Category: Uncategorized

I dreamed that Emily Dickinson took me for a walk.
She stopped to show me Autumn in the briny scent of pine cones
she placed one after another in my seeking hands.
We barely said a word.
She and I, two inward-turned observers
of vermilion-tinged changing leaves
I knew their colors without words.
I knew the ticklish, teasing breeze
that hinted iron chill but still held fleeting warmth.
My hair tingled with sensation.
Emily braided it with goldenrods.
She told me, her voice in the wind,
“Nothing Gold can Stay.”
I said, “Wait, isn’t that Robert Frost? Your own words say it better.”
She said nothing, but
cried salty raindrop tears.
I held her while the leaves blew
coming to rest on her crackly cheeks
She wept in my sticky, sap-splattered arms
Just once,
I may have saved her life.

Blind Perfectionism

There was a guy on the bus the other day who complimented me on Kiva and how beautiful she is, asked me how old and what breed she was, and a few other questions I could answer in my sleep because I’ve answered them so many times while I’m awake.  I answered him politely but briefly.  (I was reading a book on the art of making Asian pickles, and I was on the kimchi chapter.  It was intense.  Also, I am NOT making this up.  The questions part or the kimchi part.)

Presumably because he failed to capture my attention, he turned to the person next to him and started talking to HER about my dog and how beautiful she was.  Then he started going down the rabbit hole of completely ridiculous: “Those dogs are so smart.  They know exactly when to get off the bus.  They just lay down and when their stop comes they’re up and ready to go.”

I’m sure most of you, dear readers, know this is not true.  And if you don’t, a tiny foot nudge from Logic is all you need to realize it isn’t true.  I take five buses consistently, and various other routes as needed.  In order for Kiva to know what stop we want, she would first need to know which of these routes we were on by reading the route number.  Since more than one route stops at my usual stops (for example, I go to the same place to catch the 4 and the 2), she would not be able to think, (cue doggy diva voice): “Ok we’re on Franklin and Lyndale, we must be going to that one place I love and not that other place I also love, omg I am so smart.” Even if she had any notion of being on Franklin and Lyndale, she would not know whether we were on the 4 or the 2 without being able to read the number, and there are a number of places we go on both those buses, so she would have no idea which place that would be and thus would not be able to stand up at the correct stop.

That was exhausting.  Have I lost you? I hope not, because it gets better.  (Who am I kidding, no it doesn’t.)

The bus guy making overblown statements about guide dogs then started making equally bombastic comments about blind people.  “Yeah, they always know where they are,” he said.  “I know a guy who doesn’t even need the driver to call the stops.  He just knows where he is all the time.  I guess his other senses just tell him where he is. …  Not saying they shouldn’t be callin the stops, but these people always know where they are.  It’s incredible.”

The part of flabbergasted and annoyed normal not-special-unicorn blind person will now be played by Lauren.

I don’t know who this mythical blindie is that this dude knows, but I sure have never met them.  And I hope to the deity of public transit that the driver wasn’t listening to this guy and thinking, hmmm, maybe I just won’t call the stops any more, since they all know where they’re going.  NO WE DON’T!!!! We don’t have some special snowflake internal compass plus navigation system that tells us where in the world we are, nor do our senses, heightened or not, give us any indication where the bus is.  I suppose if I really wanted to, I could go on one of my regular routes and count the turns and stops and MAYBE be able to figure out where my stop is.  But while I wasted time doing that, I wouldn’t be able to read about kimchi or eavesdrop or do anything short of remembering to breathe, and even that might be too much to ask.  Ok, maybe if I stopped breathing, I’d suddenly know exactly where I was all the time.

The Daredevel-blind-people-as-extraordinary trope in which the media portrays us doesn’t help.  If the media had its way, we would all walk around touching everyone’s face, being superheroes, and finding our clicky way via echolocation from the moment we emerged into the world.  The pedestal on which the media and society places us is not one that I relish or intend to stand on.  In stepping onto that pedestal, we also place distance between blind and sighted, an “us” and “them” mentality that casts neither party in a good light.  While perpetuating the inaccuracies of blind perfectionism, we create a construct where blind people are fun to gawk at and marvel over, but not to talk to, to touch, or to treat as the multi-dementional individuals we are.

