                       As The Twig Is Bent

                        Kenneth Jernigan 
                             Editor

                       Large Print Edition

                         A KERNEL BOOK 

                          published by 
                NATIONAL FEDERATION OF THE BLIND

Copyright 1992 by the National Federation of the Blind
ISBN 0-9624122-4-4
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America

                        Table of Contents

To Park Or Not To Park
What Lynden Has To Hear
How Different It Might Have Been
How Different It Is
Do You Want To Go To The Store, Ted?
Partially Sighted, Really Blind
Advice From A Seven-Year-Old
A Matter Of Attitude
A Purchasing Alliance
They Didn't Want Me To Go To School
Ladies And Gentlemen Of The Jury
Sight Unseen
To Light A Candle With Mathematics
Supremacy

                      EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION
                       by Kenneth Jernigan

     There is a well known saying that as the twig is bent, so
grows the tree.
     What is true of plants is also true of people. The poet
Wordsworth said, "The child is father of the man." He meant, of
course, that our behavior and beliefs as adults are, to a large
extent, determined by what happens to us when we are growing up.
     This third Kernel Book is largely focused on that themewhat
today's blind children are being taught about themselves and what
happened to yesterday's blind children, those who are today's
adults. As we of the National Federation of the Blind have so often
said, the real problem of blindness is not the blindness itself but
the mistaken notions and misunderstandings about blindness which
are so widely prevalent in society. The first two Kernel Books
(What Color is the Sun and The Freedom Bell) also dealt with this
theme, but the present volume has a particular emphasis on blind
children and what lies ahead for them. Every day all of us are, at
least to some degree, bending the twig that will determine the
final shape of their lives.
     In this book I have tried to acquaint you with quite a number
of blind children and adults, and I have tried to do it at
something more than merely the surface level. These are people I
knowfriends, former students, and colleagues. I think they are
people that you, too, will want to know. In the process I hope you
will gain an increased understanding of what blind people are like.
Mostly we're just like you. We cry if we have reason tobut not
because of blindness. And we laugh if something's funnybut, again,
not because of blindness. Our lives are as varied, as interesting,
or as dull as yours. It all depends on how the twig is bent, how
the tree grows, and what opportunities and environment we have.
     I don't know how many more Kernel Books we will print, but if
this one gets the warm reaction which the first two have received,
there will probably be others. Meanwhile the present volume is now
being widely distributed, hopefully to do its bit to help improve
the climate of public opinion about blindness. Every day we bend
the twig.
                         WHY LARGE TYPE

     The type size used in this book is 14 Point for two important
reasons: One, because typesetting of 14 Point or larger complies
with federal standards for the printing of materials for visually
impaired readers, and we wanted to show you exactly what type size
is necessary for people with limited sight.
     The second reason is because many of our friends and
supporters have asked us to print our paperback books in 14 Point
type so they too can easily read them. Many people with limited
sight do not use Braille. We hope that by printing this book in a
larger type than customary, many more people will be able to enjoy
these heartwarming and inspirational stories.

                     TO PARK OR NOT TO PARK
                       by Kenneth Jernigan

     As those who have read previous Kernel books know, I have been
blind since birth and grew up on a farm in Tennessee. After
attending the state school for the blind and going to college for
undergraduate and graduate degrees, I returned to the Tennessee
School for the Blind for four years as a teacher, hoping not only
to teach something useful to blind youngsters but also (if I could)
to serve as a role model and a stimulus to accomplishment.
     Then, from 1953 to 1958 I taught at California's training
center for blind adultsagain, trying to act as a role model and
provide stimulation and encouragement. In fact, my primary task was
to help those who came to the Center to examine blindness and their
attitudes about it; to understand that they could still be
competitive, productive members of society; and that they could not
have the privileges of full citizenship without also assuming its -
responsibilities.
     In 1958 I went to Iowa to become Director of the State
Commission for the Blind, which administered a training center and
other programs. Once more, I found myself examining with my
trainees and students what blindness was really like, not just what
it was thought to be like. How many special privileges should we
takeor, for that matter, even want? What did we owe to society,
and what to ourselves? How important was it to avoid offending
well-intentioned sighted people who offered help that we felt we
didn't need and what long-term effect would our actions have upon
us and other blind people, as well as upon the members of the
sighted public? Such discussions led to difficult soul
searchingespecially as we related them to our daily behavior. Of
course, I was not just dealing with what my students felt and did
but also with my own attitudes and conduct. Self deception is one
of the easiest and most dangerous mistakes that a person can make.
     As Director of the Iowa State Commission for the Blind, I
frequently had business at the State Capitol. Ordinarily there was
no trouble finding a parking place quite close to the building.
However, from January until some time in the late spring or early
summer the legislature was in session, and the Capitol was always
crowded. Correspondingly, the Capitol grounds and parking areas
were filled with cars, and if one arrived after 7:30 in the
morning, he or she was likely to have to walk several blocks. If
one is not in a hurry and the weather is pleasant (as, for
instance, in early May with the birds singing, the sun shining, and
the appropriations settled), such walking may be good for both body
and soul, evoking thoughts of a just providence and a well-ordered
world; but if the time is January and the snow lies deep on the
ground (with legislators to meet and appropriations to justify),
the perspective changes.
     Now, it so happens that in the Iowa of that day I was a public
figure of considerable note, treated with respect and deference.
Therefore, when I traveled by automobile to the Capitol to transact
this or that piece of business, the security guards were pleased to
see me and offer assistance. There was at the very door of the
Capitol a parking place reserved for the handicapped, and I was a
blind person. The security guards insisted that I take the parking
place. More than that: They were hurt and offended if I indicated
that I would park elsewhere and walk back in the snow like
everybody else.
     The problem was not the guards or my colleagues in government
or the general public. All would have been glad to have me use the
handicapped parking place. No, that is an understatement. They
would have felt downright good about it.
     The problem was not with them. It was with me. I knew that I
could walk as well as anybody else and that (regardless of
technicalities or public misconceptions) the intent which had led
to the enactment of the handicapped parking permit law was to
provide easy access to the building for those who had trouble in
walking and truly needed it. Yet, I like comfort and approval as
well as the next person. It was not pleasant to walk through the
cold, wet Iowa snow in January, and it was not satisfying to hear
the tone of disappointment and hurt in the voices of the security
guards when I declined the use of the space, regardless of how
courteously and appreciatively I did it. And it was not a matter
which could be faced, settled once and for all, and then put behind
me. It happened over and overbecause, as I have already said, I
had frequent business at the State Capitol in January, and the snow
storms came with discouraging regularity. So my Federationism and
my bodily comfort, my wish to be honest and consistent and my wish
to be polite and thought of as a good fellowin short, my spiritual
aspirations and my bodily desireswere in continuous conflict.
     What do you think I did? In the circumstances what would you
have done? Whoever says that the world is not filled with
temptations (for the blind as well as for the sighted) is either a
naive nincompoop or a barefaced liar. Of such is humanity
madeneither angel nor devil but somewhere between, and always
becoming.

