in odd patterns, shuffling his feet in the snow. I followed where he put his feet, and was entirely confused. After he was finished, we went inside and he lead me to the kitchen window which overlooked the backyard. There, in the snow, was the word “Frosty” which had been written out by our footprints.

II. The Snow Mountain

Every year, our side yard became home to the snow mountain. When the handyman came around with his bobcat, he shoveled the snow into a hill and carved out small steps in the side. And every year, my siblings and I spent hours running up the snow mountain and sliding down just as fast as we could!

III. Home from the Hospital… Just in Time

I was fortunate that, for the first year I was battling my cancer, I was able to spend Christmas at home with my family. But it was a close call. I was released on Christmas Eve, and when I walked in the front door, my entire family was waiting for me–my grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and cousins on my mom’s side were there! It was so sweet, being surrounded by family for the holidays. I remember some, but I’m sure not all, of the mischief me and my cousins got into, and as the youngest cousin, I’m sure I got out of all the trouble, too.

IV. The Christmas Eve Tradition

For most people I know, Christmas morning is the pinnacle of the holidays. It’s when stockings are opened along with the presents piled up beneath the tree. For me, it’s opposite: Christmas Eve was the night I awaited with such excitement, and continues to since I’ve brought its tradition into my adulthood.

My family attended the Christmas Eve service at church where we would sing carols, read the story of Jesus’ birth and light candles. Once home, we’d change into pajamas and open every present… almost. Except for our stockings and the gift from Mom and Dad, every other present was torn open and squealed over. Then came the movie, which as tradition dictated, was the classic, Miracle on 34th Street. To this day, I have most of that movie memorized!

V. Into the Wilderness!

The first Saturday of December was the most exciting day–it’s when we got bundled up and headed out into the woods to cut down a Christmas tree! My memories are made up of trudging through the snow, picking out the perfect tree, Dad cutting it down with a saw and dragging it back to the car, and me, exhausted from the day’s events, insisting on being pulled home on the sled. On Sunday after church, we’d decorate it, and my favourite ornaments to hang were always the musical instruments.

VI. The Reindeer

Dad was a forester for 30 years, and as a gift from a coworker one year, he received a uniquely “foresty” gift–a reindeer made of tree trunks and branches! It has survived many a move and still stands proud, albeit a bit wobbly, in my parents’ living room.

Christmas, both when I was sighted and now that I am blind, holds a special place in my heart. There are parts of the season I wish I could see still, but I’ve gained a new appreciation for the holiday as a blind woman. After all, it’s still a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, and that is something I can celebrate with or without sight.

What do you remember about Christmas and the holiday season when you were a child? Let me know in the comments.

THERE IS NO MEANING IN DISABILITY PRIDE WITHOUT GOD

My first braille Bible came a few volumes at a time. In the first box was the Gospel of Matthew and Acts of the Apostles, two books in the New Testament. I was ecstatic. And as they came box by box, my Bible filled up my bookshelf and at seven years old, I could read the Word of God for myself for the first time.

It was so exciting, being able to read the Bible like my family and friends at church. I took it to Sunday School with me and was able to participate in Sword drills and follow along with the passage during the sermon. I kept a volume next to my bed, and half the shelf in my bedroom was taken up with the 37-volume Bible from Lutheran Braille Workers.

In my early twenties, I decided it was time for a new Bible, one with crisp braille dots and edges that didn’t have permanent curves from leaning against the wall by my bed. I opted for a 20-volume, hardcover Bible in the New King James Version [NKJV]. It now sits on my bookshelf, taking four cubbies to hold it all. It’s made the trek with me from my home two cities and four houses ago. It still takes up most of the bookshelf, and I still keep a volume by my bed.

It’s been with me for as long as I can remember, and so has God.

But my relationship with my braille Bible is easier to define than my relationship with God. There was a beginning, a conscious decision to open the pages and glide my fingers over the sweet dots that spelled out the story of God’s love for me. But growing up in a Christian home meant that God was in my life while I was still in the womb, and before I could say the name of God, He was a significant part of my existence. There’s never been life for me without Him. No beginning, no divide between when I knew Him and when I didn’t. Along the way, there have been landmarks in our relationship, like my baptism at 14 and my decision to attend Bible college after high school.

Receiving my braille Bibles have been landmark moments in my faith journey, too, but it’s not only because of being given the ability to read God’s Word for myself. It’s because the Bible was in braille, and for the first time, my identities as a disabled woman and a Christian came together in a real, tangible way.

The immense pride I have in my identity as a disabled woman only has meaning when taken with my pride in being a follower of Jesus Christ. I never believed they could coexist before, but not only can they, it makes my life overflow with beauty and meaning in both.

My disability is beautiful because I know that God created me this way and takes joy in me.
My faith is bolstered because of what I have endured as a disabled woman and every trial I face points back to God.

As simplistic as it may sound, the Bible sitting on my bookshelf now and the one in my childhood bedroom is how I know this is true. In one book, my disability and my God come together. It’s the only way to have full and complete meaning in both my disabled identity and my Christian identity. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My disability brings me closer to God, and God brings me pride in my disability.

You all know that I’m very vocal about my disability pride and a bit less so about my Christian pride. My faith journey is a very private one, and I keep it behind a curtain for only me and God to see. But every time I write about disability equality, accessibility, rights and ways to become allies of the disabled community, it stems from my love for the God who made me disabled, and beautifully so. There’s no meaning in it if God isn’t the maker and the center, and I’m thankful that He is, and will always be, there.