Admittedly, I’m part of the problem.  I didn’t say anything.  I probably should have, but couldn’t find the energy.  But I’m saying something now, and that something is that I AM NOT PERFECT.  And if you see me on the street and I look lost, yup, I probably am.

Well-meaning folks ask me frequently what my “dream job” is. Besides being an obnoxious expression, it’s a question that I tend to shuffle around gracelessly because my “dream job” is one that we deem inappropriate, in our society, for someone who has reached a certain educational level. Nonetheless, I’m putting it out there today. My “dream job” is to be a barrista and to make your coffee. Yes, yours.

When I was a college freshman, I schlepped my coffee maker, coffee grounds, mugs and filters to my campus dorm room and set up shop. Luckily, though my roommate didn’t like coffee, she liked the smell, because to be quite honest, our dorm room smelled like a Starbucks with a decidedly underachiever complex. However, this story has a happy ending: today, I sometimes see Facebook statuses from my former roomie along the lines of, “Ugh, I neeeeed coffee stat!”, and I’d like to think my little dorm room coffee corner influences her coffee-guzzling ways.

During the second semester of that year, I worked at the campus coffee shop. It was located in the basement of the chapel, and therefore called Holy Grounds. Even as a skeptic, I’ll admit there was something holy about the espresso shots that I downed after trundling across campus in the freezing cold winter. I spent my morning in warmth: steaming milk, pumping syrup, and perfecting tiny foam caps on the top of cappuccinos. We arranged the milk just so: 2 percent to the left, skim in the middle, soy to the right. I made smoothies and Italian sodas as the weather warmed, and marveled at my philosophy professor who came in practically on the hour for a double shot topped with black coffee.

I suppose this sounds rather idealized. It was, and it wasn’t. It was repetitive work, hours on my feet, and it was the most “Zen” I can remember ever feeling. I learned very particular things about people by the way they took their coffee. I learned to anticipate what someone might also like, based on a beverage they liked to order, and to recommend it when they wanted something new. It became a grand social experiment for me. It also cemented my faith in the coffee shop as a “community experience”, which has influenced me to seek out that experience as I’ve moved around the Twin Cities. Being a participant in the coming together of a community, and a facilitator for making that together happen, was something I needed then and something I still enthusiastically seek now.

Throughout my job seeking years, I’ve listened to people belittle barristas, retail employees, servers, and bartenders, or say, “Well, at least it’s something”, with the assumption that a person can and should do better. But people who work in those industries are vital, noble, relevant, and necessary. I’d love to see the “just” taken out of, “Oh, I just work in a coffee shop.” Helping someone feel caffeinated, engaged, and happy isn’t “just.” It’s an important thing.

Even though I have barrista experience, I’ve been unsuccessful at getting “just” a coffee shop job since my days at Holy Grounds. Corporate shops like Starbucks, Caribou, and the Barnes and Noble cafe worry that I won’t sling lattes fast enough, and that in turn, having a more concise system to where things like syrup and milk are placed will slow down other employees. In my opinion, better organization makes good sense for everyone, but my opinion lacks corporate flavor. I’ve been unsuccessful at getting interest from indie shops as well, though they definitely represent the more hopeful side of the spectrum. If I had extra thousands of dollars, a willing partner, and a city that needed it, (mine doesn’t), I might consider opening my own shop. We’d have Braille menus, an accessible app, and comfy community couches that go on for days. “Dream job”, for real.

Things are going to get real today, dear reader. First, because I’m going to talk about being unemployed, and second, because I actually, shockingly, did a tiny bit of (albeit Google) research for this blog entry. So I’ll be slinging some figures, and not just braindumping in my usual manner.