                     WHAT LYNDEN HAS TO HEAR
                       by Lauren L. Eckery

     In What Color is the Sun and The Freedom Bell, the first two
Kernel Books, I introduced Laurie Eckery and her daughter Lynden.
Laurie is blind and Lynden is sighted. Because of Laurie's moving
articles, Lynden has become quite well known to the members of the
National Federation of the Blind throughout the country. We have
watched her and her mother face and deal with the problems that
confront a blind mother as she struggles to keep her sighted child
from absorbing the mistaken notions about blindness that abound in
a well-meaning but uninformed society. Lynden is a well-adjusted,
normal child with healthy attitudesbut it has not been easy. Here
is Laurie's account of some of what has happened.
     It is said that babies know when they're hungry, that they
know when they need to eat and what they should eat. I believe it
is also true that babies know whom to trust and whom to respect. It
also appears that they have, at a very early age, a very good grasp
of common sense.
     When I first entered Lynden into Blossom Time Child Care, I
had questions in my mind: How are those kids going to see my
blindness? What will be the effect on Lynden?
     Some child psychologists tell us that children start out
quickly learning what's best for them and seeking it and then get
confused when adults' values, standards, and attitudes are forced
upon them.
     Several weeks ago I had joined Lynden's group for lunch, as I
always do after our music lesson. Most of the children had finished
eating, but two girls in the opposite corner from me had the most
interesting discussion:
     Anne: "Her plate's almost empty, but how can she eat it?"
     Beth: "Well, you saw, didn't you? She found it with her fork
and ate it, so she can do it."
     Anne: "I don't understand; like this morning Lynden didn't
bring her in to eat. How did she get here?"
     Beth: (with some disgust): "Well, Anne, you saw her walk in
here. I saw you watching her. She hit the table with her cane,
touched her chair, and sat down. So, she did it."
     Anne: "Butbut how can she do it if she can't see? Oh, yeah,
she did it, so she can do it!"
     How often do adults see exactly what we do and hear exactly
what we say and still not believe it? How flimsy is "seeing is -
believing."
     A few days ago I was in the hallway helping Lynden put on her
coat. A mother and a small child were about to leave.
     Mother (in hushed voice, of course): "No, let's wait. I want
to see if she needs help."
     Child: "Mom! Let's go! She doesn't need help."
     Mother: "Okay, but I just want to make sure."
     Child: "Mom, she does it all the time. She walks Lynden over
here and home and helps her with her coat all the time."
     I didn't say a word. With coat properly zipped, snapped, and
hood tied, Lynden and I walked past them and left.
     I couldn't help but think about these children's instructive
conversations when the other day Lynden and I were approaching a
cab on our way to preschool. As the driver opened the door and
Lynden climbed in in her usual energetic manner, the driver
admonished: "Hold on little lady. Aren't you going to help your
mommy into the cab first?"
     Lynden, knowing how unnecessary that was, continued onto her
side of the seat. I wondered how shocked the driver was as I
stepped up rather than down into the cab, sat my bottom onto the
seat rather than the floor of the cab, and even proceeded to shut
the door rather than open it.
     I had little time to wonder, for the driver's next question,
before even inquiring about our destination, was (addressed to
Lynden, of course): "I bet you take real good care of your mommy
all of the time, don't you sweetie?" Though Lynden didn't comment,
I'm sure she heard it.
     Another time, when the weather was a little warmer, we were
walking to preschool. We were standing at 50th and Chicago Streets
in Omaha, where there is a school crossing light. As we approached,
I noticed that there was a child patrol ready to punch the light.
Several other children were hanging about, waiting for the light to
change. Suddenly a mother of one of the children came up behind me
and said to the children: "Don't worry, I'll take care of her."
     Knowing what she meant, I thought to myself, "Oh no you
won't." As the light changed, I took a larger stride than usual,
which caused Lynden to run, and we were off just in time to escape
the mother's hand on the back of my coat. Again, Lynden did not
respond, but I know she heard.
     One of these days, she's going to respond, and I wonder what
her response will be. Will she agree with the adults around us that
we are incompetent, or will she see us as we are? I ask this not
only of Lynden but of children of blind parents everywhere.

                HOW DIFFERENT IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
                        by Barbara Pierce

     Barbara Pierce was a teenager in the fifties. There was no
Parents of Blind Children Division of the National Federation of
the Blind then. Parents did the best they could, but most of what
they did they had to do alone. Without help it was hard to escape
prevailing negative attitudes, and sometimes (even with the best
intentions) terrible mistakes were made. Here, with sensitivity and
love, Barbara Pierce shares with us the intimate details of one
such mistake her parents made.
     When I was small, it was very important to my mother that I
look at the people with whom I was speaking, whether or not I could
actually see them. She also insisted that I be neatly and
appropriately dressed. As I grew up, paging through Seventeen did
not interest me at all since I could not see the pictures, but she
taught me to care about fashion, color, and style as well as the
importance of making as good a visual impression as possible. All
these values my mother communicated to me in a thousand little
ways. She did not indulge in long lectures, though I got my share
of sermonettes after lapses in my behavior or my dress, and for
these and the life-long impact they had on me I am extremely
grateful.
     But I also remember what happened when my father announced to
me that I was to begin learning to use the long white cane. I was
sixteen, and my sight had been so poor for a number of years that
I had never begun the normal process of going places by myself. My
first reaction was keen anticipation. My friends were getting their
drivers' licenses; I was being given something roughly equivalent,
though more precious because it was so personal and so
long-delayed. I yearned for the independence that is the birthright
of us all. Like all teenagers, I wanted freedom, but until now that
impulse had been stifled by my inability to move around confidently
on my own. I could hardly wait to begin my lessons, but there was
a two-week delay. And during those fourteen days the damage was
done.
     It was no one's fault. My parents had had no contact with
competent blind adults. There was no Parents of Blind Children
Division; in fact, they hadn't even heard about the National
Federation of the Blind. All they understood was that blind beggars
carried white canes. They had seen pathetic blind people creeping
along the streets of Pittsburgh, randomly poking their white canes
at objects and other people. They must have been appalled at the
prospect of their bright, well-adjusted daughter being reduced to
such a means of mobility.
     I don't remember that they said a word about these impressions
to me. My father did warn me that my mother was upset about the
cane, and he suggested that I keep it out of sight as much as
possible. I began to realize that there was to be no excited
chatter about what I was learning and where I was going. I would
not be given errands to run for my mother. We were to pretend that
the cane did not exist. I would use it only when there was no other
option, and in my loving family, there was always another option.
     By the time I met my travel teacher, I was frightened of the
ordeal ahead and repelled by the idea of the white cane. He was
going to make me travel places alone. People were going to stare at
me. Students who did not realize that I was blind would know the
truth. If I could have swallowed that cane, I would have done so.
     I became an expert at getting rid of it. As soon as I got to
school on the days when I was to have a travel lesson, I would get
permission to go early to my locker to dump itI certainly would
not have been seen dead carrying it on other days. When I returned
from school at the end of travel lesson days, I slid the cane
quickly down along the wall beside the front door where it lay
concealed behind the curtains until I could spirit it off to my
room later. On days when my lesson kept me tied up on expeditions
after school, I agonized because I knew that my mother was at home
worrying about what might be happening to me. There was no triumph
in these small victories over dependence; they were paid for by my
mother's anguish. And the cost seemed to me entirely too high.
     On balance, however, I was very lucky. The travel instruction
I received was very good, and even though after I finished my three
months of lessons I did not use it again until I went to college,
I managed to remember what I had been taught. Above all I am lucky
because twelve years later I found the National Federation of the
Blind. There, for the first time, I met healthy attitudes about
blindness, Braille, and the white cane. Though delayed, I finally
found again the satisfaction in independence that had been snuffed
out fourteen years before.
     Now that I am a parent I know with painful clarity that all of
us make mistakes in raising our children. For the most part my
parents did it right. They were determined that I should have every
chance they could give me to succeed in life. Their instincts were
largely sound and their attitudes healthy. But how different it
might have been if only they had known the National Federation of
the Blind.

                       HOW DIFFERENT IT IS
                       by Carol Castellano

     I urge you to think carefully about the story you are about to
read and to compare it to the one you have just read"How Different
it Might Have Been," by Barbara Pierce. Today, there is a Parents
Division of the National Federation of the Blind and Serena
Castellano's life is forever changed because of its existence and
her parents' participation in it. I've named Serena's story "How
Different It Is," and I think you will see why.
     Last Christmas, when she was five years old, our daughter
Serena received a cane from Santa Claus. To be sure, her father and
I were a lot more excited about it than she was that first day, but
it wasn't long before Serena discovered just what it would mean to
have a cane in her life.
     She realized immediately that by holding that long object out
in front of her, she could avoid bumping into things with her nose.
She also found that she could get advance warning of steps, curbs,
changes in the terrain, and the like. She no longer had to rely on
holding someone's hand to avoid potential danger. Suddenly she was
free!
     It took her about a week and a half to incorporate the new
tool into her existing repertoire of travel skillsand then there
was no stopping her. The sidewalk was hers. Unfamiliar stairwaysno
problem. The way to our neighbors' house was easily learned and
Serena strolled over to deliver a package. At the mall she was free
to explore corridors and enjoy the echoes. Finding elevator doors
was a snap; escalators provided great amusement (for her, not me).
We were able to begin teaching her how to cross our quiet street
alone. We began to walk to the park like other families, holding
hands sometimes for the pure pleasure of it and not because we had
to.
     One day my husband and I walked over with the children to the
local school to vote. While we were busy signing in, Serena went
off exploring. She followed the strains of an orchestra which was
rehearsing in the school auditorium, a few hallways away. Halfway
down the aisle, heading for the stage, was the new Miss
Independence. What possibilities the cane opened up!
     I recall how it used to strike me as a little odd to see in
the National Federation of the Blind's magazine, the Braille
Monitor, picture after picture of people posing with their canes.
Were they showing pride in being blind, I wondered? Were they
trying to prove a point? Eventually I came to understand that the
white cane is both a symbol of independence for blind people and a
basic tool of making independence a reality. Matter-of-factly
showing the cane in a photograph expresses the fundamental normalcy
of blind people's lives.
     In this year's Halloween picture of my children, the Queen of
the Prom stands holding her cane next to brother Superman. It's not
a display; it's not a soapbox issue. To us, a cane in Serena's hand
is just the most normal thing. When our NFB friends gathered for a
picnic in our backyard, Serena at one point was hanging around in
the kitchen comparing canes with the rest of the gang. Just the
most natural thing.
     When I look back, I realize that getting the cane was the most
significant event to happen to our family this year. It vastly
changed Serena's level of independence; it changed mine.
     At Grandma's house, we can simply direct her to the steps; no
longer do I have to hang onto her along with anything else I might
be carrying; she can proceed independently at her own pace. At the
library I can rush ahead with my pile of books, without worrying
about her tripping on the steps or falling into the fountain. When
we arrive at friends' houses, she can navigate the front walks and
stairways herself. Serena goes from our car in the driveway, along
the walk, up the front steps, and into the house alone; I do not
have to walk her. Since we are in and out of the car so many times
each day, this skill was very important to my freedom.
     The cane greatly raised our expectations. It is natural now
for Serena to move along independently. We expect this of her; more
importantly, she expects it of herself. Would Serena have
progressed as much if she hadn't had a cane? I think not. Her
curiosity and urge to explore would have been thwarted; she would
not have been able to move about nearly as freely beyond the four
walls of our home. Her development would have been needlessly
hampered.
     It is hard to believe that canes are not given as a matter of
course to young blind children, since the cane is probably the most
important external factor in the development of independence.
     It is impossible to understandand chilling to ponderwhy
anyone would argue against normal, natural independence in a
child's life. That is what the cane makes possible. It provides the
opportunity for the blind child to make the normal moves away from
his or her parents, to be just like any other child, expected and
encouraged to venture with increasing independence into the world.
     One day a few weeks ago, Serena's cane got stuck in a crack,
and when she pulled it out it broke. The magnitude of the disaster
suddenly struck her.
     "Ooooh," she whined, "now we're going to have to hold hands."               DO YOU WANNA GO TO THE STORE, TED?
                          by Ted Young

