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                           Making Hay

                        Kenneth Jernigan
                             Editor

                          A KERNEL BOOK
                          published by
                NATIONAL FEDERATION OF THE BLINDCopyright 1993 by the National Federation of the Blind
ISBN 0-9624122-5-2
All Rights Reserved.
Printed in the United States of AmericaTABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor's Introduction
Making Hay
Thomas Pryor Gore: "The Blind Orator"
Bringing Home The Christmas Tree
Baby-Sitting
Let That Blind Man Work On My Truck
Blueprint For Learning
Successful Equation: Skills + Confidence = Success
I Remember
Blindness And The Brooklyn Bridge
Lisamaria: Focusing On Others
On The Stigma Of Blindness
Climb Every Mountain EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION

     This is the fourth Kernel Book. When we started the series a
little over two years ago, we didn't know where it would go or how
it would be received. The response has exceeded all expectations.
     As readers of the series know, I have been the spokesman for
the National Federation of the Blind for more than twenty years.
Before 1991 total strangers were always stopping me on the street
or in the supermarket or airport to ask me what blindness was like.
They would tell me that they had seen me on television. They still
do it■but more often than not, they now couple their questions with
comments about what they have read in one or another of the Kernel
Books. They not only talk about things I have told them about my
own experiences (both as child and adult) but also about the
experiences and lives of others they have met through these pages.
They feel that they know us personally and that because of this
personal acquaintance they have gained new understanding about
blindness.
     This, of course, is what I hoped would happen, and it is what
I hope will continue to happen as you read the present volume. You
will meet new people in this fourth Kernel Book, and you will renew
old acquaintances. I have also taken the opportunity (editors are
like that) to tell you some additional things about myself■how I
tried to break away from the confinement of an isolated existence
on a Tennessee farm and what I did as a blind child to try to earn
my own way.
     As in former volumes, those who appear in this book are people
that I know■former students, colleagues in the National Federation
of the Blind, and personal friends. There is one exception. I did
not know the blind senator Thomas Gore. However, since his
great-grandson has now been elected Vice President of the United
States, it seems particularly appropriate to include his story.
Beyond that, after I graduated from high school and was entering
manhood in Tennessee, I used to hear the Vice President's father
(Congressman Albert Gore, the Congressman from my district) speak
on the radio every Sunday morning. I felt that I knew him
personally, and I also feel a personal acquaintance and kinship
with his ancestor, who (at least, so far as I know) was the first
blind member of Congress.
     As to the future of the Kernel Book series, there seems little
doubt that we will continue it. The fact that it has already run to
a publication of more than two million copies underscores the
interest and demand. Meanwhile I hope you will enjoy the present
volume and that you will find it interesting and useful.
     The essence of its message is simple: We who are blind are
pretty much like you. We are, that is, if we have the chance to
try. We have our share of both geniuses and jerks, but most of us
are somewhere between■ordinary people living regular lives.

Kenneth Jernigan
Baltimore, Maryland
1993                    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
benefit from it.          MAKING HAY
                       by Kenneth Jernigan

     As a blind child growing up on a farm in the hills of Middle
Tennessee in the late 1920's and early 1930's, I did a lot of
thinking. This is not surprising since there wasn't much else to
do. We lived in a four-room house on a gravel road, and I doubt
that an automobile a week passed our door. We had no radio, no
telephone, no newspaper, no magazines, and no books except the
Bible and the textbooks my brother (four years older than I)
brought home from school.
     The world of the late '20's and early '30's in rural Tennessee
was a totally different place from what we know today. Nobody
thought about atom bombs, pollution, or jet planes. About the
hottest topic I heard discussed by my elders was whether it was a
sin for a woman to bob her hair and what the likelihood was that
you would go to hell if you played cards. I had better explain that
last remark. I am not referring to playing cards for money, just
ordinary games around the family table. And while we are on the
subject, there was no question at all about whether you would go to
hell if you danced or played pool. You would.
     The difference between the world of then and there and the one
of here and now was not limited to the rural areas. Let me give you
an example. When I went off to the Tennessee School for the Blind
in Nashville at the age of six (that would have been January of
1933), one of the more charming customs of the place was a Saturday
morning ritual involving the Scriptures. Shortly after breakfast
the small boys (I don't know what happened to the girls since there
was strict segregation) were plopped down on a bench and given the
task of memorizing a chapter from the Bible. It didn't do any good
to protest, object, or try to resist. You sat there until you
memorized it, after which you were free to go play.
     One's religion had nothing to do with it, nor did one's
interest or aptitude. When you got the task done, you could (within
limits) go where you pleased and do what you liked. Meanwhile you
couldn't. And whatever time you spent trying to beat the system was
just that much of the morning gone. I suppose I need not tell you
that I quickly concluded to learn my chapter with minimum delay,
which I religiously (no play on words intended) did. As a result,
I have been a devout Bible quoter ever since■and much, I might add,
to my benefit and long-range satisfaction. Ah, well, children are
not always in the best position to know what will stand them in
good stead.
     I don't want to leave you with the impression that everything
in that Tennessee world of the '20's and '30's concerned the Bible
or religious matters. It didn't. We popped corn in a pan of bacon
grease on the wood stove in the kitchen or in a long-handled popper
at the fireplace in one or the other of the two bedrooms. (The
house had a kitchen, a dining room, and two bedrooms.) We visited
our neighbors and relatives, either walking or (if the distance was
too far) riding in a wagon drawn by two mules; we gathered hickory
nuts and walnuts; and now and again the family sang songs or
listened to a neighbor play a banjo. At Christmas time there was a
great deal of cooking, but no convenience foods, of course, and as
little as possible bought from the store. For instance, we didn't
make fruitcake. That would have cost too much. Instead, we made jam
cake. The black walnuts, the homemade blackberry jam, and most of
the other ingredients came from our farm and required no outlay of
cash.
     As to my personal situation, it was (if you want to be
high-toned about it) what you might call anomalous. Nobody in the
neighborhood had ever known a blind person, so there was no one to
give advice. My parents loved me, but they didn't know what to do.
This led to some strange inconsistencies. For instance, my mother
and dad didn't want me to carry wood for the fireplace or stove or
water from the spring, which was only a few feet from the house.
They didn't want me to play in the yard or go any farther than the
porch. They were afraid I might get hurt. Yet, they had no
objection at all to my shooting firecrackers at Christmas time.
     It was regarded as a natural thing for boys in that part of
the country to shoot firecrackers, and I suppose my parents just
never thought about it. One of my earliest memories is of me
standing on the front porch with a match and a firecracker in my
hand and of my father, saying as he went past me into the house,
"You'd better be careful, or you'll blow your hand off with that
thing." Young as I was, I knew that he was right and that nobody
would stop me if I was careless■so I wasn't careless. I developed
a technique of holding the match just below the head and pressing
the firecracker fuse against it. Match and fuse were held between
my thumb and index finger, so there was no possibility of the
firecracker's exploding in my hand since my fingers were between it
and the flame. Never once did I get hurt, and I think the
experience helped me learn something about risk taking and proper
caution.
     As I have already said, I did a lot of thinking as I was
growing up. I also did a lot of planning, for I didn't want to
spend the rest of my life in close confinement in that four-room
house on the farm. As I reasoned it, I needed to read all the books
I could, and I needed to go to college. Therefore, as Braille and
recorded books became available to me through the books for the
blind program of the Library of Congress, I followed through on the
matter and crammed my head as full of book learning as I could.
Later I went to college and put the limited environment of the farm
behind me.
     Meanwhile, I wanted to do productive work and make some money.
This wasn't easy since my family (though loving me) thought I was
virtually helpless. My first effort (caning chairs at the School
for the Blind) brought more labor than cash, but I had to start
where I could. Also, we had cows on the farm, and we sold their
milk to a nearby cheese factory. During summer vacations I milked
cows night and morning and got ten cents a week for it. At the time
I was probably eleven or twelve.
     During the first part of the Second World War (I would have
been fourteen or fifteen), I made a little money collecting peach
seeds. I sold them to a man who came by twice a week in a truck. I
was told that the kernels were used for filters in gas masks, but
I don't know whether that was true or not. What I do know is that
I got a penny a pound for them and that there were a tremendous
number of peaches eaten in the neighborhood.
     Then, there was the NYA (the National Youth Administration),
one of Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal programs. Beginning in 1943 I
washed windows, scrubbed floors, shined the small boys' shoes, and
did other chores at the School for the Blind for three dollars a
month■fifteen hours at twenty cents an hour. I thought I was rich.
     And there was even an extra dividend. I was not the only boy
at the School for the Blind who got three dollars a month for
working for the NYA. There were quite a number, which meant that we
now had a cash economy, with more money in circulation than the
boys at the School for the Blind had ever known. It stimulated
business. I was one of those who profited. I established a
relationship with a local wholesale house and walked there once or
twice a week to carry large boxes of candy and chewing gum back to
the School. I bought the candy for three cents a bar and sold it
for a nickel. Going for the candy was not only good exercise but
also good profit. My roommate and I did a thriving business. It
helped me get some of the money to start to college.
     There was also my broom-making project. A neighbor in the
country raised broom corn, and I took it with me to the School for
the Blind and made it into brooms. (All blind boys in those days
were taught chair caning and broom making regardless of their
aptitudes or wishes, and I think I could still do a creditable job
at either task.) My neighbor supplied the broom corn, and I made
and sold the brooms. We split the profits.
     During the latter part of the Second World War (by this time
I was sixteen or seventeen) I got a chance during the school year
to make some money by sorting aircraft rivets. The Vultee Aircraft
Company established a plant near Nashville to make dive bombers,
and there were many thousands of rivets in each plane. The workers
would drop rivets on the floor; and when the dirt, cigarette stubs,
and other leavings were swept up, the assorted mixture was brought
to the students at the School for the Blind for sorting. We
separated the rivets from the trash, sorted them into sizes and
types, discarded any with rough spots on them, and sent them back
to the aircraft plant. It was a messy job, but it was a way to make
some money. I think I got two and a half cents a pound for it.
     But all of these various jobs were preliminary to my first
truly big opportunity. It happened like this: In the summer of 1944
(I was seventeen) I wanted to expand my horizons. Farm laborers in
our neighborhood made $1.25 per day, working from sunrise to
sunset, and I wanted to join their ranks. The pivotal event
occurred when they began making hay. We had no power machinery.
There was a mule-drawn mower, and after the hay was cut, there was
a mule-drawn rake. The men would follow the rake with pitchforks,
putting the hay into shocks and then tossing it into the mule-drawn
wagon. Then it would be taken to the barn and put into the loft.
     I tried to get my dad and the other decision makers to let me
try my hand at making hay. They were not only unwilling but didn't
even want to talk about it. In fact when I insisted, they indicated
to me that they were busy and had work to do and that I should stop
bothering them.
     Since I was unwilling to spend the summer doing nothing, I
looked around for other opportunities. It occurred to me that I
might try my hand at making furniture. Lumber was cheap in those
days, and I also had the idea of using spools. At that time thread
was wound on wooden spools, plastic not yet having come into use,
and almost everybody sewed. Spools were throw-aways, and I got all
my relatives, plus department stores in surrounding towns, to save
them for me. I got them in every conceivable size and then sorted
them and strung them on iron rods to make table legs.
     The design was simple, but the product was both durable and
graceful. I could make a table in a day and could sell it for $10.
It cost me $1.75 in materials, so I had a profit of $8.25. My
rejection became a triumph. While the men did back-breaking labor
in the hay fields for $1.25 a day, I stayed in my workshop,
listened to recorded books, and produced tables for a profit of
$8.25. No matter how fast I made them, I could never keep up with
demand. It was as regular as clock work■$8.25 net profit day after
day, not the $1.25 I would have made in the hay field.
     I also designed and made floor lamps from spools. The lamp had
an old steering wheel for a base with a pipe running up the center,
surrounded by four columns of spools, with a fixture and shade on
top. I could make it in a day, and I sold it for $25, with a cost
for materials of a little over $8. This was twice as much profit as
I made from a table. The trouble was that the lamps were harder to
sell, so I got relatively few orders.
     By the end of the summer I had more money than I had ever
seen, and I did it again the following year. I went to college in
1945 and never returned to the furniture business, but it taught me
a valuable lesson, as did the other jobs I have described. There
are many ways to make hay, and if you lose $1.25, you may make
$8.25 if you put your mind to it. As I have already said, the world
of fifty years ago was a different place from the world of
today■but many of the lessons still hold. They probably always
will, and one of them is that making hay is a lifelong process.THOMAS PRYOR GORE: "THE BLIND ORATOR"
                         by Sharon Gold