I just finished working for a year at a nonprofit organization. Before that, I had been unemployed for three years, besides a two-month summer teaching job in 2012. During those three years, I consistently looked for work. I had consistent interviews. At first, it was exciting and I nerdily took to the task: taking copious notes on my answers for the most difficult questions, asking for detailed feedback when I was not the one chosen for a job, etc. I did learn a lot. But it soon became a vicious circle of application, interrogation, and rejection, and my energy flagged rapidly. I still did all I could think to do, but it was exhausting, frustrating, and discouraging.

I know well the hell that the job market has been over the last few years. Graduating from college and into a recession has deeply impacted many people of my generation. However, I’m also a realist, and know that in the eyes of most employers, hiring me is not the easy choice. Given the choice between a sighted employee who would require no accommodations, no matter how reasonable, or a blind employee who is just as qualified but may require things done a bit differently than the workplace has ALWAYS done them, the employer will, almost inevitably it seems, pick the former. Because it’s easy. Because it requires fewer resources and brain cells. And because people are afraid of change and of difference, easy is what, by and large, they choose.

I’ve gotten some push back for these assertions over the years, but I stand by them. I’ve had too many interviews to not see a pattern. I’m the one who hears the hesitation when I tell someone who’s called me for an interview that I’m blind. It’s always amusing to me to do phone interviews and then, if they want me for an in-person interview, to disclose that I am blind and to catch the surprise in their voice. Because somewhere deep down, the best, most open-minded people are still subconsciously surprised that they just had a meaningful, relevant conversation with a person who happens to have a disability.

If my empirical evidence isn’t convincing, here’s a figure that you’ve probably heard me spout if you’ve been unfortunate enough to get my full rantage on this subject: according to the American Federation for the Blind, the unemployment rate among blind people was 75% in 2010. More hopefully, in 2012 the National Federation of the Blind conducted a survey wherein the employment rate among the participants was 37%. Of course, we have to take into account several factors, such as how many blind people are unemployed and actually looking for work, versus how many have given up looking; what the term “blind” actually means in different contexts; and an individual’s circumstances, such as socioeconomic status and access to resources. But the 75% statistic is one that I’ve heard bantered over most of my job-seeking life, and have reason to think is, unfortunately, stubbornly immobile.

Now, finally, I come to the purpose of this post: I’m unemployed, and it’s probably going to take me longer than the average person to find work. My last dance with unemployment was stressful financially, but also socially. Many things that my friends wanted to do were beyond my means, and I spent a lot of time feeling anxious and guilty. I declined several invitations to go out for dinner or drinks, because those things add up, not to mention more expensive excursions. I receive $660 in disability payments per month. I am extremely fortunate that my parents pay my rent. Once I pay all my other bills and buy groceries, I have about $150 a month leftover. That will go to things like household necessities, food or other necessities for Kiva, etc. In that chunk, there may be funds for friend time, but it’s hard to tell at the beginning of the month what will come up.

What the hell can you do with me then, you ask? Well, I can cook you dinner, or we can cook something together. You can show me your favorite movie of all time, because chances are I’ve never seen it because movie watching is something I don’t do on my own. We can walk around the lake or a park or just on the boring old sidewalk. Oh I know! We can build a fort, like all those “10 romantic things to do with your significant other” blogs tell you to do. (Don’t worry, we don’t have to make out in it if you don’t want to.)

All kidding aside, this is where I’m at currently. If I can’t do money-requiring things with you for a while, it’s not because I don’t like you. It’s because I’m the 75, and I’m working to turn that around.

This post is NOT for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. I warned you.

My dog is a world-class scavenger. I say this with no other dog experience and no credentials whatsoever, except for my two years observing her snatch garbage indiscriminately off whatever surface is within reach, though she seems partial to gutters and the depths of the most manky tangles of weeds. I remember when I was training with her at dog school, and when they were reading the stats on Kiva’s puppyhood, they slipped in this innocuous little biographical nugget: “May scavenge if given the opportunity.”