     Only rarely in life is one's fate determined by a single
irreversible act. Most of the time we look back and notice that a
series of small events and decisions have shaped our outlook on
life and our skills for meeting its challenges.
     Ted Young is the president of the National Federation of the
Blind of Pennsylvania. Here he writes about such a small but
important episode in his own life. All parents of blind children
should take heart from the courage shown by Ted's mother. Here is
the story:
     The other day I had occasion to wonder why it is that some
blind persons are more willing to be independent than others. Yes,
I know that this is true of sighted people as well, but that truism
was not the point of my contemplation. Anyway, the question carried
me back in thought to my first real assertion of independence. I
don't know its relevance for anyone else, but perhaps it would
prove helpful to a parent confronted with a similar situation.
     My parents were not particularly over-protective. My father
figured out that I could tell if a fish was biting by holding the
line and taught me how to fish. My mother talks about how hard it
was to follow the advice of the first expert in blindness she ever
talked to by letting me wander about the house, bumping into things
on my own. But, hard or not, she sat back and let me do it. The
problem was that my parents were no more prepared than others to
deal with a blind child, and there wasn't a lot of professional
help or advice available in central Pennsylvania. As a result,
although they knew what I could do when I was being watched or was
on familiar territory, they had their fears about letting me be
outside the house by myself.
     How well I remember that familiar, friendly house of my
childhood. Despite the leaking roof and the landlord's complaining
because the rent was overdue, despite the many times my mother had
little to put on the table for a meal, it was security and home. My
world was my often-grouchy father, my always-caring and loving
mother, and my three sometimes-okay sisters. I vividly remember
being pulled from that security at the age of four to be dropped
into the unfamiliar environs of the Overbrook School for the Blind,
where I would spend nine months a year until high school
graduation.
     As time went by I learned to wander, play, and enjoy things
independently on the grounds of Overbrook. Here there was no
question. I was out on the sidewalks and grounds playing, running,
or walking independently with my friends. I was, in short,
experiencing my own capacities.
     Now we come to that sultry summer day the recollection of
which started these ruminations. I can't remember whether I was
seven or eight, but I know that I had been to Charlie's, the nearby
grocery store, many times with my sisters. What a great place it
wasfilled with the pleasant smells of meats, vegetables, coffee
and run by a friendly owner who gave candy to the kids. To get
there one needed only to walk down the front steps of my house,
make a left turn, walk a half block to the corner, turn left again,
and walk another half block. That's right: no alleys or streets to
cross, no big deal, unless you happen to be the caring mother who
doesn't know what best to do for her blind child.
     I'm not sure when it occurred to me that, although my sisters
were sent to the store all the time, my mother never asked me to
go. I do know that on the day in question none of my sisters could
be found, and my mother was complaining that she would have to drop
what she was doing and go to the store herself. I told her not to
worry; I would go for her. That offer was immediately and firmly
declined. Although I cannot remember the argument that followed, I
do remember telling my mother that I could do it, and I remember
her stating that I wasn't going to try. I ended the argument by
telling her that I was going to the store, and she could find me
there. She replied that I'd better not. I guess she didn't believe
me because she eventually went upstairs, at which point I sneaked
out the door and was on my own. Down the street and around the
corner to Charlie's I went, feeling guilty but good. The problem
was that once I got to Charlie's, I had no money to spend, and I
needed to wait there since I wanted my mother to come and see that
I could make it on my own. I did the only thing I could think of at
the time, which was to sit on the front step of the store and play
with a leaf.
     I won't go into the beating I got for disobedience or the day
or two that followed in which I practiced nonverbal resistance. I
was furious to realize that my demonstrated abilities were being
ignored and discounted and was determined not to give in. The only
protest I could think to make was silence. Although I never
discussed it with her, I believe that my mother was torn between
the need to punish disobedience and her recognition of my need to
be treated like any other child. That was the situation two days
later when my mother helped with a major step in my development by
phrasing the simple question, "Do you wanna go to the store, Ted?"                 PARTIALLY SIGHTED, REALLY BLIND
                    by Catherine Horn Randall

     Catherine Horn Randall is First Vice President of the National
Federation of the Blind of Illinois and an Alderman serving in the
Jacksonville, Illinois, City Council.
     One rainy afternoon a young mother stood across the street
from Main Hall on the MacMurry College campus in Jacksonville,
Illinois, watching the busy, laughing college co-eds come and go.
She cried for her four-year-old daughter who might not have the
opportunity to go to college or to lead a full life, because she
only had partial sight in her right eye. She was afraid and
wondered about Cathy's future, and all she knew to do was to have
Cathy evaluated by the professional staff of the Illinois Braille
and Sight Saving School in Jacksonville.
     The professionals told her that Cathy had so much sight that
she wouldn't need to bother with Braille. The bewildered young
parents were grateful to the experts for their advice; who else
could they turn to? The school didn't tell them that the National
Federation of the Blind even existed. Cathy's parents took her
home, determined to enroll her in the sight saving program in
Quincy, Illinois.
     From this point on, I shall tell my own story. As I look back
at the enormous implications to my life and to my education from
being denied the opportunity to learn Braille as a child, I am as
angry and frustrated now as my mother was afraid for my future in
1951.
     I happen to be an only child, and I like to think that I was
constructively spoiled by my parents. They could not have been more
supportive of me. If they had received common-sense guidance, I
know I would have learned Braille. Whatever I needed to help with
my education, my parents enthusiastically provided. If we had only
known it, what we needed most was the National Federation of the
Blind, Braille, and cane travel skills. Unfortunately for me, we
used the term "partially sighted" while I was growing up. I wasn't
really blind, because I had some sight. So I didn't think of myself
as blind until I began losing my remaining vision in my late
twenties.
     I was a blind child and a blind college student who was trying
to get along without either of the most important skills of
blindness, namely Braille and cane travel.
     I took typing lessons when I was ten, and again in both junior
and senior high. Typing, I believe, is another essential skill for
blind and legally blind students.
     A partially blind student who reads print and takes notes with
flair pens or markers and uses tapes is still greatly handicapped
if he or she does not know Braille. I didn't have much confidence
in myself in high school or college, and I think not having the
skills of blindness was part of the reason although I did not
realize it at the time.
     Eye strain was a constant problem for me in school. How
wonderful and practical it would have been to make an easy
transition from print work to Braille when I used my eyes too much.
     For years my father tutored me every night in math. My mother
read to me so much that by my senior year in high school she had
damaged her vocal chords. I always loved school despite the hard
work. I was feature editor for both my junior and senior high
newspapers.
     I earned a bachelor of arts degree from that same MacMurry
College, where my mother had despaired for my future nineteen years
earlier. College took me four and a half years and four straight
summers to complete. I am now convinced that, if I had had good
Braille skills, I would have been able to handle four courses a
semester like everyone else instead of taking only three. I had a
totally blind friend a year behind me in college who took full
course loads each semester and used Braille.
     To blind and partially blind students I would say thisand I
would say it with every fiber of my being: Join and become active
in the National Federation of the Blind. It is the greatest gift
you can ever give yourself. Take the initiative to learn Braille
and cane travel. This may seem a tall order, but believe me, it is
an essential one. You will find the role models that you always
needed in the National Federation of the Blind. You will learn that
it is respectable to be blind.