     In 1976 the National Federation of the Blind's magazine, the
Braille Monitor, published a series of profiles of distinguished
blind Americans in celebration of the nation's bicentennial. One of
these profiles was of Thomas Pryor Gore, the first blind United
States Senator. Sharon Gold, President of the National Federation
of the Blind of California, did the research and wrote the profile.
Since Senator Gore was the great-grandfather of our newly-elected
Vice President, it seems fitting to include it in this Kernel Book.
Here it is:
     Thomas Pryor Gore, the first totally blind man to sit in the
United States Senate, was born on December 10, 1870, in Old Choctaw
(later known as Webster) County, Mississippi. His father, Thomas
Madison Gore, who served as a soldier in the Confederate Army
during the Civil War, was a farmer and a lawyer.
     An accident at the age of eight resulted in the total loss of
sight in one of Gore's eyes and severe injury to the other eye,
causing him to be totally blind at the age of eleven. Gore
continued his studies in the public schools of Walthall,
Mississippi, his classmates and members of his family reading his
lessons aloud to him. After graduating from high school in 1888, he
studied two additional years, taking a scientific course.
     In 1890 Gore graduated from a normal school [a two-year
teacher-training institution], obtained a teaching license, and
taught in a public school during the year 1890-1891. He then
entered Cumberland University in Lebanon, Tennessee, as a student
in the School of Law. Shortly after Gore's graduation with an LL.B.
degree in 1892, he was admitted to the bar and began practicing law
in Walthall. As a boy Gore had spent a year serving as a page in
the Mississippi Legislature, and throughout his school years he had
read and studied political economy, the writings of Thomas
Jefferson, and any works he could procure on the art and science of
government. In 1891 he was nominated for the State Legislature but
was forced to withdraw his nomination because he was under age.
     Gore, like his father and other relatives, became an active
member of the Populist Party and was soon considered the best-known
and most able stump speaker for that party. When the Mississippi
Populists were defeated in 1895, the "Blind Orator," as he had come
to be known, moved to Corsicana, Texas, where he continued to be an
active member of the Populist Party and practiced law.
     In 1896 he served as a delegate to the Populist National
Convention in Saint Louis, Missouri, and two years later was
defeated as a candidate for the U.S. Congress on the People's Party
Ticket. After this Gore devoted much of his time to national
politics and became affiliated with the Democratic Party in 1899.
In 1901, following his new allegiance to the Democratic Party, Gore
and his wife, Nina Kay, the daughter of a Texas cotton planter,
whom he married on December 27, 1900, joined those pioneers who
were moving northward to the new Territory of Oklahoma. They
settled in Lawton, where Gore opened a law practice and made his
permanent home.
     Gore's driving ambition, his superb oratorical ability, and
the support of the powerful Daily Oklahoman in Oklahoma City, soon
made the "Blind Orator" a leading politician in the Oklahoma
Territory. In 1902, just one year after settling in the Territory,
Gore was elected to the Territory Council and served as a member
from 1903 to 1905. In 1907, when the Oklahoma and Indian
Territories joined to form the new State of Oklahoma, Gore assisted
with the writing of the State Constitution and was elected one of
its first Senators.
     He was reelected for two more terms, serving until 1921.
During these terms of service in the United States Senate, Gore was
especially interested in legislation affecting the farmer and the
Indian and was credited with having saved $30 million in royalties
for the Indians by filibustering against a resolution giving
private individuals oil lease rights.
     During the pre-World War I period Gore was one of the
progressive members of the Senate, opposing the trusts, high United
States tariff rates, and monopolies, especially the railroads. An
important and longtime supporter of Woodrow Wilson as a
Presidential candidate, Gore helped get Wilson elected in 1912 and
endorsed his domestic legislative program. However, with the coming
of World War I, Gore decided to oppose Wilson's foreign policy and
America's eventual entry into the war in 1917.
     During the war Gore argued against military conscription and
pensions, the food administration, emergency governmental control
of transportation and communication facilities, and deficit
financing. His opposition to Wilson's wartime policies and this
country's entry into the League of Nations brought about Gore's
defeat by a Wilson supporter in the Democratic primary of 1920.
     Gore knew that many of his convictions were unpopular with a
large number of his constituents, but being a statesman in
preference to a politician, he refused to alter his positions. Thus
he returned to private law practice in 1921. In 1930 Gore was again
nominated for Senator from Oklahoma and returned to the Senate for
a final term from 1931 to 1937.
      During this period Gore rose in opposition to policies of
both a Republican and a Democratic President. He was a strong
opponent of Franklin D. Roosevelt's social measures, which Gore
considered would lead to an over-centralization of government, thus
interfering with individual initiative and enterprise. He was
opposed to deficit spending.
     For a second time in his career as a Senator, his opposition
to the policies of a popular President was responsible for his
defeat during his 1936 bid for re-election. He spent the final
thirteen years of his life practicing law in Washington, D.C.,
where he specialized in taxes and Indian affairs.
     Throughout his political and professional life, Thomas P. Gore
was a noted debater and public speaker. His Senate speeches were
well-prepared and carefully documented. In preparation for a speech
his wife or friends would read to him from books and articles
pertaining to the subject on which he was to speak, from his own
library of fifty thousand books or at the Library of Congress. He
would then prepare his speech in private.
      In addition to his other credits, Gore attended the
Democratic National Conventions of 1908, 1912, 1928, and 1936 as a
delegate-at-large. He traveled widely throughout the United States,
sometimes alone, and always carried one or two books with him which
he would ask to have read to him after he became acquainted with
people. He died on March 16, 1949, in his Washington apartment,
three weeks after suffering a cerebral hemorrhage. He is buried in
Oklahoma City's Rose Hill Cemetery.
     Thomas Pryor Gore had two children: a daughter, Nina, the
mother of the prominent American author, Gore Vidal; and a son,
Thomas Notley Gore, father of Albert Gore, U.S. Senator from
Tennessee, 1952-1970 [and grandfather of Vice President Gore].BRINGING HOME THE CHRISTMAS TREE
                         by Marc Maurer

