What I Learned when I Became Friends with Someone Blind
By KCY
I looked up, hearing laughter at the table behind me in my college cafeteria. I’d been sitting at a table in the corner alone, engrossed in one of my textbooks. Except now I wasn’t alone. A gray tray bumped up against mine.
“Look at that!” I heard behind me.
The person who was attached to this tray was a blonde girl wearing a headband identical to one I’d had in second grade. Her clothes were simple. A knit sweater paired with corduroy pants. A red and white cane was folded and tucked under her right armpit. Her eyes fluttered open and close continuously, unfocused and never really staying open. A look of shock was flashed across her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize anyone was sitting here.”
“It’s okay,” I replied, annoyed at the muffled laughter continuing behind me, “I could use some company. Why don’t you sit?”
It was my last two months at my small liberal arts college. I’d seen the same faces for the past four years. Gone to the same parties. Hooked up with the same drunken boys. I’d lost touch with many of the friends I’d made during the previous three years, having chosen to continue to live in the dormitories while they moved off campus. I didn’t care. I was over it. I was biding my time until, diploma in hand, I would march off this campus forever. Inviting an unfamiliar girl to sit with me was a welcomed break from monotony.
Her eyes flickered as we talked, like an involuntary eyelid reflex. Every once in a while, I glimpsed her eyes but they never seemed to focus on any one object or me. As awful as this sounded, I suddenly realized why blind people often wore sunglasses.
We talked about the usual things. Our majors, where we were from. She had grown up in the Boston area. A freshman. No wonder I had never seen her before. She lived in the all-women’s dorm. I yearned to ask her questions about being blind. Had she always been blind? What was it like to be blind? Did she have other blind friends? What was her favorite color? Instead, I asked her if she exercised. The answer was no but she would like to. I offered to bring her to the gym and she accepted.
Rebecca and I became dinner and gym buddies. I’d pick her up from her dorm to walk to the gym together. She’d hold my arm as we walked. Whenever I guided her around campus, I’d feel noble.
As we’d stroll into the gym arm in arm, silence would descend. No matter how many times we went to the gym together, all eyes would be on us as we made our way up to the indoor track that circled above the cardio and weight room. Stares followed us as we ran our one lap together, for this was all Rebecca could tolerate. As we made our way around the track, her grasping tightly onto my arm, I could sense her fear. But somehow, she would push on. We did the weight machines after our warm up. I guided her hand into the proper grips to push and pull whichever way the machine dictated. When we finished our workout, we’d put on our jackets and leave, with her arm grasping my arm and, of course, everyone watching.
As awful as this sounds, bringing Rebecca to the gym made me feel altruistic. I was helping this blind girl, teaching her how to use the weight machines and even run. I was encouraging her to do everyday things that non-blind people could do. I was helping her to be more “normal.”
The week before I graduated, I went to Rebecca’s room for the first time. In an effort to purge so that I could bring the least amount possible back to my mom’s house in California, I was giving my rug and old sweaters to Rebecca.
Her room was sparse. The standard dormitory bed, wardrobe and desk. On the desk sat a computer. The keyboard keys were in braille. There was a microphone attached to the computer.
I laid the carpet on Rebecca’s bare floor and we sat cross-legged on top of it. She ran her hands against the fuzzy surface.
“It feels nice,” Rebecca said, “very comfortable. It’s seen a lot of feet on top of it. I like the nubbiness, even the fuzz,” she said.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my hands against the top of the carpet, trying to understand what she meant. Yeah, it did feel that way. Worn but comfortable. I opened my eyes and handed her the sweaters.
“Here, I won’t need these anymore in California. Take what you like.”
Rebecca fingered each of the five sweaters I’d thrusted in her hands. She picked out three and gave the rest back to me. The three she’d picked were the ugliest of the five. One had a giant reindeer on it. One was a dull brown and the last one in contrast, was an awful pink plaid.
“These are great,” she said, “I love the textures.” She picked up the brown one. “I can tell that this one is warm. And it’s so soft. I hate scratchy sweaters.” She picked up the pink plaid. “And this one feels so great in my hands. It’s a cable knit, I think is what they call it.” She picked up the reindeer one. “And this one, just seems like so much fun. I can feel the little balls on the sleeves. I can tell this one will make people happy.”
I closed my eyes, fingering the sweaters trying to see what she saw. But I couldn’t’. In my mind, all I could see were the ugly and loud colors of the three sweaters. I couldn’t see what Rebecca saw.
It dawned on me that it was because I was still looking with my eyes, even though they were closed. But Rebecca had never looked with her eyes. She’d been born blind. So she learned to look at things with her heart. She was the one who could really see the beauty and truth in things.
Rebecca and I lost touch after I graduated. A few years ago, though, I got a friend request. It was from Rebecca. I accepted her request, curious to see what had happened to her. I learned that she was a teacher for blind children and she was married. There were pictures of her husband and her two children. Her husband looked at least ten years older than her and would be characterized by most people as unattractive. He was wearing sunglasses. He was blind, too. They were both smiling widely, almost laughing. I could feel the joy seep from the photo and I was happy for her, even a little jealous, because I could see that she was still looking at things with her heart. I hope I can do that someday.
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