                  ADVICE FROM A SEVEN-YEAR-OLD
                           by Tim Day

     Tim is 7 years old and attends Roosevelt Elementary School in
Bellingham, Washington, where he is in the first grade. Tim sent
this to me in Braille. As you can see, he has some advice for
parents of blind children.
     Tim's mother, Debbie Day, is an active and enthusiastic member
of the National Federation of the Blind and its Northwest Parents
Division. She also co-ordinates the Blindness and Adoption Network
of the national NFB Parents of Blind Children Division.
     Blind children don't see. They must use a cane. Canes help a
lot. Blind children must know what things are. Some blind children
haven't been to a rectory. Some blind children haven't been in a
taxi. Others haven't been in a motor home. Go see things with your
children.
     Blind children read Braille. They must have Braille books.
Braille is fun! I like to read and write Braille. I have an
electric Braille writer. It has one-handed extension keys because
I have cerebral palsy and my left hand is not strong. I have a
Braille Speak and Spell and have learned how to spell lots of new
words. I like to get a perfect score.

                      A MATTER OF ATTITUDE
                        by Seville Allen

     Thoughtful readers of Kernel books will recognize a recurring
themethat many of the problems of blindness are not caused by
blindness itself but by attitudes about it. Sometimes the attitudes
causing the problem are held by sighted people about the blind. But
very often the problem attitudes are held by blind people about
themselves. Here Seville Allen relates an unusual and ironic
incident which makes the point.
     I recently moved into a neighborhood that is convenient for
walking to shopping and community activities. Since a short walk
will get a person most anywhere, many other blind people live in
the area. On two different occasions, while waiting for a traffic
light to change, a blind man asked me if I would help him across
the street. Both times I said that I would.
     In the first incident the man placed his hand on my shoulder,
the light changed, and we crossed the street. The man thanked me
and continued walking down the sidewalk.
     The second time the man asked for assistance the story
remained the same until we reached the opposite side of the street.
My cane clicked on a pole. The man asked what the noise was. I told
him that it was my cane hitting the light pole.
     The man asked, "Cane?" I said yes, that I am also blind. His
trust turned to immediate anger. I was informed in a loud voice
that I was terribly inconsiderate to have endangered both of our
lives.
     I share this story because it points out how our attitude
about blindness can cause us to limit ourselves and/or our belief
about ourselves. In this case we were safely across the street, but
rather than think about that, the man acted on his apparent belief
that it is dangerous for blind people to cross the street alone or
without sighted assistance.
     How often do any of us sell ourselves short when we believe
that because we are blind we cannot explore a new neighborhood,
take a vacation without a sighted person as a companion, apply for
a job, or browse in a shopping mall?

                      A PURCHASING ALLIANCE
                         by Marc Maurer

     To one extent or another all of us as adults reflect the
experience of our childhood. Marc Maurer is President of the
National Federation of the Blind. He learned the value of
collective action early on. Here is how he tells it:
     Twenty dollars was for me a vast sum of money in the 1960s. I
knew that it would be years (perhaps decades) before I possessed so
much. The sum was so impossibly great that I never even tried to
get it. Then, things changed.
     I grew up in a small town in Iowa in the 1950s and '60s.
Because I was born blind, I was sent over a hundred miles from home
to attend the school for the blind. Most weekends, and during the
summer months, I could come home. Otherwise, I lived, ate, played,
slept, and attended classes at the school for the blind. By 1963
the Maurer family had grown to include Mom and Dad, five brothers,
and one sister. Our family appears in retrospect to be much like
the ones you read about in books. Mom baked cookies, bread, and
rolls. There was always plenty to eat, and the food was good. In my
family all the children had one pair of shoes. They were purchased
each fall and were expected to last until the next new pair,
purchased the following fall.
     Pocket money was not plentiful. We were always thinking up
schemes to get it. When I was small a penny was quite spendable, a
nickel would get you much of what the candy store had to offer, and
a dime would fetch anything on display. If a boy had fifty cents,
a thing which happened almost never, much of what was to be found
in the toy department at the dime store was within reach. We (my
brothers and I) set up a lemonade stand in front of the house, but
it didn't generate much income. Most of the potential customers
were the other kids in the neighborhood. They didn't have much more
money than we did. The lemonade business usually brought us two or
three cents. Sometimes we collected as much as a dime, but never
more than that.
     When I was 10 or 11, my mother taught me to make bread. I was
so proud of the results of my first effort that I shared them with
a neighbor. My neighbor liked the bread, and offered to buy a loaf.
From this developed the weekly baking service. My mother made me a
deal. If I would bake bread for the family, I could also bake some
for sale. The loaves that I sold sometimes brought in sixty cents
a week. Store-bought bread was selling for between nineteen and
thirty-six cents a loaf.
     Boys in my home town made their money by de-tasseling corn or
walking beans in the summer and by shoveling snow in the winter.
Because of my blindness, I was not welcome in the agricultural
pursuits. However, I did shovel snow. I was always sorry when the
snow came on weekdays because I was expected to be at school. There
wasn't much time for shoveling before the school bell rang. One of
the other kids in my class generally skipped school when the snow
fell. On the following day, he would boast about the wallet full of
money he had collected the day before. I was sorry not to have the
money, but I didn't dare skip school.
     The standard for conduct in our family was well established.
If a kid wanted to do something out of the ordinary, permission
from a parent was required. This did not mean that the parent would
provide the means for doing what the kid wanted done. One time my
brother asked my mom if he could have a bicycle. She told him he
could. He wanted to know where he would get the money to buy it.
She explained to him that it was his problem. He could have the
bike, but he would have to earn the money to buy it himself.
     I learned to swim in the first grade, and I thought it was
more fun than almost anything else. I looked forward to swimming
lessons with great anticipation and was sorry when they were over.
Whenever the pool was available (but this wasn't very often) I
could be found in the water.
     Of course, school begins in the fall and ends in the spring.
The swimming pool at the school for the blind was not available to
me during the summer months. The closest publicly-available pool
was over a mile from my home. Sometimes I could persuade my
brothers to go with me, but sometimes I could not. Besides,
swimming in the public pool cost money, and money was not -
plentiful.
     When I was in the fifth or sixth grade, I learned that
above-ground swimming pools were made. The biggest one in the
Ward's catalog cost a little over twenty dollars. I got the idea of
forming a buying syndicate. I didn't have twenty dollars, and I
didn't think I could save that much. I persuaded my brothers to
help me collect enough cash to buy a jointly-owned swimming pool.
It took us months. We employed every means we could think up to
bring in moneyhunting for empty returnable soda bottles to be
turned in at the gas station for two cents apiece, running errands
to the post office for the elderly neighbor lady for five cents,
raking leaves for twenty-five cents, and especially saving our
allowances.
     As primary thinker-upper and manager of the alliance, I served
as treasurer. Each nickel and dime that came my way was cherished
and hoarded against the day that we would have enough to place the
order. In my home town there was no Montgomery Ward's retail
establishment. Instead there was a catalog storea fairly small
storefront office with Ward's catalogs, a very limited selection of
display items (not for sale), and an ordering desk. We figured the
costs to the penny, including postage and shipping. I remember the
important day. We trooped into the catalog store and counted the
money out on the counter. Our order was duly taken, and we received
the official copy, marked "paid in full." We were advised that
shipping would take up to four additional weeks. After the months
of scrimping and the work to bring the money together, it seemed
like an interminable length of time. We went home to wait.
     Every day we checked with Mom to see if she thought the
package would come. Finally, a postcard arrived telling us that the
box had been delivered to the catalog store and could be picked up
at our convenience. We thought that the best thing would be to go
get the carton right away. We fetched it home on a coaster wagon
and opened it in the back yard. The pool consisted of an outer cage
or frame to give the assembled parts their shape, a large plastic
sheet shaped to fit into the outer cage and serve as the body of
the pool, and fasteners to keep the liner in place. There was also
a complicated set of instructions, that not even my father could
understand. Nevertheless, we got the whole thing set up and filled
it with water.
     Swimming in the pool was fun, but I think working and saving
to get it were a major part of the reason I liked it so much.
Combining resources and working together with others made it
possible to accomplish what would otherwise have been out of reach.
At the end of the 1960s I joined the National Federation of the
Blind. This organization which brings together tens of thousands of
blind people from all over the United States changed forever the
possibilities for accomplishment and progress in my life. The blind
of America were working together and combining resources to achieve
what would otherwise have been beyond our reach. We needed more
than twenty dollars; we needed the encouragement of our blind
brothers and sisters and the strength which comes from working
together. I did not know that blind people could be farmers or
chemists or electrical engineers or physicists or mostly anything
else. Then, when I joined the National Federation of the Blind,
things changed. I learned that I was not limited by my blindness to
idle hours and unfulfilling tasks. Instead, with the help of
others, I could study at the university, enter a profession, and
contribute to my community. It was even better than getting a
swimming pool

.               THEY DIDN'T WANT ME TO GO TO SCHOOL
                       by Darrell Shandrow

