Asides

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.

There won’t be much to see here today except a varitable love fest for my darling puppy (who’s not a puppy any more). Two years ago on April 9, 2012, I met Kiva for the first time, which makes today our two-year anniversary.

I have a picture of our first meeting. They unloaded her from a van of six dogs, five of which went to my class companions. Kiva was the last one to be unloaded, and we met on neutral ground, in the lounge of the Oregon campus dorm. It was maybe 10 steps from my room. Walking there seemed to take forever, and when I got there, one of the instructors said, “Ok, we’re bringing in Kiva now. Um, so, she might be a little excited.”

During her “little excited” phase was when the director of the class snapped the picture, of my little labby exuberantly and unabashedly licking my face; me smiling and happy but also very taken aback. Somehow, I wasn’t prepared for this big bundle of joy who thought she was still little enough to crawl into my lap and cover me with kisses. Knowing what I know now, I should have made her sit right away; now, I would have known how to calm her, kindly but effectively. Then I didn’t know, and I had no idea what to do with the gift of Kiva. One of the first things my instructor told me, as Kiva pranced and panted and generally acted like a fool was, “She just doesn’t know what to do, so give her something to do. Tell her to sit.”

I can’t count the number of times I’ve relied on this advice over the last two years. When Kiva starts acting squirrely, I give her a task. As much as she loves to play, she loves to work, and I can see that. I’ve defended my choice to have a companion animal to countless (mostly) strangers on the street who have questioned the ethics of my having a dog who “works for me.” When Kiva has something to do, she’s happy, and I’m happy.

And that lesson works in my own life, too. When I am scattered, flitting around from idea to idea, disoriented and confused, I give myself something to do. I sit and be quiet. I make a cup of tea, and pay attention to its warmth and scent while it steeps, keeping my mind only on the task. I make risotto or something else that requires stirring and attention. I write. I think everyone could benefit from the “give yourself something to do” advice, so this entry is as much about the gratitude I still feel for my instructors and for the GDB staff as it is for Kiva.

It’s no giant leap to assume that Kiva has forever changed the pattern of my life. I understand the responsibility of having someone who depends on me for their livelihood. In turn, I give some of the responsibility of my livelihood back to her. We co-exist, we are interdependent on one another. She listens for my voice when she waits for me at pole, or while I run to the kitchen at work. I listen for her wagging tail and clacking toenails on my return. I wouldn’t be who I am without her. I don’t take that lightly.

One of the most challenging and rewarding things about having Kiva in my life is learning about trust. I struggled mightily at the beginning of our time together with trusting her. I was used to doing things my way, and I assumed that every time she stopped or tried to detour, she was distracted by a leaf or a dog or another human who had maybe just petted a dog. I learned through trial and error that mostly when she stops, it’s because there is a pole or a trash can or something else obstructing my path. There is a flight of stairs. There is a hybrid car, sleek and silent. Giving up a little bit of my control, and instead turning it into trust for Kiva to guide me safely, is what continues to strengthen our bond and what will strengthen it in the many years we have left.

I have no idea how to express my gratitude; pets and praise don’t seem enough, but somehow, for Kiva, they are. She loves them and treats each “good girl” like it’s the first time I’ve ever said it. In that way and many more, I aspire to be like her. I’m so excited for the many more adventures we have in store.

I wanted to first thank everyone who responded to my shameless plea for e-mail followers. Y’all made my day. And as I said, if there’s anything I can follow or promote in return, I’m your girl. Hit me up, as the kids say… Ok, I don’t think they say that any more.

I have a tale of almost so much insignificance that I hesitated to write about it. Yet here I am, and here it is.

The other day I stopped at the co-op on my way home from work. This is a fairly regular occurrence if I want fresh bread for dinner, or, on too many occasions, a cupcake or espresso chocolate cookie for dessert. They also have really good coconut soft serve ice cream… But I digress.