     Marc Maurer is a husband and a father. He is an attorney. He
is also blind. He is a man of determination, sensitivity,
integrity, and hope. I am glad he is all of these things, for he is
also President of the National Federation of the Blind. To a great
extent the well-being of future generations of blind people depends
upon the National Federation of the Blind and the personal
qualities of its leadership. With Marc Maurer leading the
organization I am content to have it so. Read "Bringing Home the
Christmas Tree," and I think you'll agree with me.
     Christmas was for me the most wonderful holiday of the year
when I was a boy. There were many small surprises and much
happiness.
     Thanksgiving was memorable because I was able to come home
from the school for the blind which I attended for the first five
years of grade school to be with my family. There was always an
enormous basket of fresh fruit as well as a huge bowl of nuts to be
cracked and eaten. But the best part about Thanksgiving was that it
signified the beginning of the Christmas season. Before
Thanksgiving, it was simply autumn. After Thanksgiving, Christmas
was on its way.
     My Christmas problem was to find a way to obtain suitable
gifts for my family and friends. My allowance■the weekly grant from
my father■just was not large enough to meet all of the demands.
When I was small, it was a nickel. By the time I had reached high
school, it had grown to the grand sum of a dollar.
     When I was in the ninth grade (or maybe it was the tenth), I
persuaded the newspaper to put me on as the only blind paper boy in
town. Every morning■all three hundred sixty-five days of the year■I
rose at five o'clock to collect my papers, deliver them, and walk
home. The distance covered in the round trip was a little over two
miles.
     I liked the walk■especially in the midst of a snow storm. When
the wind was blowing, and the snow was falling, I felt humble. It
seemed to me that God was reminding us that He had created the
world and everything in it.
     The paper route brought in a little extra money■as I remember
it, between four and five dollars a week. The increase in my
financial well-being seemed dramatic.
     During the summers I could mow lawns or do other odd jobs. One
time I was hired at a dollar an hour to roof a garage. The work was
completed in twenty-nine hours. But these summertime activities
didn't help at Christmas.
     It was all right to begin thinking about Christmas the day
after Thanksgiving. However, planning for the most important
holiday of the year before the season arrived was out of the
question. In my home town Christmas decorations were hung in the
streets before Thanksgiving, but our family ignored them until the
proper time.
     The Christmas season was special and had to be saved until
using it was appropriate. This meant that I could not purchase
Christmas presents before Thanksgiving. Therefore, I had available
only those resources which could be mustered between Thanksgiving
and Christmas. Sometimes the money ran out. Nevertheless, gifts
must be procured. But, buying them was not essential. They could be
manufactured, and sometimes they were.
     One year I fashioned a wooden rifle for one of my brothers.
Another time I baked homemade Christmas rolls for a friend around
the corner. Bread making was a skill I acquired early. And I was
not the only one in my family who turned lovingly to handicrafts
for the Christmas season. One of my most treasured Christmas
presents was a hand-made wooden desk designed and built by my
father. I used it for almost ten years.
     Part of the delight of the Christmas season was that many
unusual things occurred. Visiting neighbors, friends, and relatives
came unexpectedly; mysterious packages arrived with contents that
must remain secret until the great day; plates of goodies were
presented that had been made in a kitchen whose customs were not
the same as our own. The cookies and cakes were not the same as the
familiar standbys I had come to know so well, and some of them were
extraordinarily good.
     I was the second of six children and the only member of the
family who was blind. My sister and my four brothers attended
school in our home town. From the time I was six years old until I
was eleven, I attended the school for the blind. At Christmas for
two weeks■or a little more■we who were students would say goodbye
to the routine at this residential school.
     At the school for the blind the wake-up bell rang at 6:30 in
the morning. By 6:55 we were expected to be dressed with our faces
washed and our teeth brushed. At that time, we lined up to march
from the dormitory to the dining hall for breakfast. Breakfast
began at 7:00 and lasted half an hour. Between 7:30 and 8:00, we
were expected to clean our rooms and make our beds. My roommate and
I divided up the cleaning chores. I dusted the furniture while he
dusted the floor. Classes began at 8:00 and continued until noon.
We marched in line to lunch, which also lasted half an hour.
     After lunch we were free to play on the playground for a few
minutes. Classes in the afternoon started at 1:00 and finished at
4:00. One period each day was devoted to gym class. After the 4:00
o'clock adjournment of classes we were free to play until we
marched to the dining hall at 5:25. After supper there was an hour
of mandatory study hall. Then for an hour we could read or play or
do as we pleased. By 8:30 all students were supposed to be in their
rooms, and at 8:45 the bell rang for lights out.
     Two nights a week at the school for the blind there were
special events. On Wednesdays and Saturdays we were expected to
bathe, and (before bath time) we were permitted to go to the
basement of the dormitory for "snack bar." Snack bar was the name
for the student-run store. At the snack bar we could buy candy
bars, ice cream bars, and a limited selection of penny candy. A
prepackaged ice cream cone that had been dipped in chocolate and
nuts (we called it a drumstick) cost fifteen cents. I didn't have
fifteen cents very often, so my visits to the snack bar were
infrequent.
      On Saturday the schedule for meals was the same as it was for
the rest of the week, but after our rooms had been cleaned and our
shoes were polished, the remainder of the day was free. On Sunday
we were expected to dress in our Sunday clothes, and we were then
sent to church.
     When the Christmas holidays came, all of this changed. At home
there was no scheduled time to wake up, no pre-set moment for
breakfast, no routine for dusting the furniture and making the bed.
Furthermore, there were family members to play with, and there were
the exciting and mysterious Christmas activities. In the kitchen
there were homemade cookies and candies. The aroma of varnish and
wood shavings emanated from my Dad's shop in the basement. There
were usually sewing and knitting projects that had to be finished
late at night so they would be ready for Christmas.
     The days are short in December, and in the midwest, where I
grew up, they are often snowy and cold. When school was out, we
would tramp the fields and woods around our town and find places to
use the toboggan that our parents gave us one Christmas. The cold
felt good, especially at the end of the day when we got home to sit
by the fire. And the pungent aroma of clove and cinnamon that came
drifting from the kitchen was a mouth-watering promise of the
cakes, the pies, or the cinnamon rolls that could be found there.
     One Christmas I read a story about the Yule Log■the large
chunk of timber which in English legend is traditionally set ablaze
on Christmas Eve to initiate festivities for the celebration of the
holiday. I decided to cut such a log. With an old handsaw we found,
I set out to bring home the largest piece of a tree that would fit
in the fireplace. I measured the opening with a piece of stick and
marked the length by cutting a nick with the edge of my knife. The
saw was old and dull; the log was heavy, thick, and damp. It seemed
to me that the job of cutting it would take forever. When the cut
was finally complete, I hefted my prize and dragged it home. I
rolled it into the fireplace and stuffed as much kindling around it
as I could cram into the opening. Our Yule Log burned for many
hours and brought warmth and cheeriness to the hearth.
     Then there was the Christmas tree. In our family we all went
together to get the tree. We would pile into the old 1954 Plymouth
to go hunting in the Christmas tree lots for just the right one.
The various members of the family had different objectives. Dad
wanted the tree to be cheap■affordable if you want the polite word.
Mom wanted it to be full and pretty. We kids wanted it to be big.
     When we arrived at the Christmas tree lot, the kids would
spread out in all directions, hunting through the trees. Every few
seconds somebody would yell that the perfect specimen had been
located. The whole family would come to admire it, and I would be
asked to examine it with my hands to see what I thought. The spruce
trees were my favorite, the ones with the little short needles and
the teeny little pine cones.
     When the best of the trees had been discovered, the price
negotiations began. This was my father's responsibility. A good
tree was one that had plenty of branches, no holes, a height of at
least nine feet, no bare spots, and a nice Christmas tree shape.
Such a tree was acceptable, but it could be made much better if my
father got a "deal." If the asking price for the tree could be
reduced by a third or a half, our Christmas tree was one of the
best.
     We would climb back into the old Plymouth and lean out the
windows so Dad could hand us the prized possession. We would drive
home slowly, freezing our hands and ears clutching tightly to the
tree, which we held pressed to the side of the car. With four or
five of us grasping the trunk, the branches of the tree filled the
windows on the driver's side of the car. It wasn't easy to see on
our side, so we honked the horn a lot at intersections on the way
home.
     When we arrived home, it was my father's job to set up the
tree. Because of a number of disasters (there is a particularly
unfortunate Christmas morning that I remember when the tree fell
over in the middle of a number of packages) it became the custom in
our house to anchor the tree with a cord to at least two separate
brackets on the wall.
     Then it was time to decorate. This was Mom's special area of
interest and talent. She directed all of us in the process and
added the finishing touches herself. When the balls were hung, the
tinsel meticulously arranged, and the lights lit, the tree changed
the living room from a nice place to be to the center of
enchantment.
     As I remember the Christmases of my growing up years, it is
clear to me that my blindness was not a major ingredient. Christmas
memories remind me of home and of family members who care for one
another. Gentleness, admiration, hope, and faith■of such as these
are memorable Christmases made.
     I did not know, when I was a student at the school for the
blind, what my own life could bring. However, as I prepare for
Christmas this year, I am reminded of those joyful experiences of
long ago. I now have a family of my own. One of the important
ceremonies in our household is the procurement of the Christmas
tree.
      My son David (a third-grader) asked me to help him build a
Christmas present for his Mom. Together we are cutting the wood and
fitting the pieces. The staining and finishing must be accomplished
before the festive day. The aroma of varnish will mingle this year
with the smells of cinnamon and chocolate as we prepare for the
giving of gifts.
     Perhaps the joy of the season is even greater because there
were many times when I wondered if it would be available to me. Can
blind people have good jobs and raise families? These are questions
which come inevitably to the mind of a blind student growing up.
They demand answers, but information is scarce, and sometimes the
messages are discouraging.
     When I came to be a part of the National Federation of the
Blind in 1969, I met caring people who were willing to give me the
benefit of their knowledge and experience. I met those who had hope
and faith. I came to be a part of an organization of individuals
who cared for one another.
     The responsiveness, the support, the warmth, and the caring I
found in the National Federation of the Blind are reminiscent of
the gentleness, the faith, and the hope I had come to associate
with the Christmas season. I have known the commitment of the
National Federation of the Blind for almost a quarter of a century.
In that time many thousands of blind people have been given
encouragement and support. Many Yule Logs have been cut, and many
trees decorated. A number of blind children have come to be blind
adults with children of their own. The blindness, which might have
prevented a full life, was not permitted to interfere. The
Christmases for those blind people have been warm, hearty, hopeful
celebrations. We are planning for many more. BABY-SITTING
                        by Barbara Walker