Kiva had done many things up to that point, including practically knocking me over when she saw another dog, flinging her paws on my shoulders when I got out of bed in the morning, and sprawling out all her doggy parts on the floor during lectures in the hopes of a belly rub. (Complete with groaning.) But scavenging she had not done, and I sent up a fervent little prayer to the dog heavens that I would not have this little habit to deal with when I returned home.

Somehow, under the scrutiny of all her trainers, Kiva kept her head up and her nose to the sky. When we got home, her gaze shifted downward and the ground became magical.

She has had an adventurous summer. She ate a nearly whole bar of soap when I was visiting Seattle. This reappeared as a puddling, white foam on the floor of my dear friend’s condo, where I will probably never be allowed to stay again.

While I was in Madison for the weekend, Kiva ate all her extra food, (which I packed in case for some reason I ran out and discovered that they don’t actually sell dog food in Madison, I guess), and the plastic scoop I use to transfer the food to her bowl. Thankfully, the plastic shards waited until I returned home to reappear on the floor of MY studio, where I’m guessing I would no longer be allowed to live if my building manager had any idea of the unspeakable things that sluice from my dog’s stomach at any given time. (Incidentally, it’s much harder for me to find the damage when I’m alone. If I had any mechanical ability whatsoever, I’d invent a dog vomit sensor that would bring the accessible devices market to its knees. Introducing the dog vomit sensor, no need to get your feet wet ever again, blindies! But I digress.)

This time, I’m visiting my folks in Iowa, and like a hippie weirdo, I brought my own food. (It’s much more polite than demanding my parents buy things like barley and chana dahl.) I carelessly left said food within puppy nose reach, and came back to discover that she had chewed open both the quinoa and lentil bags. Lentils littered the floor, but no quinoa was to be found. Which, I’m just being honest here but if you ask me, is terrifying. The only thing worse than a sly, sneaky scavenger dog is a sly, sneaky scavenger dog that is so bizarrely tidy about it.

Gentle reader, this next part is really gross. There, I double warned you. This morning, all the lentils reappeared, in the grass, in the pouring rain. Whole and perfectly intact.

This is why, when I bring Kiva to people’s houses for the first time, (and sometimes the second and third), I often will leave her on leash or keep her very close to my side. No matter how cute she looks, she is a slick, savvy scavenger deep in her dark, doggy soul. She will bewitch you with smiles and kisses and side flops and then she will shred all the Kleenex and paper towels in your house while you’re busy gushing about how well-behaved she is. Or she will traumatize your cat. Or break your water glasses. Or eat your cat’s food. Actually, I’m surprised ANYBODY still invites me back to their house, and equally not surprised about all the houses I’ve never been invited back to a second time. It’s ok, really.

In conclusion, I hope no one was exceptionally hungry before reading this post.

Going Green

For the past few years, University Avenue has been jumping, shaking, and rumbling under an earthquake of construction for a new light rail corridor between Minneapolis and St.  Paul, hereafter referred to as the “green line.” With our train system prior to only providing rides to the most important parts of the Twin Cities (the Mall of America and Target Field, in case you were unaware what those were), the connection into St.  Paul has been a while coming.

When the green line was first being constructed, and my commuting hours were spent trying to figure out what in the name of crappy public transit the new routes for all the University Avenue buses were, I bitterly lamented that by the time the green line opened and theoretically restored things to some sort of normalcy, I’d be all moved out of the Twin Cities.  (I have been trying to do this since I graduated from college, so I’m not sure why I actually believed this.  And, as has been the case for six years, I’m still here, and the green line is also here, so I can now write about it.)

The line opened in mid June.  I started taking it immediately.  I work in St.  Paul, and rather than the buses being restored to their pre-green line construction glory, my main route to St.  Paul was eliminated and the second best one was changed so that it no longer goes where I need it to go.  I’ve never taken the light rail very much prior to now.  Because many of the tracks are open, and the raised lines that are supposed to be enough to let one know if they are getting close to stepping onto said tracks are often covered with snow, I’ve been hesitant about overly committing to light rail travel.  Though I often tell a joke that goes something like, “I’m convinced someday I’m going to die by being flattened by the light rail, hahahaha, aren’t I morbidly hilarious and so sophisticatedly macabre? May I have another drink before I continue to wow you with my wit?”, I kind of actually believe it a little bit.  (The getting run over part, not the wit part.)