     Darrell Shandrow is a junior in high school. His mother Betty
is President of the Parents of Blind Children Division of the
National Federation of the Blind of Arizona. Here is what can
happen when parents of blind children get the support and help they
need when faced with raising a blind child. Darrell tells it from
his point of view:
     I have congenital glaucoma. I lost my left eye when I was
little, and I have very little usable vision in the other. I was
also born deaf, but I have been able to hear since age five.
     My parents and the National Federation of the Blind are
helping me to live independently. My parents felt that it was
important that I learn cane travel and other orientation skills at
an early age so that I would be independent. By doing so I have
been able to participate in public service events and communicate
using amateur radio for the last four years.
     My parents said that I could do anything I set my mind to. I
was raised as a normal person who cannot see. I was not
over-protected, and this is the major reason I can function
normally.
     My parents always felt that I should be allowed to function on
the same grade level in school as that of the sighted. My mother
took classes at the University of Arizona in Grade II Braille,
Nemeth Braille Math Code, abacus, structure and function of the
eye, and daily living skills.
     With this knowledge my mother helped me learn how to read and
write and to have a normal life. By tutoring me at home, she made
sure that I was not held back.
     Due to my experiences with amateur radio, my parents felt that
I was ready to use high-technology equipment. They got me an Apple
II-E computer, an Echo III speech synthesizer, a printer, a Braille
'n' Speak note taker, and computer software that is written for the
blind.
     This technology makes things go much easier in school. I can
take notes on the Braille 'n' Speak at school, and when I get home,
I can send the notes to the computer, where they are printed and
saved onto a disk.
     The National Federation of the Blind has reinforced my
independence. I can't help but get that feeling of independence
when I'm around the blind adults I know in the Federation. I feel
that the National Federation of the Blind promotes independence in
many ways. I feel that one of the major ways is through the
national convention. It's great to be around so many independent
blind people.
     My family and I had to fight for me to be allowed to attend
public school, and the National Federation of the Blind helped us
do it and paid the legal costs. We won, and I am now a junior in
high school and have a 4.0 grade point average.
     There is a saying on the masthead of the Braille Monitor, and
it's what makes us special: "The National Federation of the Blind
is not an organization speaking for the blindit is the blind
speaking for themselves," and that's it for me.

                LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY
                         by Peggy Pinder

     At the time Peggy Pinder made the following remarks at a
convention of the National Federation of the Blind she was an
assistant county attorney in Sioux City, Iowa. Today she has her
own private law practice in Grinnell, Iowa, where she has served on
the city council and is otherwise active in political and community
affairs. She has reduced her blindness to nothing more than a minor
annoyance, but it was not always like that. When I first knew her,
she was lacking in self-confidence and agonizing over what she
might be and become. Like countless others in the National
Federation of the Blind she has drawn strength from and found role
models in the organizationand also like countless others, she has
given (and continues to give) strength and encouragement in her
turn and to serve as a model for others. Here is how she tells of
her work as a county prosecutor.
     "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. As the judge
has already told you, my name is Peggy Pinder, and I represent the
State of Iowa in this case. As you have already noticed, I am
blind."
     These are the first words that I speak to every panel of
potential jurors that a defense attorney and I are questioning
before we select those twelve persons who will render a verdict in
the criminal prosecution at trial. My employer, Woodbury County
Attorney Patrick C. McCormick, is an elected official with the
power to hire, supervise, and fire assistants, whose positions have
been authorized by the county board of supervisors.
     Nine other assistant county attorneys and I occupy the entire
third floor of a beautiful and historic courthouse in Sioux City,
Iowa. We handle criminal prosecutions and other statutory duties
under the Code of Iowa for a county of about one hundred thousand
persons in extreme northwest Iowawhere the states of Iowa,
Nebraska, and South Dakota meet. I have held this position for over
four years.
     I love the work that I do. I like working closely with my
colleagues, and I enjoy a good argument with the defense attorney
in a jury trial that is a hard-fought and a well-fought case on
both sides. I am regularly astonished, distressed, and uplifted by
the things that people will do to each other and to themselves.
There are always variety and novelty in a prosecutor's office.
     I begin each morning by walking into the police station,
threading my way amongst the citizens who are present to plead
guilty or not guilty at nine o'clock arraignments, and amongst the
citizens who are present trying to bond an arrested relative out of
jail. I walk into my office and pick up the phone.
     I have often startled an early visitor by singing out
cheerfully into the phone, "Who's in jail today?" I check the jail
to be sure that everybody arrested since office hours the day
before will be charged or released by noon. I also pick up all the
drunk driving charges from the night before, which must be filled
out and presented to a judge to whom I swear that the information
thus displayed is true and correct.
     I then begin to interview the witnesses for morning trial.
This is the first time that I have met my morning witnesses or have
heard of the facts of the individual cases.
     What I have just described is the first half hour of my job,
and it can get pretty hectic. The other attorney assigned to the
police station and I then go into court and begin trials of simple
misdemeanors to which the defendants have chosen to plead not
guilty or which the State of Iowa (that is me) is not willing to
plea bargain. Simple misdemeanor cases are primarily tried by a
judge rather than by a jury, and the judge begins the case by
saying, "Miss Pinder, call your first witness."
     I stand up and say, "The State would call Trooper Swanson,"
and then begin to try the particular case. Simple misdemeanors
include, in Iowa, most traffic offenses; simple assault cases where
injury is not very grave; thefts under fifty dollars, which usually
are shoplifting cases; public intoxication; and other assorted
minor violations.
     I do believe that I have heard most of the excuses people have
for doing what it is that they do. There was the man who told the
judge that the reason he was speeding at ninety-five miles per hour
in a fifty-five mile per hour zone was because a bee had gotten
between his right leg and the drive shaft, and that he was trying
to crush the bee against the drive shaft before the bee stung
himduring which he inadvertently floored the accelerator.
     During cross examination I asked the defendant if he had told
this rather remarkable tale to the state trooper, and he said,
well, no, he hadn't done that. The gentleman was found guilty.
     I prosecuted a blind man once. It was for smashing out a
windshield of a neighbor's car with a hammer, then running off down
the streetbut not quickly enough to avoid being seen and
identified by the neighbor, who pressed charges.
     The blind defendant was sworn in and walked up to the witness
stand, which has one step up along the way. The blind defendant was
not carrying a white cane or using a dog guide. The defendant
tripped on the step. His lawyer then mentioned this tripping and
asked if there was a reason why the defendant had tripped.
     This blind defendant then replied that he was blind and stated
under oath that he had not smashed the windshield and, moreover,
could not have done so. He could not have been the culprit because,
after all, he was blind, and therefore could not run away.
     Well, I'm a patient person, and I waited until this blind
defendant's wife got onto the witness stand. She testified, and the
blind defendant's wife and I had ourselves quite a discussion about
the normality and competence and the ability of her blind husband,
the defendant. The verdict was guilty.
     We never know what will happen in a police station. When
conservation officerspersons who enforce Iowa's Fish and Game
lawsbring violations of the fishing laws into court for trial,
they invariably show up with the actual fish (carefully frozen and
tagged) to wave in front of the judge's face.
     And last month in a courtroom filled with police officers and
other persons waiting to testify, we had an assault. The relatives
of a victim, so incensed at the simple seeing of the defendant,
jumped him in the back of the courtroom and beat him unconscious.
     When simple misdemeanors are over for the morning and everyone
in jail is either charged or has been released on my signature,
stating that the person will be charged later, I then return to the
courthouse and begin working on the more serious misdemeanor
charges.
     More serious misdemeanor charges come into the office in the
form of police reports, which I must review on a daily basis. I
review all the reports submitted to determine if the facts there
recounted constitute a crime and, if so, which specific offense. If
the facts do constitute an offense, the correct charge is then
specified and recorded as "charge approved." If no offense is
alleged, or if more work must be done on the case, the charge is
denied; and the reasons for the denial are recorded.
     I never know what may be sitting on my desk when I get back.
One time I had a cat murder in which a five-year-old girl saw a
manshe had no idea who the man wasdrive by in a car and simply
blow her pet cat to bits with a large hand gun. There was the case
of the good neighbor, who simply gave shelter to a nearby resident
when her boyfriend started to beat her unmercifully. Now, this good
neighbor (in turn) was felled by a blow from a tire iron for his
pains by the irate boyfriend.
     Once a case is approved, the case is assigned to one of the
attorneys in the office for all further handling. The next step in
handling is preparation of the actual criminal charge. This
involves choosing the precise language by which the defendant will
be charged and writing the minutes of testimony.
     The minutes are full and fair statementthis is what the Iowa
law saysof the testimony which each witness will give, and other
evidence to be presented by the state against the defendant. This
requires that I go through the reports and prepare a full and fair
statement of each witness's minutes.
     The minutes are required by Iowa law to inform the defendant
of the precise nature and circumstances of the charges brought
against him or her, and they also serve for prosecutors as a kind
of mandatory preparation technique. We must think through the case
as though we were trying it before it is even filed, and write out
a summary of the evidence that will be given against the witness.
     In the years that I have been employed at the county
attorney's office, the misdemeanor caseload has doubled each year;
and the staff has stayed exactly the same size. How do I write all
those minutes? Well, circumstances have forced me to find more and
more efficient ways of doing the things that I must do under the
law.
     Today, I file an average of two to three charges a day. When
there is a case in which the defendant will not plead guilty and
about which I feel so strongly that I think there must be a trial,
I go to court. I begin every jury trial by reading to the jury the
exact criminal charge.
     After I read the charge, the other attorney and I present our
case to the jury, and then a conviction or dismissal occurs. In
addition to trying cases, I also do a number of other functions in
the Woodbury County Attorney's office including the handling of
extraditions, the teaching of police officers how to do their jobs
better, and (I think this is the most important thing of all)
changing what it means to be blind.
     I live in a community of eighty thousand, and I know that the
fact that I am a blind lawyer has changed people's attitudes in
Sioux City about blindness. Someone comes into my office. They want
my help, and they don't really care whether I'm blind or not.
Someone comes into the courtroom and sits across the defense table
from me. They don't care whether I'm blind or not. They just wish
I wasn't as effective an attorney as I am.
     The most important thing of all, though, is that whatever I do
in my job, I have found ways of doing it. People often ask me how
I can do this or that given task, and usually I have answers. And
the reason I can find an answer is because of what I have gained
from the National Federation of the Blind and especially from Dr.
Jernigan. I have the confidence in myself to know that I can walk
into that courtroom and find a way of convicting that defendant. It
doesn't matter whether I can see or not. The truth isn't discovered
by whether you can see or not. Dr. Jernigan was the first person in
this world who ever showed confidence and trust in me; and, I hope
that I have lived up to his expectations.