     In the National Federation of the Blind there are three simple
sentences which we have repeated among ourselves and to others so
often that they have become more than words and more than slogans.
Barbara Walker's story, "Baby-Sitting," is a graphic demonstration
of the truth of those three sentences. Read her story. At the end
of it you'll find the three sentences I'm talking about.
Incidentally, Barbara Walker is one of the finest people I know.
     As I hung up the phone, I thought to myself "I bet Sue has no
idea what she has just done." To her it was probably just another
routine thing to do. But as I told my husband about it, I felt the
warmth that true acceptance brings flowing through me and giving a
spark to my comments.
     "Jim," I said, "Sue just called and suggested that we have our
school parent-teacher conferences back to back so I can watch Eric
during hers and she can watch Marsha and John during ours. She
asked if I would arrange it since she's real busy at work during
Larry's free time."
     It was a routine call about a routine matter for parents. So
what was I so thrilled about? It was the first time anyone had
talked to me about watching their children without commenting in
some way or expressing some apprehension about my blindness. Sue
did tell me later that people had asked her about how she could
trust me to watch Eric. She had told them that all she knew was
that my children seemed fine and well cared for to her and whenever
she wanted to know specifically how I did things she asked.
     Unfortunately, Sue is still an exception in this and many
other everyday circumstances for the blind. But people like her
help people like me deal with the more typical approaches we face,
such as that with Chong.
     Chong, like Sue and several others, had been providing rides
for my children to and from pre-school. Occasionally, she would
invite my children to play with hers after school and then bring
them home. They enjoyed it, and as they got to know Jenny and Bryan
better, wanted to have them to our house. The first couple times I
asked Chong about it, the reasons they couldn't seemed plausible.
But by the third time, it seemed that perhaps reasons were becoming
excuses. My children began wondering aloud why Chong's children
couldn't play at our house. At one point, Marsha said she thought
Jenny was disappointed about not coming. I thought about blind
friends who had talked about this kind of thing. Now it was
happening to me. Perhaps we were all paranoid and jumping to
conclusions. I thought of Sue and decided we weren't.
     The next time I talked to Chong, I said that my children loved
to play at her house, but they were wondering why they could never
play with Jenny and Bryan at ours. I talked about Jenny's apparent
disappointment. Then I took the plunge and asked if my blindness
had anything to do with it. She said shyly, "No, not really." I
said that if it felt uncomfortable to her, I would be glad to
explain how I do things or answer questions. I told her I am used
to doing that. She said she didn't have any questions, and we
arranged for a time for them to come.

     On the day that they were to come, she called and said that
Bryan was sleeping late and she would prefer not to wake him. I
said we weren't on a schedule that would make their coming later a
problem. I was relieved when she agreed to that.
     When they arrived, I explained to them in their mother's
presence that I was going to put bells on their shirts so I would
be able to hear where they were going. I also explained my rule
about answering when I call their name unless we were playing hide
and seek■something which is only done with everyone knowing before
the game starts.
     From the time their mother left until she returned,
three-year-old Jenny asked almost nonstop questions about my
blindness. She wanted to know how I kept track of things, how I got
food, how I knew where I was going, how I read stories, how I knew
what color things were, how I picked out my clothes, how I washed
myself and my children, how I knew who people were, etc. When I
changed her two-year-old brother's diaper, she watched with keen
interest as I cleaned him and snapped up his clothes. The children
all had a good time.
     When Chong came to get Jenny and Bryan, I told her what a good
time we had all had. I said Jenny had asked a lot of questions and
had been very interested in how I do things. I then told her what
Jenny had asked and how I had answered. She listened intently,
occasionally adding a comment or question of her own. As they
prepared to leave, Jenny, who had been in the other room with my
daughter during most of Chong's and my conversation, talked
excitedly to her mother about my ways of doing things, most of
which were just like hers.
      I had the distinct impression that Chong and Jenny had
wondered to each other about things before coming to our house.
Both the bubbly three-year-old and the reserved mother seemed
pleased about learning new things, and our relationship thereafter
was much more relaxed and comfortable.
     Since that time, I have had many opportunities to supervise
other people's children. Sometimes the parent or parents have been
immediately receptive to trade-offs such as the one Sue initiated
with me. Sometimes it has taken direct conversations or
recommendations from others to help parents feel comfortable about
my watching their children. There continue to be a few who just
won't do it.
     My perspective on this is that we, through our everyday lives,
are making progress. I am glad there are people like Sue to provide
a balance for those who won't accept our lives for what they are.
Sue and others like her give substance to our acceptance of
ourselves as part of the mainstream of society. I also appreciate
those like Chong who are willing to listen and change their minds
about us. Without them, the progress we're making would not be
possible.
     Most of all, I applaud children for their willingness to ask
questions and remind us that change is occurring through them. As
they expect us to take charge, we find it more possible to do so.
As they challenge us to live what we say, we reach to do that, too.
As we in the National Federation of the Blind share our experiences
with each other and with the rest of society, we will find
encouragement and the strength to continue to educate ourselves so
that the success of acceptance will breed success. It is a
privilege to be a part of the process.
     As we in the National Federation of the Blind have learned so
well, the real problem of blindness is not the loss of eyesight.
The real problem is the misunderstanding and lack of information
which exist. If a blind person has proper training and opportunity,
blindness can be reduced to the level of a physical nuisance.LET THAT BLIND MAN WORK ON MY TRUCK
                         by Daryel White