All this to say, it’s not been without a little heart pounding and deep breathing that I’ve switched transit modes.  The first week, I flinched every time a train whooshed past me, even though I knew my feet were firmly safe and sound on the platform.  Many of the light rail stops require that you walk into the street, cross the tracks, and turn onto the platform, in one theoretically seamless super-hero swoop.  The first few weeks, I strode into the street with fake bravado, then waffled around trying to figure out which platform of the two side-by-side ones I should turn onto, while also avoiding bumbling onto the tracks.  It’s getting easier, and having Kiva has been a huge advantage.  For some reason I will likely never know, she LOVES the train, and wags her dancing way onto the platform like a pro while I fret behind her.  I’m hopeful that if I ever end up on the tracks in front of an oncoming train, she will have enough self preservation to pull both of us to safety.

As much as I preach flexibility, and being able to change and evolve in order to promote progress, this has been a slow process for me.  I never thought I’d say I miss the bus, but sometimes I do.  I miss having contact with the driver, asking for directions if I need to.  I miss the way different drivers call stops, from the reluctant mumble to the aspiring DJ whose microphone is their oyster.  As much as the bus “community” often annoys me, on the train there is a certain aloofness.  I like that no one has yet asked me if “you’ve just lost your vision, or were you born that way?” when I’m buried in a book minding my own business as they do on the bus.  On the other hand, I miss the conversation around me, and the perfect opportunity I have to eavesdrop and then make fun of people.  (I’m just keeping it real, y’all.)

Like everything, I’ll get used to it.  And, in so far as the green line is a step in bringing more accessible and progressive transportation to the Twin Cities, I’m very thankful.  I’ll find somewhere new to eavesdrop.

Cooking Lessons

I have a useless knack for remembering arbitrary dates. It is rather silly, but sometimes I like tying my life together in tiny bursts of memory: nine years since I planted my first herbs (which languished in my tiny Augsburg apartment with not enough sun and too much humidity), seven years since I interned in Ecuador, (and got spoiled by fresh fruit juice every day), six years (six!) since I graduated from college. And ten years since I learned how to cook.

Hummus is like peanut butter now in its popularity, but in 2004 I’d never even heard of it. I took a trip to Washington D.C. to participate in a march with some folks from my freshman year of college student activism group. The professor charged with accompanying us was a vegetarian. She brought crunchy salty sesame sticks, morsel-sized sweet strawberries, and a thick garlicky puree of hummus with enough baby carrots to feed a rabbit army. I ate so much hummus as we crossed long stretches of highway and listened to Queen and the Indigo Girls and talked about things like slam poetry and what it was like to be a LGBT person in a tiny Iowa town. Every college kid has their “moment of truth”, and that was mine. I found my people. They were crunchy, kind, snarky, compassionate. And damn, that hummus was good.

I transferred from that college at the end of the year, but I still thought about hummus. I moved back to my hometown, and thought about hummus. I rented my first apartment with my high school best friend, and I thought about hummus. We set up our kitchen, and I made hummus.

I hadn’t cooked much of anything prior to this. I made toast and hot pockets and boiled eggs. I operated under my main high school assumption, which was, “I have friends/family who’ll do that for me.” I’m not proud of it, but at least I grew out of it. The allure of the hummus helped.

Of course, everyone thought I was nuts. What was this pureed chickpea thing? And what, pray tell, was tahini? “It’s sesame paste,” I said, parroting what Google had told me. This explanation didn’t help. Nobody knew what sesame paste was either.

Despite this, I made hummus in an old, rickety blender. I can still remember the exact recipe and cookbook I made it from: The Vegetarian Meat and Potatoes Cookbook by Robin Robertson. It was the only vegetarian cookbook I had access to in Braille then. I ate it with sliced cucumber and pita. The hardest parts were finding the pita and tahini, which my roommate patiently scoured the grocery store for, with me complaining the whole time, “You can see, why can’t you find it?”