When I go shopping, I first stop at the customer service desk to ask for shopping assistance. Unlike at other stores in the area, I’ve never felt awkward doing this. I don’t ever feel like I’m taking someone’s precious time, or like I’m over-working someone already over-worked. There’s also never been that awkward fumbling while an employee tries to figure out who to find to “take care” of the situation. Many of the people I shop with I now know by name and kind of wish I could have a beer with, all professionalism aside. Many of them patiently read me all the different types of olive oil (there are many, believe me), all the flavors of Greek yogurt, and cheerfully test avocado ripeness with me, although sometimes neither of us knows quite what we’re feeling for.

After I’m done buying all the hippie-dippy, organic, non-genetically-modified, local, green, raw, crunchy, sustainably raised super foods I can cram into a week’s worth of kitchen dabbling, the person I’m shopping with usually walks me to a check out line. They help me bag everything up, and usually walk outside with me. Most of them say it’s a good excuse to feel fresh air and see the sun, (or, in the case of the last five months, get snowed on and realize they liked it better inside). All through this time, the shopping, the checking out, the bagging, the walking outside, I’m talking and interacting with someone. Which is why I actually have to be in the “mood” to go to the grocery store. If I’m feeling particularly introvert-y one day, it’s best I wait until the next, because it does require some amount of social energy. And as much as I adore my co-op and the people there, I often entertain a fantasy of walking into a grocery store, grabbing a cart, and doing it all myself, not saying a word to anyone.

The other day, I got a little taste of that. The person I was shopping with said thank you to me at the check-out counter and left. I completed my transaction with the person at the register, someone helped me bag up my groceries, and then left them at the end of the counter. No one asked if I wanted assistance to the door, or made any comments about the opportunity to go outside. So, I checked out with minimal smalltalk, walked to the end of the counter, picked up my bag (as opposed to someone handing it to me, or insisting on carrying it until I reached the door), and walked out of the store myself. I said good-bye to no one. I smiled at no one. I thanked no one, because there was no one there, and seriously, it felt awesome. I felt invisible and I loved it.

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the help and consideration. The people at my co-op are great. But sometimes cherishing moments of being alone, walking long blocks all by myself, drinking coffee in a crowded café surrounded by people but only as an observer, are things that I look forward to and try to create as often as I can. As much as I love and thrive on interaction and interdependence, the introvert in me loves the moments when I don’t have to be “on” and no one notices me as the blind person in the room.

As much as I enjoy my co-op conversations and the people that I have them with, I enjoyed leaving quietly just as much.

Minnesota is melting, and so am I. Maybe. On both counts.

Now, There are shimmery patches of ice on my walks around the cities that hide tricky, gushy puddles underneath. I step gingerly on the ice, concentrating on preserving my footing, and instead lift a foot dripping with water that was once ice that was once snow. It’s dirty. Probably filthy, and I imagine the streets are cloaked in gray, brown and murky streams of water and mud. I don’t have a particularly favorable view of my city’s aesthetics, currently.

Nor, apparently, does Kiva, who will stamp her way wagging through a snowbank, slide gleefully over ice, but who stops dead at the beginning of a puddle. She seems to be rooted in sheer stubbornness and will, because she is nearly impossible to move forward. More often than not, I end up sloshing through the puddle and dragging her on the leash behind me, after which she snuffles indignantly and shakes herself in the most vigorous, disgruntled manner. Apparently, my little Lab is afraid of swimming.

I’m also trying to melt my over-wintered insides. I’ve had a few months of depression and lethargy, probably due to the season. I didn’t want to eat, couldn’t sleep, felt like crying all the time. When I found myself churning ice cream and baking bread in the last two weeks, I realized that, hopefully, those feelings of hopelessness are evading. I’m starting to think about grad school (again), which I’m hopeful I can see through this time, instead of shutting it down with the fear of added debt, academic challenge, and possible unfulfillment.

A friend took me rock climbing for the first time a few weeks ago (is it still called rock climbing if it’s inside and the rocks are manmade?). I got the same exhilaration I get from pole, of being off the ground, of feeling the muscles in my body, and of reaching for something challenging but totally within my grasp. I loved it and felt rejuvenated by it.