     Some of the most lively, interesting, and inspirational agenda
items at our national conventions are the presentations made by our
own members who are earning their daily bread in occupations that
many people would think closed to blind employees. At our recent
convention one young man captivated the audience with his story of
returning to auto body repair after he became blind. Now meet
Daryel White, vice president of the St. Louis County Chapter of the
National Federation of the Blind of Missouri and a first-rate
employee at Marty's Body Works:
     I'm proud to be here today to tell you a little bit about what
I do to earn my daily bread. I'll begin by telling you where I was
and how I got to where I am today.
     I'm from St. Louis, Missouri. Approximately five years ago I
lost my eyesight. For about six months I sat and thought I was
never going to amount to anything in life. A rehab counselor came
to my home, and by the time he left I was even more convinced that
I had no future. Then about six months later a rehabilitation
teacher knocked on my door. I said, "Who are you?" It had been
about six months since the rehab counselor had come, and here she
was. She asked me a few questions, which I answered. She said to
me, "What did your rehab counselor tell you?"
     I said, "Well, he looked at me and said I wasn't going to do
anything with my life but be what I call a housewife." At that time
I didn't know any different. I had just lost my sight, and I
thought maybe that's all I could ever be. This bright young lady
really impressed me when she first came into my home. She showed me
how to do things that I didn't think I could do, but more than
anything else, she told me something I could hardly believe: she
said that I could do whatever I wanted to■that I could do what I
had done before I became blind.
     This lady's name was Patty Page. She introduced me to her
brother, a man who has taken me as far as I can go in making my
life better. His name is Homer Page, and he is president of the
National Federation of the Blind of Colorado and one of the Boulder
County Commissioners. I went to meet him while he was visiting at
his sister's home. I'll remember this till the day I die; we were
sitting at his sister's table, and he asked me what I wanted in
life. I told him that I wanted to do what I had been doing when I
was sighted■have my own home, have my own job, and live as I was
then. He looked at me and said, "You will have that."
     I said "o.k." But in my mind I thought, "Well, this guy's
really lost it."
     He went over to the phone and made a call to a lady who in my
heart has really become like my mother.
     I first met her in Denver when I came off the plane from St.
Louis. I could hardly even walk. I mean I had hold of this
stewardess like she was my savior! When I got into the gate area,
this woman came up to me and said her name was Diane McGeorge. Then
she took me with her■here I am, totally blind, and she says, "I'll
take you to get your luggage." And she was totally blind. I thought
to myself, "This lady's lost it too!" But I hung on to her because
I was frightened. We got the luggage and went to her home, and then
I went to the apartments for students at the National Federation of
the Blind's Colorado Center for the Blind. Diane McGeorge and Homer
Page had managed to enroll me as a student at the Center.
     From that moment on I began building my confidence. I learned
how to travel. I had had a cane, but I couldn't even find my feet!
The staff helped me with cane travel, Braille, and self-confidence.
They also introduced me to the organization that is really my
support and backbone today■the National Federation of the Blind.
     I spent about ten months in Colorado, and toward the end I
made some phone calls looking for a job. Even on the day I
graduated from the CCB, I made a couple of phone calls and got
turned down. But eventually I got lucky with Marty's Body Works,
which is in St. Louis, Missouri. I do auto repair, paint cars, and
put fenders and doors on. I even do welding.
     Now I want to tell you a little story. When I came back from
the Colorado Center for the Blind, my confidence level was taller
than the highest building that was ever built, so my first job with
the public's eye on me was a hard one. I went to work for Marty's
Body Works two weeks after I got back from Denver, Colorado.
     There's a man named Charlie Collins who owns a big diesel shop
in St. Louis. He wrecked his brand new pick-up truck in a front end
collision. He had it towed to Marty's. He looked at Marty and he
looked at me. Then he said, "I do not, do not want that blind man
to work on my truck!" Marty looked at me and kind of smiled, and
Charlie went on home.
     Then Marty said, "Daryel, you're going to do that job." So I
brought the truck in and did the job. I put it all together and
painted it. I mean, I did a superb job. There was nothing wrong
with that truck when I got done.
     When Charlie came back to pick it up, Marty told him,
"Charlie, I don't want you to pay for that job right now. I know
how you are; I've done work for you before. You take the truck back
to your shop. I want you to check it over just as close as you can
for fender and hood gaps." (These gaps are the distance between the
pieces of the car you build or rebuild.) He said, "I want you to
bring it back tomorrow and tell me if you find anything wrong."
     So Charlie took it to his shop, and he brought it back the
next day. He said, "Marty, that's the most fantastic job I've ever
seen!"
     Marty looked at him, and he looked at me. Then he told Charlie
right there, "That is what a blind man can do."
     Charlie owns two eighteen-wheelers over the road. About two
weeks later he wrecked one of his eighteen-wheelers. He brought it
back to Marty's, and do you know what his first words were? "Let
that blind man work on my truck."
     I want everyone to know one thing: I thank you for the support
of the NFB, of all you people who are listening to me and holding
this organization together. People like Dr. Jernigan, President
Maurer, Diane McGeorge, and Homer Page are the ones that really
have made me the person I am today. BLUEPRINT FOR LEARNING?
                      by Stephen O. Benson

     In many ways a great deal of progress has been made by blind
people in recent times■more jobs, better special tools and
equipment, increased understanding.  But in at least one critical
area blind children growing up today are being very badly
short-changed in a way that was very nearly unheard of when I was
a child in the mid- 1930s.  In recent decades most blind children
have not routinely been taught how to read and write Braille.  Many
of these children have now reached adulthood.  I talk to them by
the hundreds.  Almost without exception they feel they were
betrayed by their teachers and the other "experts" their parents
trusted to plan their education.
     We as blind people should not have to fight for blind children
to have the chance to learn to read and write Braille.
     Parents expect schools to teach sighted children how to read
and write, and there are laws requiring that it be done.  We want
the laws to protect blind children, too.  But the "experts" often
fight against such laws.  They seem to think deciding whether to
teach a blind child to read Braille is very complicated. The truth
is that it is very simple.  If a child can't see well enough to
read print easily, Braille should be taught.  But that is not what
usually happens, and the blind child pays a heavy price for the
rest of his or her life.
     Stephen Benson is totally blind and is President of the
National Federation of the Blind of Illinois.  In "Blueprint for
Learning," he describes in vivid detail the "experts'" decisions
which crippled his early education.  Unfortunately his experience
is still being repeated in countless lives across our country.
     At one and a half years of age my eye condition was diagnosed
as retinitis pigmentosa, which often results in total blindness. As
I approached first grade, my doctors and teachers (the team of
professionals) asserted that I should use my limited vision to its
maximum for as long as possible. My family was directed to enroll
me in what was then called "sight saving." Print was to be the
medium by which I was to learn to read.
     The sight saving classroom was equipped with the best
technology of the day (1948): dark green chalkboards with yellow
chalk, yellow paper with heavy green lines, indirect lighting,
desks with adjustable work surfaces that allowed the student to
bring reading and writing materials closer to the face, and
typewriters with large print. Each student wore prescription lenses
and had access to hand-held magnifiers. In addition we used
large-print textbooks. In third grade we learned to type by the
touch typing method.
     In my case and in countless others, neither equipment nor
teaching techniques would or could work. The techniques and the
teachers' efforts were misapplied. The prescription for sight
saving class was in error. From the first day of class my limited
vision prevented me from reading effectively. Over the course of
the next four and a half years my visual acuity decreased while the
print I was expected to read became smaller.
     I remember alternately gazing out the window and puzzling over
a printed page. By fourth grade my teachers had to print out my
class work by hand, using large letters and india ink. With all of
that I still felt as though I was reading grey print on grey paper.
Yet I remained in sight saving class until the middle of fifth
grade.
     The toll I paid for the professionals' decisions was high. I
dreaded reading; my confidence eroded; I feared blindness; I
acquired bad reading habits that carried over into adulthood. I
never checked a book out of the library. Why should I? I couldn't
read it.
     During the summer of 1952 the professionals finally admitted
that print might not be the right way for me to be getting an
education. In September of that year I was transferred to what we
referred to as the blind school, where I began to learn Braille. It
wasn't difficult. My teacher was competent. She knew Braille. She
gave me positive encouragement. My reading and writing speeds were
slow at first; however, as I gained proficiency and confidence,
speeds increased. In January of 1953, at age eleven, I checked out
and read a library book for the first time in my life. It was in
Braille.
     Over the last forty years teams of professionals have
continued to make the same foolish and costly decisions, probably
with greater frequency as the years have passed. As a member of the
National Federation of the Blind's Scholarship Committee, I have
met an astounding number of high school and college students who,
because they had some vision, were deprived of Braille or were
discouraged from learning it without regard to whether the student
could read print well enough to compete with sighted peers.
     One scholarship applicant, not unusual, uses taped books and
a closed circuit television magnifier. Under the best conditions
she is able to read for only a minute at a time, and that with
great discomfort. She is enrolled as a part-time student in a
community college, partly because her vision doesn't allow her to
meet the reading and writing demands of full-time status. She has
asked to be taught Braille, but her family and the teams of
professionals with whom she has worked have actively discouraged
it.
     Too many parents assume that the "experts" must "know what's
best," and will necessarily "do what's best for the child." Those
assumptions are often wrong and prove to be quite costly to the
blind child.
     "What's best for the child" is a catch phrase that too often
translates into decisions that are convenient for the teacher,
school, or district and into efforts to make the blind child's
educational needs conform to budget priorities.
     Were my experience forty years ago and that of the college
student I described mere coincidence? I don't believe they were.
Nor do I believe that de-emphasis on literacy (Braille) was or is
accidental.
     De-emphasis on Braille is disgraceful, just as de-emphasis on
print would be.  People who have a good command of reading and
writing skills tend to do better in math, science, history,
languages, music, and all the rest. People who can read and write
successfully have a better chance at competitive employment and
every other situation in life, for that matter.
     The anti-literacy/anti-Braille position taken by so many
educators of blind children and adults has had wider negative
impact than they might imagine. Several years ago, I worked at an
agency for the blind in Chicago. In support of a program to teach
Braille, I submitted a grant request to the Chicago Tribune
Foundation. The grant request was turned down. The reasons,
according to a foundation spokesman, were that Braille has nothing
to do with literacy, it is obsolete, and reading can be done by
recordings.
     I was disappointed that the program did not receive that
support.  I was disgusted by the ignorance of the foundation
personnel, but I was not surprised.
     For fifteen years I taught Braille for the Veterans
Administration at Hines Hospital. One of my assigned duties was to
supervise Western Michigan University interns (student teachers),
studying to become rehabilitation teachers.
     An alarming number of these interns didn't know Grade II
Braille, could not write with a slate and stylus, and had to be
instructed in the use of an ordinary Braille writer. One intern
didn't know Grade I Braille, though he had taken and passed a
Braille course.
     Though I wrote negative reports regarding their poor skills,
all of these interns passed the internship, and presumably all were
certified by the Association for the Education and Rehabilitation
of the Blind and Visually Impaired (AER).
     If future generations of blind people, children and adults,
are to be literate, if future generations of blind people hope to
be competitive in society, they must have access to the printed
word by a method that will allow writing as well as reading. It is
time for educators to grit their teeth and admit that a colossal
error has been made. Then they must bring themselves up to speed on
Braille and all of its tools, mechanical and electronic. It is time
for educators to join us in our effort to require that Braille be
made available to any child who wants it and to participate in
making sure that sufficient funding is available to make mandates
and good intentions mean something.SUCCESSFUL EQUATION: SKILLS + CONFIDENCE = SUCCESS
                           by Tom Ley