                          SIGHT UNSEEN
                     by Dr. Elizabeth Browne

     Dr. Elizabeth Browne is a college professor who happens to be
blind. Here she tells an unusual story. When her story is no longer
unusual, we in the National Federation of the Blind will have gone
a long way toward finishing our work.
     "To be or not to be." That is indeed the question. Whether to
note one's blindness in writing when applying for employment or not
has troubled many people with various disabilities for far too
long. This dilemma has, pardon the expression, dogged me for many
years. As I have searched for teaching positions in various local
colleges and universities, my practice has always been to let the
quality of my credentials speak for me.
     But last year something remarkable occurred when I found
myself once more searching for openings in local colleges and
universities. I began by flooding the market with resumes and
letters of inquiry and following up with endless phone calls to
countless local colleges and universities. The summer wore on, and
I was wearing out.
     As the fall semester drew near, I had determined to resign
myself to the obvious fact that all positions were full and I
should set about completing an extra degree I had been working on
for a long time.
     The week before classes were to begin, I received a phone call
from the chair of the English department at Mundelein College, and
she said, "I have your resume in front of me and just happened to
notice how well-suited you are for our particular department's
needs."
     I listened, thinking sarcastic thoughts to myself, "Of course
I am!" I muttered to myself. "It's about time somebody noticed."
The summer search had been long, and interviews apparently
fruitless.
     Well, with many apologies for the short notice, the voice
offered me a couple of classes, starting in five days. "Will you
come aboard? We'd sure like to have you with us." But I had decided
to complete yet another degree to make me more academically
desirable than ever, so that, when I was turned down somewhere by
someone again, they might at least pause and consider what they
were losing.
     I said, "I'm not interested. I have decided to forego the joy
of part-time teaching for this term." Then it happened. "You'd be
doing me a big favor, and I wouldn't forget it. Please say yes.
You'd like our department, and the college is really a great place
to work."
     After several phone calls and deep soul-searching, I agreed,
and then the following incredible thing happened. "I haven't time
to interview you properly because of all the last-minute details,
so I'll meet you after your first class next week, and we can have
a cup of coffee together, get to know each other a little. Your
contract, office key, and library card will be at the front desk.
Just pop in and pick them up, and everyone will be saying, "Hi" to
you because I told them you were coming. I knew you would accept."
And she hung up.
     I was stunned. I remember a book, Take Charge, which advised
job seekers not to surprise a prospective employer by not telling
him or her that you are blind. That's a bad start. I returned to
the phone and tried to track her down in order to insist on an
interview.
     "Why?" she said, "I already know you from reading your
excellent credentials. We'll have coffee after your first class
when I will have a little time to chat about this and that." And
again she hung up.
     I agreed with her. My qualifications, my credentials are good.
These are the basic reasons to hire someone for a job. But I could
not forget that advice about not surprising your potential employer
or, in my case, chair of the department. Once more I phoned, trying
to break the news to her.
     "Would it be okay if I dropped in and walked about the campus,
getting used to it, so my dog, guide dog (I emphasized the word
dog), would be accustomed to it? Would that be all right?" I had
pictures of chairpersons hiding behind their secretaries,
whispering that they were gone for the day, when I surprised them
in their offices, and I was trying to avoid the chaos.
     "I just want my guide doglike Seeing Eye dogto get used to
the building," I said; and she calmly responded, "Oh, you have a
dog. Won't that be wonderful to have a dog on campus. I'll be so
glad to meet both of you after your first class. See you on
Tuesday." So, I retrieved the contract, signed it, wandered about
meeting very friendly people, and then set about to get at least a
few chapters of the texts taped.
     Tuesday, after a long morning class, I emerged into the
hallway outside my room and found the chair of the department
waiting for me so we could have coffee together. "How was your
first class? By the way, the dog is lovely. Welcome to both of
you."
     This is the way it should be. When one is prepared, qualified,
capable, there should be no taint of stereotyping or prejudice. For
the first time I had been hired sight unseen. I had dreamed of this
miracle often, and now I have lived to tell the tale.
     Postscript: Mundelein College has just been affiliated with
its much larger neighbor, Loyola University, and I again set forth
hoping the next department chair will display similar traits.