Still, I think it was worth it. I actually credit said roommate and high school bff with helping me learn how to cook. She did explain some basics to me, but more than that, she let me figure things out for myself, which was what I really needed. And she was my taste tester and helped me eat all the leftovers. She helped me make my first loaf of bread, a cranberry-orange made with all white flour, canned cranberry sauce, and orange juice concentrate. It made our kitchen smell like Christmas in July.

I think I always had this idea that cooking was difficult, that at the very least I’d need to be able to see to accomplish anything more major than boiling pasta.  But, I’ve mostly proven myself wrong.  When a cookbook says to toast nuts until brown I hover around the oven and let my nose tease out the telltale golden notes signaling they are ready to come out.  When cooking eggs until the yolks no longer “look runny”, I rely on a slowing in the sizzling of the eggs and a very gentle poke with a spatula.  And, for those pesky “cook until heated through” instructions, I have been known to thrust my hand right into the pan for a (hopefully) hot second.  In the end, sometimes you can’t have something delicious without a few battle scars.

Summer is always my favorite time to cook and the time I have the most energy for it.  I could spend hours (and often do) on a Sunday churning ice cream, coaxing tight pea clusters from their pods, and stripping herbs from their fragrant branches.  My next goal, when I’m able, is to learn how to garden.  You never know: maybe someday blindie gardeners will grow the world.

People always say that Christmas is a holiday most exciting for children, and that it’s always better with a child in the house. That may be, but I think that summer is the season for children.

I always feel nostalgic at the beginning of summer, especially during the years I’ve worked and watched as schools let out, as the world becomes more frenzied with kids chasing one another across my path and packs of out-for-the-summer revelers behind me in an ice cream line. Sometimes, I feel a jealousy so overwhelming that I want to turn around, brandish something fierce-looking for emphasis, and demand that they enjoy their damn summer vacation, because all too soon they’ll have bills to pay. This would be way more convincing if I were wizened and gray-haired, though it’s all just a matter of time.

For me, childhood summers have become some sort of golden age in my mind. There were the summers I always spent at blind camp, which usually took place over my birthday. We had great celebrations of cake and everyone would be forced to sit still and watch me open my packages from home. In hindsight, this must have been miserable for them. Everyone would make me Braille cards. There was the year of the surprise party, which was not a surprise because my camp BFF spilled the beans the night before, when I was wallowing in the melodrama that no one would actually REMEMBER my birthday. Everyone always did, or at least the grown-ups made sure they did, but I was nevertheless overly concerned anyway.

There were the summers where I felt I was too old for camp, right after we moved houses at the dawn of my teenage years. I would swing in the backyard, with my earphones blaring bad Top 40 or whatever weird alternative stuff I thought was cool at the time. I’d pretend I was someone else. Lost in the music and the wind making a tangle of my hair (always unnecessarily long then), I’d picture myself winning awards, or asking out all my crushes, or else just acting really cool in front of them so they’d ask me out. I’d be somewhere else, not in my parents’ house. I determined I would go back to school in the fall looking totally different, and no one would recognize me. I’d go from nerdy blind to super cool blind in one hot, rollicking second of one summer.

Summer was for reading everything I didn’t get to during my over achiever school years. It was for sleepovers in the house, the backyard, and, when I was little, the playhouse my dad built. I remember the summer I discovered snow cones sold out of a little trailor resurrected down the street from the just-moved-into house. It was called Rainbow Snow. My favorite was a boring old cherry French vanilla combo, although I mostly ordered some citrusy over-sweet thing called “Tiger’s Blood”, because it made me feel more badass. I was always more bad-ass in my head than out in public. Some things never change.