How does your faith impact your relationship with your disability, and vice versa? Let me know in the comments.

YOU ARE NOT ENTITLED TO DISABLED PEOPLE’S MEDICAL INFORMATION

People are curious about what they don’t know. I get it. I’m curious to know what a wooly mammoth feels like, and how people can read my emotions so accurately just by the way I move my face. [How does one raised eyebrow say so much?]

But there are some things, no matter how curious you are about, that are simply not appropriate to ask a stranger. And particularly, a disabled one.

“Were you born like that?”

The question came from a man sitting across from me on the city bus as I was on my way home from university. I was absorbed in my phone, tracking what stops we were passing so I didn’t miss mine, and more than that, I didn’t think this abrupt question was directed to me.

“What?” I said quietly. No one else had responded.

“Were you born like that?”

I didn’t reply. It was safer than anything that might have emerged from my mouth. But I knew what he meant. Had I always been disabled?

That encounter was years ago, but it was by no means the only time I’ve been asked that question. And the unfortunate reality is that the occurrence of strangers asking after disabled people’s medical information is ongoing, and far too frequent.

Disability happens for any number of reasons, and often, these origin stories are painful and difficult to talk about. I’m fairly open with mine: I became blind due to retinoblastoma, cancer of the eyes, when I was six years old. Both of my eyes were enucleated and I now have prosthetics, painted with the same hazel that I got from my mother.

I’m open about this part of my history. But I choose when and with whom to be open about it. And let me tell you that it is not with a stranger on the bus.

But there are people who became disabled in other ways, such as tragic accidents, attempted suicide, violence, and many more, things that are not appropriate to discuss. Maybe it brings up the trauma. Maybe they don’t want to relive what happened because it’s too painful. And maybe, they just don’t want to talk about it. Because, believe it or not, disabled people do talk about things other than disability.

It is their right to choose how they respond. And that reason also doesn’t have to be disclosed.

There is nothing more private than someone’s medical history and current condition. I’ve never once encountered an able-bodied person on the bus get asked this question.

But every disabled person that I know has been asked at least once, and often in a very insensitive way. Just because we are disabled does not mean that anyone other than the disabled person and their doctor gets to know that information.

At this point, it isn’t even curiosity about the unknown as it is plain and simple nosiness, and a good dose of ableism. If someone believes a stranger’s medical details are theirs to know and asks with no regard for privacy or consent, the disabled person has just been dehumanized and reduced to an object by which to glean information that to be frank, isn’t theirs to know in the first place.

Now, if someone asks me with genuine kindness and interest about my cancer history or my blindness, I’m often more than happy to answer. There’s a difference between curious and nosy, and if one can ask and still respect that what I divulge is my choice, then I’m all for it.

I said earlier that I’ve never seen a non-disabled person get asked so callously for their medical information. You just don’t do that — it’s an unspoken, societal rule of etiquette.

Why then, are these standards tossed aside in the face of a disabled person? When did we become things that exist to indulge and satisfy a stranger at the expense of our privacy?

Our information is free for the taking. It’s rude if we don’t give a satisfactory answer. We’ve offended the asker — how dare we refuse their request?

The entitlement is staggering. The line between personal information and public knowledge is so easily crossed and it both infuriates me and makes me laugh. How, in the 21st-century, have we gotten to a place where people feel entitled to the private information of strangers, simply to satisfy their curiosity?

Disabled people are not freaks of nature. We are not part of a circus display for you to stare at, poke and prod.

We are people. Yes, we have disabilities. But it is not your job, your right or your place to know about it unless we give our full and enthusiastic consent.

So the next time you ask me “were you born like that?” I’m going to take the advice of my mentor and respond with, “You mean gorgeous? Yes, I was born like that.”

I WAS BULLIED FOR BEING BLIND –A MINI MEMOIR

I’m somewhere between four and six years old–no longer sighted but not quite blind–when I’m bullied for the first time. And though the details are lost to memory, the belittlement and fear has never left my body. And I know it never will.

This is that story, the moment when I first learned that I would not always be safe, protected or valued because I was disabled.


“Who am I?”

“Who am I?”

“Who am I?”

Their voices tumble over each other, the cascade of the same mocking, accusing question thundering like a waterfall in my ears. I close my eyes and try to drown it out, but I can’t.

“Who am I?”

“Who am I?”

I don’t remember how I got here. The grassy slope that inclines up to the soccer field was where I’d been rolling down gleefully–maybe not today, but I know I have before–but now, it’s my prison. I’m on my back, my feet above my head at the top of the slope, and like a sheep amongst wolves, I am in the middle of them.

Trapped.

No way to escape.

Their hands pin me to the field, their taunts unrelenting. I can’t see whose holding me down, my vision is already too blurry to make them out. They’re older kids, anyway. I’m too small to struggle, and I’d never win. But there has to be at least five or six.

“Who am I?” comes the mocking refrain. Over and over, they spit the question and laugh. Let the little blind girl figure it out.

But I don’t.

So I stay put.

I don’t know how I get free. But at some point, I’m released from their grip, able to stand and brush the grass and dirt from my shirt, and go inside. It doesn’t happen again, but it doesn’t have to–I’ll never forget.