               TO LIGHT A CANDLE WITH MATHEMATICS
                        by Abraham Nemeth

     Mathematics is a field which has often been considered beyond
the capacity of the blind to master. This attitude continues to
exist despite the evidence presented by the careers of world-class
blind mathematicians such as Dr. Abraham Nemeth. In 1985 Dr. Nemeth
retired, having spent forty years teaching college-level
mathematics. His successful career has provided inspiration and
hope to later generations of blind students interested in pursuing
jobs involving mathematics.
     In fact he invented the basic system for reading and writing
mathematical and scientific materials in Braille which has been
used by thousands of blind students. Here Dr. Nemeth tells the
story of his strugglefirst to obtain an education in mathematics
and then to obtain a position teaching it.
     I was born congenitally blind, on the Lower East Side of
Manhattan in New York City. And I want you to know that my parents
raised me in a very close and loving family. I had a brother and a
sister and two sets of grandparents and lots of aunts and uncles
and cousins. We led a very happy life. And although my parents were
both immigrants and lacking in any kind of formal education, they
instinctively knew not to over-protect me on account of my
blindness. So I became street-wise in a tough neighborhood on the
Lower East Side of Manhattan at a very early age.
     Without knowing it, my father taught me what today would be
called mobility and orientation. Whenever we walked to a familiar
destination, he would take me there by a different route. As we
talked, he would tell me such things as "We are now walking west,
and in a moment we will be making a left turn, and then we will be
walking south. We are passing a luncheonette, and after that we
will be passing a bakery. Now the traffic on this street is one way
going west. On the next street the traffic is one way going east,
and there is a fire hydrant at the corner. Across the street there
is a mailbox." So he instilled in me a very good sense of
direction.
     He also taught me the formation of printed letters by letting
me touch the raised letters on mailboxes and on police and fire
call boxes. He bought me wooden blocks with raised printed letters
to play with, and he got me large rubber stamps on which I could
feel the printed letters.
     My elementary education began at Public School 110. Now you
know that New York is such a big city that we run out of eminent
people's names, so we just put numbers to the schools. The one I
went to was Public School 110, which happened to be within walking
distance of my home. One of my aunts walked with me every day to
and from school.
     In my daily activity, I attended regular classrooms with all
the sighted students for general curriculum subjects like
arithmetic, spelling, and reading. But when the sighted students
were engaged in activities like art, penmanship, and things of that
kind, I returned to the resource room for training in specific
blindness skills like Braille, typing, and even geography. There
was a very large globe of the world with raised land masses and
even more highly raised mountain ranges. Because of family
circumstances, I went to live and continue my education at the New
York Jewish Guild for the Blind in Yonkers, New York.
     At the Yonkers Home children were encouraged (although not
required) to engage in activities like music, handcrafts, light
sports and athletics, and religious education after school. While
I was there, my father came to visit me almost every Sunday, no
matter how severe the weather was. My mother would come whenever
her busy household chores would allowabout every other week, I
would say. They would bring me my favorite foods, and they were
refrigerated and dispensed to me during the week by kindly kitchen
staff.
     In the spring and summer months many of my uncles and aunts
would also come to visit me. We would all go to a picnic area in a
nearby park and enjoy the food they brought as well as such
activity as the park provided. My father's favorite was rowing.
     One of my grandfathers was particularly attentive to me, and
he gave me the religious training that I now possess. He would try
to find messages that would be encouraging to me and that would
serve as a guide for me as a blind person. One of those messages,
which has stayed with me and which has had particular impact on me
during all the years that I was growing up and by which I am still
guided, is: "It is better to light a candle than to curse the
dark."
     Now you may not believe this, but at school I experienced
particular difficulty with arithmetic. I graduated from the eighth
grade of PS 16 deficient in mathematics, but with my father's
earnest and sincere promise to the school that he would see to it
that the situation was remedied.
     So I enrolled in the fall at Evanderchild's High School in the
Bronx, to which I was also bussed back and forth from the Yonkers
Home. In one year's time, I not only caught up with all the
arithmetic skills I should have had in elementary school, but I
also received top grades in a first-year algebra course in which I
was enrolled.
     I continued to do well in all my high school courses, and
during this period I became keenly aware of an ambition to be a
teacherparticularly, believe it or not, to teach mathematics. One
of the boys at the Yonkers Home was a good friend, but he was one
grade behind me in school. As I learned algebra, I shared with him
my knowledge and my enthusiasm on that subject. When he entered
high school a year later, he was able to pass an algebra exam with
honors and was thus exempted from first-year algebra.
     In due course I graduated from high school and returned to
live at home with my parents and my brother and my sister, who by
now had moved to Brownsville, Brooklyn.
     Then it was time for me to go to college. By that time I had
already acquired independent travel skills. I knew the routes of
all the New York City subways and most of the Brooklyn bus lines.
Equipped with this skill and with a high proficiency in Braille, I
entered Brooklyn College.
     I knew that I wanted to major in mathematics, but my guidance
counselors were not at all supportive of this goal. They insisted
that mathematics was too technical a subject for a blind person,
that notation was specialized, that there was no material available
in Braille, that volunteer or even paid readers would be difficult
to recruit, and that no employer would be likely to consider a
blind person for a position related to mathematics.
     Counselor after counselor told this to me. You know, my wife
told me that her mother said if three people tell you that you are
drunk, you better lie down. So after several counselors told me
this, I obediently declared psychology to be my majora subject
more amenable to the abilities of blind people, my counselors told
me.
     I took as many psychology courses as I could fit into my
schedule. Nevertheless, whenever there was an opening for an
elective course, I always chose one from the math department. In
taking these courses, there were two things that I did which were,
I would say, decisive in my later career. When I found that there
was no way of putting mathematical notation down in Braille, just
as my counselors warned me, I began to improvise Braille symbols
and methods which were both effective for my needs and consistent
from one course to the next. So this was the beginning of the
Nemeth Code.
     The other important skill I developed was the ability to write
both on paper and on the blackboard. Sometimes it was the only
method I had of communicating with my math professors. And although
I was certainly no calligrapher, my handwriting was perfectly
adequate for these purposes, and it was surely far superior to the
alternative of shouting and arm waving.
     In this way I graduated from Brooklyn College in 1940 with a
B.A. degree and a major in psychology. Nevertheless, I succeeded in
having completed courses in analytic geometry, differential and
integral calculus, some modern geometry courses, and even a course
in statistics.
     I knew that a B.A. degree in psychology was not a sufficient
credential for anyone intending to enter that field professionally.
So accordingly, I applied for graduate admission to Columbia
University. My grades were adequate to ensure my acceptance at that
prestigious institution, so in 1942 I graduated from Columbia
University with an M.A. degree in psychology.
     Meanwhile, it was time to begin looking for a job. The only
work I could find was of an unskilled nature. At one time I worked
at a sewing machine, where I did seaming and hemming on pillowcases
at piece-work rates.
     I worked for seven years at an agency for the blind, and there
I counted needles for Talking Book phonograph records. I collated
Talking Book records. I loaded and unloaded trucks in the shipping
department. I typed letters in Braille to deaf-blind clients of the
agency, transcribing incoming Braille letters from these and other
clients on the typewriter. I also designed and organized
itineraries in Braille so that they could be read by Helen Keller.
     After graduating from Columbia University with a master's
degree in hand, I began to look earnestly for work more suited to
my training. The employment environment for the blind is never too
hospitable, as you well know. But in those days, it was more
inhospitable than it is today. In 1944 I was already married; and
as time went on, my wife perceived my growing frustration.
     After working all day at the agency, I would find relaxation
in taking an evening course in mathematics. By 1946 I had already
taken all the undergraduate math courses offered by Brooklyn
College, and my wife perceived that I was much happier in
mathematics than in psychology. So one day she asked me if I
wouldn't rather be an unemployed mathematician than an unemployed
psychologist.
     Well, I began to wonder how we would support ourselves if I
quit my job and went to school full-time, working toward a graduate
degree in mathematics. My wife suggested that I give up my job and
do just that. She would go to work while I went to school. If I
couldn't find work as a mathematician even after completing my
training, I could always get an unskilled job like the one I was
currently holding at that same skill level, she pointed out.
     By 1946 the war was over. Men were returning to civilian life.
At Brooklyn College there was a large contingent of men who had
taken a first-semester course in calculus, and now (a war later)
they were returning to enroll for a second semester course in
calculus. I leave it to your imagination how much of the first
semester they remembered.
     So I offered to be one of the volunteers in a corps that was
organized to assist those men. I offered to be one of their
volunteers after classes were over in the evening. Each student was
stationed at one panel of a blackboard which ran clear around the
room. Each wrote on the board as much of the problem as he could
do, and the volunteers circulated helping the students to complete
their work.
     I would ask the student to read me the problem from his
textbook and then read as much of the solution as he was able to
put on the blackboard. Many times the blackboard panel was blank.
I would do my best to show the student how to proceed.
     Unknown to me, I was being observed by the chairman of the
math department. One Friday night I received a telegram from him.
He informed me that one of his regular faculty members had taken
ill and would be disabled for the remainder of the semester. He
asked me to report on the following Monday evening to assume that
professor's teaching load.
     Over the weekend I got the textbooks, boned up to know just
enough to teach the following Monday evening, and launched my
teaching career.
     My ability to write on the blackboard, I believe, was the
difference between continuing as a mathematics teacher and finding
some other work to do. I continued this way, doing part-time
teaching at Brooklyn College.
     In 1951 I again applied to Columbia University and was
admitted as a doctoral student toward the Ph.D. degree in
Mathematics. My wife went to work.
     In the summer of 1953 I registered with an employment agency
for teachers. I received a call from that agency to report to
Manhattan College the following Monday, there to conduct a course
in the mathematics of financea course I had neither taken nor
known anything about. But anyway, I made sure I knew what to do.
     Manhattan College is a school run by the Christian Brothers.
Brother Alfred was a little dubious when a blind man showed up, but
he really had no choice. Classes began in an hour. However, when
the summer course was over, Brother Alfred naturally assumed that
I would return to teach in the fall, and he handed me my teaching
schedule for the semester, beginning in September.
     When January came, I received another callthis time from
Manhattanville College to fill in for a professor who was on
sabbatical. Now Manhattanville College is a very elite girls'
school run by the Order of the Sacred Heart. As a matter of fact,
Jacqueline Kennedy attended that school, although not in the time
that I was there.
     Dean Mother Brady received a glowing letter of reference from
Brother Alfred, and so I had no difficulty securing the position at
Manhattanville College. Commuting to Manhattanville College was an
entirely different matter, however.
     To do that commuting, I had to walk six blocks from home to
the local BMT subway station, take the train to Fourteenth Street
in Manhattan, and change at Fourteenth Street from the BMT to the
IRT line through an intricate maze of stairs and tunnels which,
however, I was already familiar with.
     Then I had to take the IRT to Grand Central Station. I had to
negotiate a complicated route through the New York Central
Railroad, and that took me to White Plains, New York, where finally
I was picked up by the school bus for the final fifteen-minute ride
to the school in Purchase, New York. And of course I had to do this
in reverse at the end of the day.
     The Sunday before reporting to work, I went alone to Grand
Central Station; and there, all day long, I practiced negotiating
the route between the IRT subway station at 42nd street and the
Grand Central Railroad Station. The most important landmark on that
route was the New York Central Railroad Station Information Booth.
Every morning I would stop at that booth and inquire on what track
the 8:02 for White Plains would be leaving. It was a two-hour
commute each day, and I was surely glad when the semester ended.
     It was time to begin to search for permanent employment. By
1954 I was becoming tired of part-time work. The search for
employment is stressful for anyone, particularly for a blind
person. So I embarked on a campaign of letter-writing with a view
to securing permanent employment.
     I consulted hundreds of college and university catalogs in the
local library to determine which ones offered a math curriculum in
which my teaching skills would be valuable. I arranged my choices
in the order of geographical preferenceby section of the country.
     I composed a master letter, tailoring it from time to time as
circumstances dictated, and I sent out about 250 letters and
resumes. I felt it necessary to inform a potential employer in
advance about my blindness.
     Most replies were negative. They went something like: "At
present we have no opening for a person with your training and
experience." Many of them were noncommittal: "Thank you for
inquiring about a position at our institution. We will keep your
letter on file and will contact you if any opening should
materialize in the future." Sound familiar?
     Some were downright hostile: "We do not feel that a person
with a visual impairment can effectively discharge the duties
required of professors at our institution."
     Nevertheless, I did receive two letters inviting me to appear
for an interview: one from the University of Detroit and one from
the university in Boulder, Colorado. Since, however, the University
of Detroit offered a position leading to eventual permanence and
tenure, I responded positively to the invitation from that
institution first.
     My wife and I both appeared at the university's request. I was
interviewed for a full day, and at the end of the interview we were
told to return home and that we would be informed of the outcome
within a week. So I mentioned in passing that we were going on to
Boulder, Colorado, for another interview.
     The University of Detroit is a Jesuit university. The
following day, early in the morning, I received a call from Father
Dwier. He told me that the position was mine if I wanted it. He was
calling early so that I could cancel the trip to Colorado if I so
desired. I accepted on the spot.
     I went to work at the University of Detroit as an instructor
in 1955. And in due course I progressed through the ranks to become
an assistant professor, an associate professor, and finally a full
professor. Along the way I was awarded tenure, and I also completed
the requirements for the Ph.D. degree in mathematics and got it
from Wayne State University. I received that degree in 1964.
     For fifteen years I taught all kinds of courses in mathematics
at the University of Detroit. But it was becoming increasingly
evident to me that my training and skills would soon become
obsolete unless I acquired knowledge and skill in computer science.
     Accordingly, I applied for, and was fortunate to receive, a
grant from the National Science Foundation to spend two summers at
Pennsylvania State University in State College to train in computer
science.
     Each session was nine weeks long, and all the students in this
program were also college teachers. The pace of instruction was, to
say the least, quite lively. My wife and I gave up the comfort of
a nice home in Detroit to live in a dorm room for nine weeks of a
hot summer during two consecutive years. These were 1968 and 1969.
     When I returned to the University of Detroit in the fall of
1969, I designed and implemented a graduate curriculum in computer
science, and I taught most of the courses. They included elementary
courses like FORTRAN and ALGOL and more advanced courses like data
structures, artificial intelligence, non-arithmetic programming,
automation theory, systems programming, and so on.
     During my early years of studying and teaching mathematics I
realized that no adequate system existed to represent complex
mathematical concepts in Braille. So I set about inventing my own
system. Eventually it became a very efficient tool. It worked well
for me, and others who learned about it asked me to teach it to
them. In 1952 my system was published as the Nemeth Code for
Braille Mathematics.
     The Nemeth Code features very close simulation of the printed
text, and it is that feature which has made it possible for me to
communicate with my students just as if I were holding the printed
text in my hand. Very complicated formulas I put on cards which I
arranged in a small card file in my left jacket pocket in the order
in which I planned to present them. At the right moment, I casually
walked up to the board and put my left hand into my pocket, read
the formula from the top card, and copied it with my right hand
onto the blackboard. It gave the students the impression of what a
big genius I was, and I tried not to disillusion them.
     I have been retired ever since September of 1985. I tell my
friends that looking back on my working days, I reflect that work
wasn't that hard. But it took a whole day.
     I believe that the experience that I have had in my lifetime
demonstrates how important are the early acquisitions of Braille
skills, facility in mobility, a knowledge of print practice, and
good attitudes. Equipped with these skills, a blind person can -
progress as far as his motivation, his ingenuity, and his talent
will permit. Without them, a blind person is restricted to
semi-literacy and lack of independence.

