Sight Unseen (Part 1)

Sight Unseen

I used to think I was blind. That was before I realized that I could see better than most. That is why there are two parts to this story.

“Was Blind”

My name is AnnaJae Anerud and I was born blind 17 years ago. My parents talked to multiple doctors before they finally gave up and tried to resign themselves to my handicap. I say this because I learned to do exactly what they did. I regretted my blindness. I hated my blindness because, in my mind, it became a bad thing, a handicap, a detriment to me and what I could have been. It was ugly and it was harmful; I nearly viewed it as a deformity.

Scholastically, I learned through oral teaching and Braille. I learned to use a cane and I received a guide dog. I grew to love my dog Rusty, but I only put up with the cane. Whenever I met new people I heard, “Oh! I'm so sorry,” and I echoed those words every time in my heart. I was miserable, full of self pity, and I didn't mind letting everybody else pity me too. It wasn't fair, and I wanted the world to know.

My parents tried to help. I can't tell you how many times they told me I looked perfectly normal, that nobody was giving me a funny look or staring at me. What a joke! I could feel people staring at me. And you're saying that dark glasses, a Golden Retriever guide dog, and a long white cane are all invisible? I learned to tune out their protests and comforting statements, along with those of my other relatives and friends who threw the same arguments at me.

Not only was I frustrated, I was frequently embarrassed. Often at school, some offered to sharpen my pencil or to get something out of my backpack. Those who didn't know me well were always offering to help me with things; they tried to be kind but I hated it.

I had learned right from the start, however, that if I wanted to know things, things that any other person could tell just by looking, then I must find another way. I learned to listen—not just to words, but anything that might tell me something. I could tell who was knocking on my bedroom door; I could tell if they were excited or angry by their footsteps; I could know their mood by a tone in their voice. While most of those around me were distracted by what they could see, I could put together the finer details of a situation from what I heard. What friends, family and strangers saw and marveled at, I heard and understood.

All this did nothing to change my attitude towards my handicap, though. I had thoroughly trained myself to only ever view my blindness as a negative thing. This is not to say that I was always pouting, or that I never enjoyed anything. I had simply learned that I could never be fully happy without my sight, and so I never allowed myself to enjoy anything to its fullest.

That was before Kari. We met Kari at Thanksgiving during my older brother, Ian's, sophomore year in college. He'd called and asked in advance if he could invite a friend over for Thanksgiving because his friend had nowhere else to go. My parents readily agreed, and when Ian pulled up in the driveway, I heard Kari close the passenger door. I stood next to my parents in the doorway, half curious, half annoyed that some cute college chic was going to meet her boyfriend's blind tag-along little sister. I assumed this was how she would view me and frankly, the prospect wasn't thrilling.

At supper that night she chatted with my parents, asking them questions, telling a little about her history. Then as Mom served desert, Kari turned to me and asked,

“So, Jae, what advantages do you find in being blind?” I sat shocked. I wasn't offended; that didn't seem to be an option with Kari. Still, I couldn't understand what she meant. It was obvious she wanted an answer, and “None” didn't seem appropriate. She had asked the question in all sincerity.

“I'm not sure I know what you mean,” I answered slowly, mulling over her question for a possible hidden meaning. Was Kari teasing me? That would be just too cruel! But her tone was understanding, as if she really believed that I had an advantage and she wanted to know what it was and how I felt about it.

“Well, I can tell you're a discerning person. How does your blindness help you see things, say in a different light or from another perspective?” That was too much for me.

“To be honest, I have no idea of what seeing something even means. I've never seen anything. I have no concept of light. I live in the dark. I see nothing. Never have. Never will.” I purposely avoided answering her question in context; it threatened the lifestyle I'd built so carefully over sixteen years.

Uncomfortable silence reined—disturbed only by Ian's elbow bumping the table—until Dad broke the spell by asking Kari what she wanted to major in. At that point, I thought I had sufficiently stopped Kari from asking any more such questions. I was free to remain in my own dark world of imperfect happiness and no joy. Or so I thought.

Strangely, the dinner conversation with Kari left me with no hard feelings. It was impossible to dislike Kari, as all of us soon discovered. Dad found her sense of humor amusing; Mom was delighted with her “style”—whatever that meant. All Ian would say was that he liked her, but so much more was evident, if only to me. I couldn't see if he held her hand, helped her with her jacket, but I still understood how he felt, or at least as much as a high school girl can understand how a college boy feels, to quote Ian.

But as much as I comforted myself that I had managed to stop Kari's questions, I couldn't gain her pity. It simply wasn't there. I guess I shouldn't say it that way exactly. Kari had pity, as became evident in the fact that she pitied me because I couldn't see my own sight. She didn't really say that outright, but I understood what she meant. After less than two days of Kari, I began to count her a friend. She wasn't a friend on the lines of my cohorts from Lincoln High, there was simply no comparison. She liked me for who I was without pitying my blindness or in any way letting me use it as an excuse.

One day Ian excused himself to visit an old friend from grade-school who was also home on break. He promised to only be gone for a few hours, but Kari shooed him away.

“Go!” she said laughing, “Your family is more interesting than you know, if you think that you have to stay with me constantly to keep me entertained. You go have fun. I've got plans of my own.” I sensed her grin—maybe even a wink—and from Ian's flabbergasted half-chuckle, I guessed he walked away blushing but cheerful.

Kari waited til she heard Ian's car back out of the driveway before turning to me.