     Tom Ley was a 1987 National Federation of the Blind
scholarship winner. Here is what he has to say about his
progression from frightened high school senior rapidly becoming
blind to confident high school math teacher:
     I grew up as a sighted kid and always wanted to be a football
player. At least, I wanted this career until I was ten or so. Due
to diabetes, I started to become blind during my last year of high
school. It took about ten months to go from having twenty-twenty
vision to being totally blind. During that year I went through many
of the experiences other people have who are losing their sight. My
grades started going down, and I made a trip to the college I had
chosen in order to learn my way around the campus while I still had
some sight. At that time I did not know about the National
Federation of the Blind. Therefore, I did a lot of suffering: I was
falling down stairs, and I could not read room numbers. I did not
know that blind persons have alternative ways of solving such
problems.
     I had wanted to be an electrical engineer. When I went blind,
my father looked in a reference book, where he found a list of jobs
the book's author presumed a blind person could do. Among the jobs
was electrical engineering. I had been blind for only a few months,
and I did not know any blind people. I thought I was very lucky
that I could continue in my chosen career.
     After high school I got some training in the skills of
blindness. In Arkansas I was taught how to use a very short cane
and learned to read Braille, and then I came back to Louisiana and
enrolled in college.
     I really enjoyed my course work at Louisiana Tech, and I was
doing rather well. But I did not have enough of the skills of
blindness, so I was having to study twice as much as the other
students. For that reason I had no social life. I knew how to use
a cane, but I had no confidence. I simply went from my dorm to my
classes and hoped I would never wander down the wrong path.
     At that point I thought I was very fortunate to have a sister
attending the same school. She would take me to the cafeteria and
make sure I got my food and found a table. Little did I know at
that time that blind persons were efficiently doing all these tasks
and many more.
     I was very lucky because my university is in the town of
Ruston. At about that time the Federation's Louisiana Center for
the Blind was opening. Joanne Wilson, Director of the Center, found
me and took me to a state convention of the National Federation of
the Blind of Louisiana.
     At that convention I saw a lot of normal blind people. If you
took away their blindness and the alternative techniques they used,
you would consider them just average folks. These blind people were
doing things that normal people do. When I was with them, I knew
that they had something I wanted. At that point I decided that I
needed the special training which I had not been offered
previously.
     At about that same time I began realizing that maybe
engineering was not what I really wanted to do. I was looking at
the engineering jobs my classmates were getting, and I noticed that
they lacked the human interaction I wanted. I had always enjoyed
teaching, doing tutoring when I was in high school. The idea struck
me that I would like to be a teacher. But I had never heard of a
high school math teacher who was blind. I thought it was out of the
question.
     I wanted to be just like the high school math teachers I had
had, and I did not want to teach at a school for the blind. There
is nothing wrong with teaching at a blind school, but I wanted to
be right in the mainstream. At first I did not think I could really
do the job. I figured that I could do some of the tasks, but not
all, and I did not think anyone would hire me.
     I started at the Louisiana Center for the Blind in 1988. I had
attended my first National Convention in 1987, where I was a
scholarship winner. I attended my first National Association of
Blind Educators meeting that year. I went around and talked to
blind educators. They were employed, so they told me how they
accomplished their tasks. They gave me the confidence to believe
that, if they could teach, I could too.
     At the Louisiana Center I acquired personal confidence,
undoubtedly the most important characteristic of all. Until that
time I had never had it. I had seen it in other blind people, and
I knew that it might be mine, maybe in the future. But because I
acquired confidence at that Center, I knew that I could teach. I
learned that my blindness is just another part of me as is my
height or my being right-handed. Blindness is no longer something
which overwhelms me or predominates in my life. It is not the
defining factor in my personality.
     I enrolled in the department of education at Louisiana Tech.
There were no open complaints to my entering; however, the
professors let it be known in subtle ways that they had doubts
about my ability. I paid no attention to them. I worked my way
through the courses and did just fine. Because I did not question
my ability to become a math teacher, my confidence was projected to
all my professors.
     As time went on, my professors decided that blindness was no
big deal, for I was doing everything all the other students were
doing.
     When my master teacher for student teaching learned that a
blind student was assigned to him, he was convinced that it would
not work. But I showed him that he was wrong. I completed my
student teaching and was looking for a job. I was very happy when
I got my resumes just like all the other job seekers. But I can
tell you all that I would not have gotten anywhere without my
confidence, which came from the NFB and the members of the National
Association of Blind Educators.
     My first year of teaching was challenging, exciting,
interesting, and fun. There were a lot of sleepless nights and hard
work. Grades and papers must be turned in on time. If grades are
due today, no teacher can expect to get extra time. The skills I
use in the classroom are basic. My equipment consists of a slate
and stylus, a tape recorder, and masking tape. I put the tape on
the boards for writing in straight lines. When it came to putting
up a graph, I made a grid using my tape and my cane to insure I
made the lines straight. I have a computer at home for keeping
grades and making tests.
     I have the duties of a full-time teacher, including
chaperoning the prom. I work selling popcorn at the basketball
games and fix the broken popcorn machine too. I am comfortable
doing all this, and I know that this is all part of teaching. I
received all the skills that helped me get my job from the National
Federation of the Blind. I'm excited to be in this organization.
     Recently I had a chance to talk to a physics teacher, who has
been teaching a long time, but who will be starting his first year
as a blind teacher next fall. We all help each other. Together we
can demonstrate that, given training and opportunity, blind people
can compete successfully in all areas of education.BLINDNESS AND THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE
                      By Kenneth Silberman