There was the summer when I was 6 or so, and my dad showed me the skeletons of dead bees and butterflies (as a learning experience, I’m sure, not as a sadistic nightmare conjuring experience). I became so fascinated that I collected dead leaves, grass, sand, and all matter of shrubbery to cobble in a shoe box, which I called my “nature box.” The time I shoehorned a live beetle in there, It started wrustling among all the flora from where it sat on my dresser. From my bed, it sounded like the footfalls of some night creature coming to get me. There was much howling for my parents after that, who rescued me from my bed and the beetle from its shoe box prison. Nightmare conjuring accomplished.

Summer is a busy time for my mind, a time where I feel like I have some small permission to let my whimsy off its winter leash. I feel more playful, and that my playfulness is more acceptable. I like to listen to music and read books of summer’s past. (Every summer I reread Seventeenth Summer, even though it’s dreadfully slow-paced and nothing seems to happen, but I keenly know the turbulent world of Angie’s angst bubbling just below the surface). This summer, I’ll probably also make my way through the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants books again, to relive those breathless summers of beaches, boys, and best friends. I can’t help myself. “Coming of age” in summer seems like such a fleeting thing, a heartbeat and then it’s gone, but it holds so much promise and expectation.

I’m Wishing you all summers full of spontaneity and discovery. Tell me your summer memories too!

I want to talk a little about un-validating. (I think the actual correct word for this is “invalidating”, but “un” is the prefix that makes the most sense to me in this context. More on that in a minute.

I started thinking about this because of a Facebook status from a friend. I’ll try not to be too specific, since I didn’t get her permission to disclose the specifics of her situation. But, the jyst is that she was feeling very vulnerable in a particular situation, specifically based on the fact that she is a blind woman. Her status was very expressive and eloquent, and I related to her concerns, as a blind woman myself. I commented and said as such, but noticed other comments to the tune of, “This isn’t just a problem for blind people; as a woman, I deal with this every day” and “I support whatever you have to do to feel comfortable”, with the underlying tone that my friend was overreacting.

Thing is, I also related to the way it feels to receive those well-intentioned comments. As much as sometimes it feels nice to know that you’re not alone, other times being told that feels like the well-meaning person is trying to minimize my feelings. That’s where the “un” comes in. The other person is taking a completely valid feeling, in this case vulnerability and fear, and trying to make it not valid by minimizing it into just one of those things we all have to deal with sometimes. (There’s a “don’t you worry your pretty little head” and a cheek pat in here somewhere.)

Thing is, feeling vulnerable because of my disability IS a very real thing. Yes, women can relate to me because I am also a woman, but no, sighted women cannot relate to me in a very specific way, because I am blind. I’m not exactly saying I have it worse, or campaigning for pity, but I do think that minimizing blind people’s concerns about safety does a disservice.

A personal example for me is when I sometimes complain about how much attention people give Kiva when we are working. Absolutely lovely, well-meaning people will say, “Well, if it makes you feel better, people are just as obnoxious with other dogs too.” While it’s nice to know there are other frustrated dog owners, there is also an element to my concern that is safety related. I rely on Kiva to keep me safe. When she’s distracted by other people making fools of themselves trying to impress her, that puts my safety on the line. Even if it’s as minimal as she misses a curb and we trip unceremoniously into the street because someone is making kissy faces at her, those lapses in Kiva’s concentration are not ok for us as a team. Next time it might not be as inoccuous as just a curb.

Of course, there is no easy or “right” solution to this un-validating. It just comes down to consideration. For example, maybe rather than trying to make someone feel better by saying how everyone feels that way, perhaps validating the feelings and offering support or just an open space for dialogue is a better solution. Trust me, that can make all the difference.

The chaos on the bus this week has been multiplied by April snow and the constant, stubborn 40-something temperatures. People are restless and cranky, and I place myself squarely there as well.