“Come on. Hot chocolate's on me. Ian pointed out the sweetest little coffee shop, and your Mom gave me the go ahead.” I guessed she had a reason for taking me out; Kari wanted to revive our conversation, so I almost shook my head. But it was Kari, and it was my favorite coffee shop. Ten minutes saw Kari, Rusty and I walking down South Elm towards the Calfiend Cafe—well known in our small town for its fabulous beverages, the general favorite in our family being French Vanilla Cocoa.

Willing or not, I can't remember, but somehow Kari managed to make me talk with her as we walked. But instead of describing the brilliant display of autumn colors, she discussed the refreshing scent of rain on the breeze or the sound of a dog in the background; she even asked me questions about the people in our neighborhood. This kind of conversation surprised me. Nobody had ever tried to talk about things that I understood before. Most just attempted in stumbling words to explain what the color blue was, or how a tree looked, or the expression on somebody's face. Kari seemed to speak my language without even trying.

“French Vanilla?” Kari asked as she opened the door of the Cafe.

“Or would you like to try something new? I personally love a Mocha with a taste of Hazelnut.” I followed Kari up to the counter.

“Mocha with a more-than-a-taste of French Vanilla?” I volunteered.

“Sounds like a delectable combination. I'll try it too.” Kari ordered and we sat down at a small table for two. Rusty settled obediently onto the floor beside me.

“So did I surprise you with my question at dinner two nights ago?” Kari asked unexpectedly.

“Yes.” That was the easiest question she'd asked yet.

“I was serious you know.”

“I thought you were, but I didn't understand you.”

“I think you did.” Kari saw that my purposeful confusion was simply a defense, against change. We were silent for a moment. A waitress walked up and set our Mochas on the table. I wrapped my cool fingers around the warm cup. Finally I took a breath. Kari was clearly waiting for me to respond.

“Could you explain?” I asked somewhat meekly.

“Explain...?”

“What advantages do you think I have that are due to my blindness?”

“Well,” Kari paused for a sip, “This is really good! I don't know why I didn't try it earlier. But back to my point. I can see that you hate being blind. I can also see that there's nothing you can do to change the fact that you can't see light or color. But I think that you see more than you realize. Now you go off of that and explain it to me.”

“Oh, you must mean that I can see the color black. Nice. Lovely variety. Clears things right up.” I couldn't help being sarcastic, but I felt a twang of guilt at the same time.

“Jae, be real with me; I don't do fake. Stop pretending that your lack of physical sight has deprived you of a brain.” I felt as if I'd been doused in cold water, dumped over my head in love. I took a scalding sip of Mocha that singed a good portion of my taste buds.

“You are saying that there are ways of seeing things without your eyes,” I continued “You're not talking about physical things.” It was a statement, not a question. I didn't need to ask. “You're saying that you think being deprived of my eyes is an advantage, or that because I'm deprived of physical sight, I've received an advantage. And you're saying that I'm particularly good at seeing things with my brain, or whatever it is you think I see with.” I still wasn't ready to fully admit that she was right. The sound of the doorbell startled me momentarily. I heard a familiar pattern of footsteps. From school? No; somebody from church. I listened as mystery church-goer walked to the counter. Ahhh. Mr. Bauer. He must be wearing his Sunday dress shoes; they squeaked. Why his dress shoes on a Friday? Then I noticed the clipped step of a woman's heels. He was taking his wife out to coffee.

“Tell me more.” Kari broke into my thoughts. I shook my head and tried to remember what I'd said last.

“Ahhh...You're also eager to help me, but you won't because you really want me to help myself. You want me to realize that somehow, I see things that maybe others can't.” This I knew quite well, I just never let myself admit it. I had perceived that others often missed the finer details, but I had been so busy railing about my eyesight that I never allowed myself to believe that there might be benefits to blindness.

“Mm-hmm.” Kari sipped her Mocha for what must have been the twentieth time.

“You're not going to have any taste-buds left if you don't stop and let that cool,” I pointed out.

“Jae, you surprise me at ever turn.”

“Well, anyone could hear that you've been sipping that Mocha non-stop since I started talking.”

“Yes, but it takes you to put those details together without seeing what I'm doing, and without questioning your theories.”

“Mmm?” I took a paradoxical sip of my Mocha and nearly destroyed any remaining buds on my tongue.

“Anybody else would have asked if my Mocha was as hot as theirs.”

“But you were audibly breathing between each sip, I could tell it was way to hot.” I sensed another of Kari's grins. After a moment of pondering, I smiled.

“I begin to see your point.” It was sheer accident that I did not substitute “see” with “understand.” We both held our Mochas in silence for a moment; I was afraid combusting more taste buds, and Kari probably didn't have any left. Rusty sat up, signaling that somebody was near our table. Mr. Bauer again, without his wife. Probably going to ask the waitress for something.

“Would you like to see our park?” I asked suddenly. It occurred to me that for as much as Kari was doing for me, I should reply somewhat in kind.

“Is it beautiful?” Kari pushed back her chair and picked up her Mocha.

“From what I've heard. It's peaceful, if nothing else.” I certainly loved the park. It was one place where I could be alone without people trying to outdo each other helping me.

“The park's on Washington Ave, could you let me know when we're at that intersection?” asked as I grabbed the handle on Rusty's harness.

The smell of burning leaves assaulted me as we left the cafe. I stopped momentarily to inhale deeply. Kari waited for me.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, Herman Kandel is burning his leaves again. He does it every year. To him, it's worthwhile to just get a burning permit, instead of raking his leaves to the sidewalk. He could do that of course, but legally he's not inside city limits, so he burns them anyway.”

“You can hardly smell it though,” Kari commented.

“You can hardly smell it,” I corrected, “But it's stronger in the park. Let's go.”

Kari and Ian left the next day, and close as I was to my brother, I wasn't sure who I'd miss more.