                    KEEPING WITHIN THE LINES
                         by Marc Maurer

     From the Editor: The following story by President Maurer
first appeared in The Journey, the most recent of the NFB's
paperback books in the Kernel Book Series. It begins with Dr.
Jernigan's introduction. Here it is: 

     As readers of previous Kernel Books know, Marc Maurer is
President of the National Federation of the Blind. He is a
graduate of Notre Dame and the University of Indiana Law School
and a member of the bar of several states and the United States
Supreme Court. He is also the father of two young children.
Braille is an important tool for him--in his career and in his
home. Here is what he has to say about some of his early
experiences with Braille:
     The kindergarten in the public school that I attended when I
was five left me with a feeling of alienation and frustration--
though I didn't know the words to describe the problem. My
teacher was a kind and gentle lady, who tried to help me, but I
presented difficulties which she felt unable to solve. Many of
the kindergarten activities were done visually. Learning colors,
drawing, recognizing letters and numbers, naming the geometric
shapes--all of these were presented visually. Some kindergarten
tasks could be done quite effectively without sight--counting,
reciting the alphabet, remembering your own address and telephone
number, listing in order the days of the week or the months of
the year. But in the drawing classes I was unable to "keep within
the lines," and "keeping within the lines" was important. 
     I learned the shapes of the print capital letters from the
building blocks we had, and I came to know the forms of numbers
in the same way. By the time kindergarten had come to an end, I
had learned to print my name, M-A-R-C, but I usually got it
backwards--C-R-A-M. As I viewed it, the experiment with
kindergarten was only marginally successful. Although it was
never stated, the lesson of kindergarten was unmistakable--blind
people are different from others; they require kindness; they
can't do the ordinary things that other people do; they can't
keep within the lines. 
     My parents decided that I would attend the school for the
blind even though doing so meant that I would be away from home
during most of the school year. Of course, I could return home
for holidays and during some weekends, but the rest of the time I
would live in a dormitory with my classmates at the school. At
the age of six I left home. The school for the blind was over a
hundred miles from our house. It was the beginning of a different
kind of life.
     Because I was at that time almost totally blind, I was
expected to learn Braille. We started the learning process with
flash cards. There was a straight line of Braille dots across the
top of each card and a single word in the center. I still
remember the first flash card I ever read; it contained the word
"go."
     Each of us was given our first reading book--the primer
about Dick and Jane and Spot. It was the first Braille book I
ever had in my hands. My book seemed to be about a foot square
and about a half an inch thick. The teacher told us to open our
books to page one. My desk was in the first row, about the sixth
or seventh from the front. The first child in the row was asked
to read page one. When there were mistakes, the teacher corrected
them.
     Then the second student was asked to read the same page.
Again, when there were mistakes, the teacher corrected them. The
lesson continued in the same manner. Each student in the first
row was asked to read page one. By the time the teacher got to
me, my job was clear, and my performance flawless. With my
fingers on the page, I spoke the words of page one with never an
error or hesitation. The teacher praised me highly and asked me
to come to the front of the room. She produced a gold star from
her desk drawer and pasted it to page one of my book. She told me
to take my book home and show it to my mother. This is exactly
what I did. On Friday night after the journey home I proudly
produced my primer, opened it to page one, and recited the words
which appeared on the page. 
     My mother is a properly suspicious woman. She had learned
Braille in the years before I attended school because she thought
it might be helpful to me. She asked me if she could borrow the
book, and of course I gave it to her. Later during the weekend
she brought me a page of Braille and asked me to read it. Without
much concern I confessed that I could not. My mother told me that
it was an exact copy of page one of my book. I had memorized the
words, but I was not able to read them. 
     During the summer between my first and second grade years,
my mother took matters in hand. She told me that I must learn to
read, and she said that she would teach me. For an hour every
morning I was going to study Braille. I complained. The other
kids got to go outside to play, but I could not. Nobody else had
summer school at home--only me. But none of my griping did any
good. My mother had made up her mind; I was going to learn to
read.
     When I returned to the school for the blind for second
grade, I discovered the library of Braille books--that collection
of sweet-smelling Braille volumes almost a foot square and about
two and a half inches thick. During the next four years I read
every book that the librarian would let me have. I developed the
habit of reading at night. Blindness has some advantages.  I
would slide the book under the bed sometime during the evening.
Bedtime was 8:00. The house parent made his rounds between 8:30
and 8:45. I could hear his shoes coming down the hall and then
receding in the distance. When the footsteps had faded, the book
came out. No light is needed for Braille. Sometimes it was cold,
but the Braille book would fit under the covers. 
     I tried the same system at home, and it worked most of the
time. When I got caught, which happened occasionally, my mother
spanked me. The punishments were fair, but the reading was worth
it. 
     Although I complained bitterly about learning Braille, I am
deeply grateful to my mother for insisting that I learn it. How
fortunate I am that she understood the necessity for me to read.
How fortunate I am that she was persistent and demanding.  How
fortunate I am that she had learned Braille herself and was able
to teach me. 
     Today we in the National Federation of the Blind do much to
help make Braille available to blind students and to encourage
the teaching of Braille both to children and adults who are
blind. But this is not how it has always been. There was a time
when Braille was regarded as inferior, and all too often today it
does not get the attention it deserves. Much of my work as a
lawyer could not have been done without Braille. I now read to my
children most evenings. They enjoy the stories, and I enjoy the
reading as much as they do. How different my life would have been
without the ability to read Braille. How different it can be for
the children of this generation if we give them the chance to
learn. The message should not be that blind people are different
and unable to take part. Even though I might not be able to draw,
my mother felt certain that I could keep within the lines. We in
the National Federation of the Blind are doing what we can to
make it come true.
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