     What does blindness have to do with the Brooklyn Bridge? Let
Kenneth Silberman tell you:
     I grew up in Cheltenham, Pennsylvania, a suburb of
Philadelphia. At the age of five, I entered kindergarten just like
all the other kids, but something was different. I couldn't see as
much detail or see as far as the others. No matter, I was still
participating in all the activities of the class without serious -
difficulty.
     Grades one through six were a different ball game altogether.
Reading, writing, and arithmetic are subjects that require the use
of written symbols. For the sighted, this means print, written on
sheets of paper, in books, or on the blackboard. In order to read
print at all, I needed large print, magnification, or had to sit up
close to the board. No matter which technique I employed, I
couldn't read very fast or for very long. As the years rolled by,
the workload increased, and I had more and more trouble keeping up.
It was true that I couldn't see very well, but I was sighted (at
least that was what I thought) and should have been able to keep
up. But I couldn't and felt stupid because of that fact. I
developed an increasing sense of inferiority with each passing
year.
     In September of my ninth-grade year, I lost my remaining
sight. At the time, I thought a catastrophe had befallen me. (I did
not yet know about the National Federation of the Blind.) I was
blind, but I wasn't going to admit it. I used a cane as little as
I could and never indoors.
      After all, the last thing I wanted to do was to walk around
with a badge of blindness in my hand. Braille was a badge too, and
I wasn't going to have anything to do with it either. Besides, it
was slow. And after all, there were tape recorders for reading and
taking notes. Never mind that I could not keep up and that I could
not follow the math, spell, or punctuate. I was blind, and I was
doing the best that I could. These were my thoughts at the time.
With a few delays, I continued puttering along in this way through
my undergraduate years and most of my graduate years as well.
     I was really depressed by this time because I couldn't perform
assignments in a timely manner, travel by myself, or do much of
anything independently. Blindness was a pretty raw deal, or so I
thought.
     As I now know but didn't then, the characteristic of blindness
wasn't the real problem. Rather, my attitudes about blindness were
the real raw deal. I remember walking down the hall one day in high
school, and a passing teacher remarked, "I can't tell you're
blind." I thought this was a real compliment at the time. As I look
back on those early years, I realize that I did not think of myself
as blind nor did I understand what it means to be blind.
      As a result of this mistaken notion, I denied myself the
tools that would have helped me to succeed. If I had accepted and
understood my blindness, I would have decided to use Braille as my
primary reading and writing medium, since a good Braille reader can
read three hundred to four hundred words per minute, and would have
appreciated print as a helpful aid. I also would have used a white
cane since it would have kept me from tripping over and walking
into things.
      I discovered after a number of painful lessons that it's
better to find things with a cane than with your face. By using
these techniques, I would have been able to keep right in step with
the crowd. Later, when I lost the remainder of my sight, I would
have been able to keep right on going without missing a beat. But
of course, I knew none of this, and I could not have been expected
to.
     I was at my lowest emotional point in 1985 when I applied for
and won a scholarship from the National Federation of the Blind. I
needed money, so I applied. When I arrived at the national
convention in Louisville, Kentucky, I found, much to my
astonishment, blind people who were happy and successful.
     They were traveling about with facility and were reading and
writing Braille as deftly as sighted people use print, and they
were using these skills to hold down responsible jobs, run
households, etc. It was at this time that I started to understand
that blindness was not my problem; my attitudes about blindness
were the problem.
      I had thought the skills of blindness were inferior because
they didn't appear on the surface to be like those of the sighted.
Hence, I had thought the blind were inferior; I had thought I was
inferior. And so, I had denied my blindness. (You must understand.
I had only known sighted people up to this point.) But the evidence
was clear. The alternative techniques of blindness enable us to
live full and rich lives just as the sighted do. I now realize that
while the money was very helpful, I received a much more valuable
gift, The National Federation of the Blind.
     I had a choice. I could either deal with the situation or
continue as before. I decided to get to work. I picked up some
books on Braille and set about learning it. It was hard to go to
school and learn Braille at the same time, but I knew that I had to
either learn it or drop out. The latter was not acceptable, and I
couldn't deal with things as they were any longer.
      By the time I graduated, I was doing much of my school work
in Braille.  I continued to use taped books and readers in
conjunction with Braille. All these techniques have their place. In
January, 1987, I received my Master's Degree in Aerospace
Engineering from Cornell University.
     After graduation, I enrolled in a rehabilitation program in
order to develop my Braille and cane skills. I continued to work on
my outlook toward blindness by drawing strength from my new-found
Federation friends.
     Finally, it was time to look for a job. After a little more
than a year, I secured employment with the U.S. Navy in
Philadelphia. I really got the opportunity to test my
newly-developed skills and my mettle in that job. I had had only
one computer course in college and was now expected to learn how to
write databases on the job. I did it. This is quite an
accomplishment for anyone, blind or sighted.
     Today, I work as an administrator/engineer for the National
Aeronautics and Space administration. I manage the Publications
group for the National Space Science Data Center. This means that
I am responsible for making sure that the group's work gets done
and that the work comes in under budget. I also serve on various
committees and am currently trying to expand my computer skills.
     How do my alternative techniques compare with those of my
sighted colleagues? Let's compare a few of them. I use a reader to
help me with paperwork; my boss uses a secretary. My co-workers
take notes with pens and pencils; I use a slate and stylus to write
Braille. My colleagues use a computer with the help of a monitor
and a printer; I use a computer with the help of a speech
synthesizer and a Braille embosser. My fellow employees travel
about safely with the help of sight; I travel about safely with the
help of my white cane. The sighted have techniques that work for
them, and the blind have techniques that work equally well.
     My professional objective is to become a senior administrator
in America's space program. In reaching that goal, I will be
helping to build upon the foundation, the record of achievement and
success, built by past generations of Federationists. Those who
came before us worked to give us the opportunities that we have
today. It is up to us to make life better for future generations of
blind people.
     I still don't have all of the skills and self-confidence that
I need, but I am working on it. I am able to improve myself because
I now see blindness for what it is, a characteristic, a mere
physical nuisance. By utilizing the alternative techniques of
blindness, I can and do compete on equal terms with my sighted
colleagues.
     When the Brooklyn Bridge was built [1869-1883], engineers of
the day said that it couldn't be done. John Augustus Roebling and
his son, Colonel Washington Roebling, believed that it could, and
they had the know-how to build it. The real obstacle to the project
was not the techniques needed to build the Bridge. Rather, it was
the entrenched, traditional ideas of the engineering community. But
the Roeblings knew the truth. They had the knowledge and the
leadership to go beyond the conventional wisdom of their day. Were
they right? The answer spans the East River today, more than a
century after its construction.
     We, the blind of the nation, have the know-how to lead full
and rich lives. Like the Roeblings, we have to believe in ourselves
and need to have the leadership to make our dreams of equality come
true. Since 1940, we have encouraged and supported each other.
Since 1940, we have shared our collective know-how. And since 1940,
we have had the leadership to climb within reach of equality and
first-class citizenship. In other words, since 1940, we have had
the National Federation of the Blind.I REMEMBER
                     by Mary Ellen Halverson

     Mrs. Halverson graduated from the University of Iowa with a
major in Spanish. She has taught Spanish in the elementary schools
and is now a Braille teacher and an active volunteer in the
National Federation of the Blind. She and her husband, Raymond,
have two children. Her story, "I Remember," sounds a familiar theme
to readers of earlier Kernel Books. How different life would be for
the blind child growing up, if parents and teachers had accurate
information about blindness. Here is her story:
     When I look back on my high school years and consider all of
the negative ideas I absorbed about blindness, I really wonder how
I survived with any self-respect left at all. I'm sure one reason
I did is that I had a very positive, supportive family who believed
in me and expected me to do well in school and other activities.
Fortunately, in my first year of college I met several young active
blind students who began the process of teaching me a whole new
attitude about blindness.
     I began losing my sight in junior high due to a disease in the
retina. When I had long reading assignments, my parents would read
them to me in the evening. Many times I had difficulty in reading
the blackboard or tests, but I struggled along. I can remember
worrying about tests■not about the subject matter to be tested, but
about the quality of the mimeographed pages of the test. I knew
that frequently the print was faded or blurry and I was reluctant
to use a magnifying glass in front of my fellow junior high -
students.
     Some teachers were very helpful, but others seemed not to
notice or not be especially concerned. I preferred as little
discussion on the matter as possible. Neither my parents nor I
realized that by eighth or ninth grade I was definitely legally
blind. We told ourselves and others that I just had a "sight
problem."
     By the time I entered high school, I had lost a little more
sight and was enrolled in the Sight Saving program in our school
district. My parents and I were quite relieved since this program
provided books on tape for me, and a lot of material in large
print. There were different types of magnifiers available, and such
things as large print dictionaries. However, the only skill I was
actually taught by one of the sight saving teachers was typing;
which is a valuable skill to have.
     I attended my regular high school classes in the morning and
then went to a resource room for the afternoon. At first, this room
was in an elementary school, which I found rather embarrassing. I
traveled there every day with several other students by cab.
Eventually the resource room was moved into the high school which
was an improvement.
     I remember the first day I met the sight saving teacher, who
was a very kind, well-meaning person. Right away she told my family
and me that "we never use the word `blind', we say, `partially
sighted'." This suited us quite well since the word "blind"
conjured up terrible and frightening visions in our minds. She
further reassured us that I would not have to learn Braille, but
could use large print books.
     I should tell you right here that in order for me to read even
the large print, I had to put my face right down on the page and
even then, I could only read several letters at a time. I can
remember spending three hours trying to read a chemistry chapter in
a large print book one evening. I imagine my fellow students read
and studied the chapter in thirty minutes. Although we didn't
realize it at the time, Braille would have been much more efficient
and faster for me to use. Braille is not an inferior reading
system, and can be easily learned.
     Another area which caused me some anguish was traveling about
both in the school building and outside. It was especially hard to
see the down stairs, and I could not read the room numbers. When I
approached the stairs I just slowed down and probably looked rather
awkward.
     I developed my own techniques for finding the right room, such
as the second room past the drinking fountain or the room next to
the main front door. I did not attend many school or social
activities at night because I could not see after dark. My excuse
to people was usually that I had to study. Therefore, I missed out
on dances, dates, and sports events; all of which are an important
part of high school life.
     Now I know that this area of travel could have been solved so
easily with some training in the use of the long white cane.
However, this would not have been successful without some changes
in my attitude first. It would have been essential for me to
believe that it was respectable to use a white cane. I'm absolutely
sure that the resource teachers would have frowned on such ideas.
They felt it was best to use one's remaining eyesight as much as
possible, even though it was often far less efficient and more
painful than alternatives such as Braille and cane travel.
     I am now convinced that the key to being an independent,
successful, and happy blind person is your attitude about yourself.
Along with attitude, but secondary, you must also learn some skills
like typing, Braille, cane travel and other techniques that will
work for you. During my high school years I had neither the
positive attitude about myself nor the skills. I suppose the sad
part is that there was no one to teach them to me.
     My classroom teachers were sympathetic for the most part, but
they could offer no real encouragement or worthwhile advice
concerning blindness. In some of my classes I felt that I was a
nuisance to the teacher. I was very apologetic when I had to ask to
have something read from the blackboard or from a test. You can
imagine what this did for my self-esteem!
     It was also embarrassing to me to read and write in the
classroom because I had to get so close to the paper. A student in
one class made a remark I have always remembered. I was writing
answers to a quiz and he said, "Now, that's the direct approach."
Another blow to one's self-respect. Until this writing, I have
never told anyone about that painful moment.
     By now I'm sure you can understand how all of these
experiences can cause a young person to feel very inferior to her
peers. Even though my grades were high my self-respect was low. Of
course, I did not realize this at the time.