I’m taking a writing class for the first time ever. It’s funny to think about how I’ve always written, how I’ve said over and over again that I need to write to be ok, but I never thought of it as a viable option for a career or part of a career. I’m starting to think that way now, especially since during both my current and previous job, I’ve found myself thinking again and again, “I don’t have enough time to write everything any more. I wish I could just write.” I’ve been scared of the impracticality of it, and of how embarrassed I feel just saying, “I want to write” aloud when people ask me if I’ve figured out what the heck I want to do with my life already. Most of that embarrassment comes from their reactions, or my fear of their reactions. I started reading a book called Art & Fear, recommended by the teacher of my writing class. It’s helping. Just knowing I’m not alone, that other creative people (though I hesitate to call myself that) are also afraid, is a huge relief. It makes me feel brave.

So, melting. We’re all doing it, hopefully, and making room for new experiences and a new spring. I wish you all a happy, fun, and fruitful one, whatever sort of fruit suits you best.

Originally posted on May 8, 2012
As well as forever changing the rhythm of my life, Kiva has also made me reconsider
and change the way I travel. My normal travel tactics tend to be ones of whimsy;
once I learned the basic layout of Minneapolis I delighted in getting lost in unfamiliar
places and working myself out of them, finding interesting sites along the way. It
was a challenge for me, and a way to pass long afternoons when I’m not working or
otherwise occupied.
Kiva puts a bit of a wrench in my lackadaisical free-footedness. She is a serious,
alert worker and learns quickly, which is all I can ask for. The other side of this
means that, because of her quick mind, she consequently learns all of my bad habits
as well as my good ones. The first day of our return to the Twin Cities, I took her
to my co-op about four blocks from my apartment. It is a fairly straight route and
easy to work with Kiva. The co-op itself, however, has an entrance and an exit door,
and I am in the habit of dilly-dallying around both of them until I figure out which
one is which. Sometimes, I get impatient and hard-headed (“these silly little entering
and exiting rules don’t apply to me, I’ll just bust through whichever door I please”),
and I do just that. With Kiva I can’t. As I discovered, if she and I go barreling
through the exit doors, there’s a good chance they will rebel and whap her in the
face. (Don’t ask how I discovered this, just trust me.) However, she seems altogether
undeterred by the fact that I may or may not have caused her exit door bodily harm,
and every time we have gone to the co-op since, she tries to take me to the exit
doors. I’ve tried showing her the entrance doors and coaxing her with the likes of
food, tummy scratches, and the promise of an eventual specially designed dog tag
from Tiffany, but no, only the exit doors will do for her. I can only blame myself.
I taught her the wrong thing, and it stuck.
Consequently, I am much more careful about developing and teaching routes to Kiva.
I still use my cane in certain circumstances. For instance, if I’m teaching her to
find a specific door (to a coffee shop, the library, etc), I will “work” her (ask
her to guide me) until I reach the block where the door is located. Then, I use my
cane and “heel” her (hold only the leash, not the harness, and walk with her at my
left side), until I locate the door with my cane. When I’ve found it, I act as though
it was all her idea, give her lots of praise, and repeat the exercise a few more
times until she seems to understand or grows bored. (Though with my Oscar-worthy
performance, I don’t see how she could possibly be the latter.)
There is definitely something to be said for this new, precise way of traveling.
It helps me think about where I’m going. It forces me to be more assertive with people
over the phone in asking for directions. (For years, I have struggled with the concept
of asking for “too much” assistance, despite my supposed belief in interdependence.)
Spontaneity may come once Kiva and I spend more time together, but now I am happy
with the new directions my traveling life is going.
Kiva also moves quickly. I can cover distances in half the time it would take me
as a cane traveler. She makes me notice things; when she is bouncy and alert, I may
observe the tingle of the air against my cheeks, the scent of wet grass and lilacs
and car exhaust, the sound and rhythm of my feet mixed with the click of Kiva’s.
I’m definitely not slowing down, but I’m noticing things more. I’m more engaged with
the part of the environment that is not tactile, which is new for me and which I
like very much.
I’m sure I will have many more traveling observations (and Kiva observations) to
come. Count on it, and plan your reading (or not reading) accordingly.