                            SUPREMACY
                         by Lois Wencil

     Both guide dog and cane users would probably agree that life
is more lively and complex with a dog. Canes don't look
intelligent, cute, or patient. No one is tempted to pat them or
talk to them, and while one's children may occasionally experiment
with the cane, a toy lawn mower or baton can usually be substituted
with great success. In short, there isn't much competition for the
affections of or the control over a white cane. Moreover, despite
the attractions of devotion and companionship, guide dog users must
go outdoors in unpleasant weather and work constantly to maintain
in the dog's mind and that of every human being in contact with the
team that the blind person is in command and controls every
situation. Sometimes this is easier to accomplish than others.
Clearly, however, committed guide dog users find these annoyances
a small price to pay for the satisfaction of working with a
responsive animal. Here Lois Wencil of Millburn, New Jersey, gives
us an amusing look at this ongoing struggle.
     From the time our son arrived home from the hospital, friends
would ask me if I wasn't afraid that my guide dog was jealous or
might hurt the baby. As he grew, it was, however, Steve who
terrorized her and stretched her endless patience. When he crawled,
who better to chase? How still she remained as he pulled himself up
by her fur. She seemed to know that if she moved he would fall.
Fawn did learn to jump that spring; on several occasions she
gracefully cleared the gate that confined Steve to our first floor.
His attempts to cut his teeth on her resulted only in mouthfuls of
hair. Although we tried our best to rescue her and barricade her
from him, she felt compelled to be near me; I needed to be close to
him. She, therefore, learned to tolerate this invader into what had
once been her domain.
     First a front pack, then a backpack, and finally a stroller
pulled behind kept him safe and her out of his reach when we were
outdoors. Sitting prettily at my side, she watched carefully all
who stopped to admire our carry-about. My pats and praise were what
she wanted.
     As he became too heavy and prideful to be conveyed, she slowed
her pace to accommodate his stride. Pausing at the down curb, I
would scoop him up and carry him across the street. Our purchases
were carried in a camping backpack now; my purse was left at home;
I wore only clothes with plenty of pocket space for tissues,
lollipops, and money.
     All went smoothly until we began discussing crossing streets;
red light means..., green light means...,etc. We learned to be
quiet at corners so Mommy could hear the traffic; he learned stop,
look, and listen before you cross the street. He took great pride
and joy in knowing when we could safely cross. Then Steve began to
command in his deepest, strongest voice, "Forward, Fawn!"
     What a quandary; learn but don't practice! If she should
respond, should I correct her? Yes! We discussed and rediscussed
this point of order, but he was so very proud of his new knowledge.
"I'll tell the dog, Mom! My job." In this case, however, there
could be no opportunity to let him try.
     So we struggled on. He now was growing heavier; at four he
would not be treated like a baby. A second traveler would be on
board in about five more months. The pregnancy made carrying him
both imprudent and dangerous.
     In total frustration he began to demand, "Leave dog home; I'll
wear the harness!" This was out of the question. "Don't use a cane
like Daddy; I'll take you. I'm your big helper." I quickly put a
stop to his even trying on the harness because Fawn did resent it.
The result was a tug of war between them. The struggle for
supremacy raged on!
     On a windy spring day we all began a trip for a light load of
groceries. "Go, Mommy! We can cross."
     With trees swishing, it was difficult for me to hear. "Please
be quiet so we can listen."
     "No! Go! Forward, bad girl."
     Dropping my harness, I patted my friend. "Good girl!" Then
turning to him, "Do not tell the dog what to do. I give the
command, and she moves when it is safe."
     This was too much for the budding child-traffic guard to bear.
Enraged, he sank to the sidewalk and began to screech. Enough was
enough for poor Fawn too. She lowered herself to the pavement and,
uncharacteristically, began to whine. What a sight to behold! First
I got one up into position and then turned to the other. In the
meantime, the first had gone down once again. A car stopped so its
owner could offer assistance. However, when I offered both my
charges to him as a gift, he beat a hasty retreat. Spanking time
had arrived. We drank water instead of juice that afternoon. A week
of playing only in the yard convinced Steve that Mommy alone gave
the dog commands. For some time after that episode, he remained at
home with Dad or a neighbor while the dog and I went shopping.
     Supremacy had been determined. When my daughter eventually
took her place as a toddler walking beside me, she also learned to
cross streets with less talk and more action. Yet today we all
still travel safely.

                National Federation of the Blind
     You can help us spread the word...
     ...about our Braille Readers Are Leaders contest for blind
schoolchildren, a project which encourages blind children to
achieve literacy through Braille.
     ...about our scholarships for deserving blind college
students.
     ...about Job Opportunities for the Blind, a program that
matches capable blind people with employers who need their skills.
     ...about where to turn for accurate information about
blindness and the abilities of the blind.
     Most importantly, you can help us by sharing what you've
learned about blindness in these pages with your family and
friends. If you know anyone who needs assistance with the problems
of blindness, please write:

Marc Maurer, President 
1800 Johnson Street, Suite 300 
Baltimore, Maryland 21230-4998

              Your contribution is tax-deductible.
     