To cheer themselves up, people have been especially vocal about Kiva this week. I usually sit in the front of the bus, since it provides the quickest entrance and exit, so everyone who gets on the bus walks past me on the way to their seats. When Kiva is laying down, sometimes people miss her. On certain buses, I can tuck her snuggly under the seat between my feet, so no one can step on her but she can still stare at their shoes if she’s so inclined. This week, though, with the winter-dirty bus floors, I’ve been keeping her sitting up by my side, within view of the masses. Here is what the menagerie has sounded like on a typical day this week:
“Nice-looking dog.”
“Boy or girl?”
“What’s your dog’s name? Eva? Oh, Sheeva? That’s a nice name, Sheva, you’re just so cute aren’t you?”
“I think your dog wants to lay down. She looks tired.”
“Your dog looks sad.”
“How old is your dog? … She’s too small to be a full-grown lab, she must be a mix. … Well I used to train dogs so I know these things.”
“Your dog is shivering, is she scared? Oh, is she cold? She shouldn’t be out in this wind… I’m sorry, I just love animals so much and I can’t help wanting to protect them. It’s just my nature.”
And then, the comments that don’t even make it to me, that are merely directed at Kiva:

“Oh, you’re such a pretty dog!”
“I wish I could pet you, but I can’t I guess …”
“You take care of your Mommy, ok?”
I have no idea how to respond to these comments that are not actually directed at me, so I usually don’t respond. I can’t figure out if it’s more awkward to draw attention to myself or pretend like I can’t hear them talking to kiva. It’s an extremely strange phenomenon.

A few days ago I was travling downtown in a wet, one-third rain, one-third sleet, one-third snow storm. My hair was all over the place, straggly and wet, I’d spilled a generous amount of coffee down my jacket (but hey, at least it was warm for about 30 seconds), and in reality I probably looked pretty frazzled and Madam Crabbypants-y. (Trust me, this undoubtedly stunning image will come back into play in just a few minutes.)

I was near my stop, and a couple were standing in front of me, waiting to get off the bus. I, in turn, was sitting, because standing on a bus for me results in falling on a bus.

The man and woman in front of me started asking the same old Kiva questions. I answered them, politely (hopefully), but with not added explanation or opening to continue the conversation.

“You look so pretty in purple,” the woman said, right out of the blue, while her companion continued to call Kiva by name and make cutesie faces at her.

“Oh, thank you,” I said back.

“It’s very nice,” she continued, “you’re a very pretty woman.”

I tried not to giggle, as I always do when someone referes to me as a “woman.” Will that ever feel right to me? I wondered, but then realized that before I could allow my mind to go meandering on a philosophical scavenger hunt as to why words like “woman” and “lady” make me feel terribly uncomfortable when they’re applied to me, I realized there was a gaping silence wherin I was supposed to respond to her compliments.

“Thank you,” I said again, and either because or in spite of the awkwardness I felt I added, “that’s nice of you. Everyone’s always talking to me about my dog, and how pretty she is, I mean, she is pretty but… you know… I appreciate your saying that I am.”

“Yeah, I could tell, that’s why I said it,” she replied.

Intuitive though she was, that last statement seemed rather TOO honest. Then her companion apologized and we all awkwardly said good-bye.

I relate that story only to tell you this one: this morning I got on the bus, sat down, and realized that Kiva kept turning her head to look back behind her. I could not get her focus, which usually means there is something particularly fascinating in her view. I realized what it was when people started exiting the bus, and I suddenly felt the nose of another dog against my palm, trying to get to Kiva. Kiva, in turn, strained her head to greet her long-lost friend, and for one split second, even before I informed the other blind person with a service dog that I had one too and that was why hers was pulling her towards me, I… wanted… to… pet… him. She said his name, Logan, and it was all I could do to not reach out my hand and scratch the fuzzy chin under that wandering little nose, to touch the soft ears and ask all the same over-and-over questions I get asked, “How long have you had him? Does he like playing tug? Can he read traffic lights?” Ha, just kidding, not that last one!

But, even though I had my own dog at my feet, I wanted to make friends with the other one. I didn’t, which is the only thing I did right in either of these stories. I restrained myself. I knew better. But I wanted to, and that realization taught me a little bit about humility, and made me resolve to treat strangers with a little more grace.