Originally Posted: July 12, 2011
Though it wasn’t intentional, I grew up with my blindness firmly ensconced on the
figurative back burner. I certainly had some opportunities which were only given
to me because I was blind. I played on a teeball team consisting of players with
various physical and mental disabilities, accompanied by their more able-bodied “buddies.”
I’m not sure I ever got the hang of the game. Playing “in the field” seemed like
some mysterious purgatory where I hovered around aimlessly with everyone else and
was occasionally given a ball to “throw home”, though my house was miles away. When
I batted, I hit the tee more than the ball, and I took “getting out” as a personal
insult. What, did someone say sore loser?
Then there was the horseback riding program called Stars, which, again, I was able
to participate in because of my disability. I loved the horses, though I enjoyed
petting more than riding, and I hated the “games” our instructors lassoed us into
playing. They involved such things as swerving the horses around cones, picking up
objects from one bucket and putting them into another bucket, and balancing various
objects on plastic spoons while our horses schlepped us around the arena. (I’m beginning
to see a pattern here. Games: not my thing.)
Yet there were many more things I did which had no basis in whether or not I could
see. I took ballet. Tired of my teacher telling me my feet sounded like elephants,
I switched to tap, where elephantine footwork was allowed. I played the piano. I
took swimming lessons in the summer. I played mischievously with my best friend who
lived just three houses down the street. Though I got a late start, I rode my bike
around the neighborhood. I went sledding down the icy steps of our backyard “fort”
in the winter and conveniently “forgot” to tell my mother, though she figured it
out. I didn’t think too much about being blind, and when I did, it was usually in
a positive way. Being the only blind kid in my classes in elementary school made
me special.
Middle and high school saw a decrease in my “just cause you’re special” popularity.
To be honest, as cool as I might have been for being able to read Braille, my timid
personality and total lack of interest in preteen fashion put me near the bottom
of the proverbial pecking order. As I grew older, things I used to enjoy for fun
also became things I told myself I must “stick to.” A lot of high school seemed to
be a big exercise in “proving myself.” To whom, you might ask? To this day, I am
most inclined to believe that I was trying to prove myself to myself. I obsessed
over my grades. I initially joined show choir just to see if I could, though I did
end up loving it. It seemed the more activities I participated in, the “better” I
was in my eyes.
In college, and post-college, I’ve calmed down. I’ve also done a lot of self exploration.
I talk about being blind more with others, friends and strangers alike (though not
always very willingly with the latter). I acknowledge my disability, and, though
I try to be natural about it, I don’t allow others to gloss over it if I feel it
needs to be addressed. I’ve let myself feel, for really the first time, some of the
anger, bitterness, and resentment I’ve carried around for a lot of my life. Of course,
like with everything else, it’s a process, and it’s not all deep, serious feelings
and self-rumination. Sometimes, my blindness is funny, even advantageous. But more
on all these things in the blog posts to come. You are invited to read this blog,
or not to read it. The choice is absolutely yours. You might not like some of the
things I have to say. But, as I said, it’s part of the process, a process that I
imagine will be a part of me for the rest of my life.

This is my new tiny corner of the Internet! If you’re worried that anything will change around here, rest assured: there will still be many rants, raves, and rampant navel-gazing. I’m also trying to get outside more.
If you’re hoping for something different, then you might want to go elsewhere. You’ve been warned.
I’m happy with my new, much more accessible home. I welcome any feedback on access, if it’s not working for you.
I’ll be sporadically posting the stuff from my old blog here, so I can have an archive, just in case I ever need it. Though I don’t know who really NEEDS a million Kiva posts and a liberal dose of kvetching.
Thanks to everyone who’s read this over the last few years. Here’s to a few more.