     I should add here that my high school experience was not
totally gloomy. I did have a good group of friends, some very
cooperative teachers, and a terrific family. I graduated high in my
class of 528 classmates and went on to the University. I entered
college prepared to struggle on as before, but the unexpected
happened.
     I met several well-adjusted, confident blind students who had
received training in the skills of blindness and had acquired that
all-important attitude I mentioned earlier. They knew without a
doubt that they were equal to anyone and they were willing to take
on their share of responsibilities both in school and any other
area of life.
     They also had another thing in common■they were members of the
National Federation of the Blind and met for monthly meetings. At
first I tried to avoid these meetings since I did not wish to admit
that I was blind. But on the other hand, I liked these friends
personally, and I wanted the same confidence and freedom they
possessed.
     After a couple of years of college I attended an orientation
and adjustment center which taught skills and began the long
process of improving my attitude toward myself and my blindness. It
was, beyond a doubt, the most valuable year of my life. Very few
places and very few people can restore a person's self-dignity and
respect so effectively.
     Sometimes I think about how those teenage years might have
been. I also think about the young people who are living my
experiences right now, and about their parents who are worried and
don't know what to do. If my story reaches you and helps any of you
in one small way, those years of worry and embarrassment will have
all been worth it!
     Parents, your children who are partially or totally blind, do
have the opportunity to become independent, happy and successful
individuals. It is respectable to be blind.LISAMARIA: FOCUSING ON OTHERS

     In the August 11, 1992, issue of Woman's Day, an article
appeared which profiled the lives of several children with
disabilities who have not let their problems stand in their way.
Barbara Bartocci, the author of the article, contacted us to ask if
we could suggest the name of a blind child for this profile.
Without hesitation we suggested Lisamaria Martinez and her family.
Lisamaria's mother is one of the leaders of the California Parents
of Blind Children Division of the National Federation of the Blind.
And NFB philosophy has been a part of the Martinez family's
thoughts and actions for several years. The results are
unmistakable. Now meet Lisamaria Martinez:
     When Lisamaria Martinez was five, a strange rash, followed by
blisters, erupted all over her body. Her temperature soared to 105
degrees, and her eyes swelled shut. "She could die," the doctor
warned her terrified parents, as they rushed the pretty girl to the
hospital.
     In the next few weeks Lisamaria's blisters broke open, and her
skin slithered off. Clumps of her waist-length hair fell out. She
couldn't bear to open her eyes to light or air; it hurt too much.
     As Lisamaria's world grew dark, doctors diagnosed her
mysterious ailment, a rare skin condition called Stevens-Johnson
syndrome. Greg and Maria Martinez learned the worst: their daughter
was permanently blind. Just twenty-eight and twenty-seven years
old, the young couple lived in Oceanside, California, a continent
away from their families in Puerto Rico. Lisamaria was the older of
their two daughters. They were devastated.
     Yet Maria Martinez also felt profound gratitude. She had told
her husband, during the awful days when they feared Lisamaria might
die, "God gave our daughter to us, and God can take her back; it's
not for us to say." God had returned their daughter; surely they
could deal with blindness.
     Since her eyes no longer could tear, Lisamaria had to wear
protective goggles day and night. "In first grade everyone stared
at me," she relates matter-of-factly. "Sometimes they were mean■we
had crayon holders at our desks, and I couldn't tell which color
was which, so I'd ask for help, and kids gave me the wrong color on
purpose."
     As Lisamaria learned to navigate with her cane, Greg
encouraged her to go wherever she wanted to go. The Martinezes
treated Lisamaria as normally as they did her younger sister.
     In second grade Lisamaria entered the annual National
Federation of the Blind's "Braille Readers Are Leaders" contest.
"I'm going to win!" she boasted to her parents, and they encouraged
her determination. In three months, she read sixty-two books,
winning her division.
     By third grade Lisamaria joined Brownies and, pushing her cane
ahead of her, hiked up trails with her friends. She also found an
outlet for what her father calls a "natural desire to help people."
In Brownies she collected canned goods for homeless shelters and
visited the elderly in hospitals. At school she volunteered to pick
up trash. "I got my friends to help," she admits.
     The efforts of a nine-year-old blind girl to help the elderly
caught public attention. In 1990 Lisamaria was nominated for the
national Kiwanis Hope of America Award and, later that year, was
named California's recipient of the coveted Jefferson Awards for
Students for her community service. Lisamaria and her mother flew
to Washington, D.C., for the presentation, and there, says
Lisamaria proudly, "I got my picture taken with Mrs. Bush." It
doesn't bother her that she can't see the photo.
     Lisamaria still has trying times■in physical education, for
instance. "It's hard to bat and run bases when you're blind, but my
teacher says she'll blindfold everyone in my class someday so
they'll understand what it's like."
     Most important: Lisamaria doesn't feel sorry for herself.
"Nothing holds her back" says her mother. "When I see her running
on the playground, she is just like a normal child. Her attitude
is: `It might take me longer, but I can do whatever I want to do.'"ON THE STIGMA OF BLINDNESS
                       by Michael Freeman

     Michael Freeman and his wife Barbara live in the state of
Washington, where Michael is a computer programmer for a large
utility company. Here he writes thoughtfully of a small incident,
which deepened his and his wife's understanding of the ingrained
public attitudes about blindness.
     Throughout history blindness has been misunderstood by almost
everyone. The word "blind" has had connotations of helplessness,
witlessness and lack of discernment. Blindness has been (and still
is, to some extent) considered a stigma and a badge of shame; for
this reason many blind persons are hesitant to admit that they are
blind and try to avoid any action such as reading Braille or
carrying a cane which would categorize them as blind.
     Every thoughtful blind person is aware of this stigma. Indeed,
although I acknowledged its existence, I rejected it from an early
age. Joining the National Federation of the Blind only increased my
awareness of this stigma and strengthened my resolve to overcome
it. However, its impact was brought home to my wife and me when we
were on a trip a number of years ago. We had gone to the National
Center for the Blind, headquarters of the National Federation of
the Blind, in Baltimore, Maryland, to participate in a leadership
seminar. We flew on United Airlines, making a change of planes in
Chicago. I had traveled to the seminar using an aluminum cane;
while in Baltimore, I bought an NFB fiberglass cane. On the return
trip, therefore, I carried two canes.
     We again had to change planes in Chicago. My wife, who is
sighted, offered to carry one of my canes as I had my hands full
with a briefcase and the other cane. Neither of us were prepared
for her reaction. As we walked together between concourses, she
felt strange and extremely conspicuous. It was late at night and we
were the only people walking the corridors. It made no difference.
She felt self-conscious and uncomfortable.
     My wife considered herself a staunch Federationist and,
intellectually, at least, had embraced the concept that it is
respectable to be blind. Nevertheless, when put to the test, the
indoctrination of a lifetime came to the fore and she felt, if not
shame, at least discomfort that she might be viewed as blind.
     The story does not end here, however. As the years have
passed, my wife has carried canes for me on several occasions with
little thought or notice. Since she has now met hundreds of
competent blind people, the experience of carrying a cane no longer
produces a painful negative reaction; my wife has come to view
blindness as a characteristic■one of many exhibited by humankind
and of which a person need not be ashamed. Indeed, we have
experienced in our own lives the truth of the Federation statement
that it is respectable to be blind and that we in the National
Federation of the Blind are changing what it means to be blind.CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN
                        by Barbara Pierce

     How does a blind person overcome a lifetime of conditioning
that tells you that if you are blind, you can't. Can't what? Can't
whatever it is, no matter what. One way is by choosing some unusual
activity (like mountain climbing, for example) that everyone knows
a blind person can't do■and then doing it. At the National
Federation of the Blind's training center in Colorado, this is
exactly what we do. Here is how Barbara Pierce, who is totally
blind, describes the experience:
     Everyone talks about the beauty of the Rockies, but somehow I
was unprepared for it when I, along with several other blind
people, arrived at the International Alpine School to go rock
climbing. We were fitted with climbing boots, harnesses, and hard
hats. Stowing this equipment, our water bottles, and lunches in our
backpacks, we began hiking.
     The air was incredibly clear, and though it was hot, the shade
was cool and the breeze invigorating. There were thousands of birds
who had had the good sense to take up residence in this ruggedly
beautiful country, and not many insects. Much of the way we were
accompanied by a noisy little stream rushing over rocks and
generally adding a great deal to our appreciation of the place.
     The guides had been busy before our arrival placing ropes at
several points on rock faces for us to climb. As far as I could
gather, this entailed someone's climbing without the protection of
a rope to the top of the rock to fix an anchor into the ground,
through which the rope was then passed.
     When one of us decided to try a particular climb, an
experienced climber would sit down at the bottom and control one
end of the rope. The other end was passed through the special loops
on the novice climber's harness and tied securely and quite
mysteriously.  We were shown how to tie these knots, but I, for
one, was happy to let the experts do the job for me. Then, with the
rope securely connecting climber to stationary belayer by way of
the anchor at the top of the rock, one began to climb.
     The early rock faces had obvious hand and foot holds as well
as some slant. These were steeper scrambles than I had ever tried
before, but with a rope and climbing boots, they were physically
taxing but not hard.
     Then came an all but vertical rock face with a few■a very
few■cracks in it. The people from the climbing school protested
that these were not very challenging, but they seemed pretty
formidable to us. The picture shown here is of me walking backwards
down this climb■a process which requires the climber to lean
backwards until he or she is perpendicular to the rock face.
     The rope holds the climber in this position, enabling him or
her to walk backwards down the distance that has so laboriously
been crawled up. My grin in this picture is a measure of the
exhilaration I felt after having pitted myself against the rock and
won.
     Those of us who wanted to try something even more difficult
were then directed to a small cliff■I use the word advisedly. It
was absolutely vertical, and there was almost nothing to stand on.

     I did not get more than ten or twelve feet off the ground,
though at the time that seemed quite an accomplishment. My undoing
came while I was sprawled across the rock. My left foot was more or
less anchored in a shallow hollow in the rock, and my hands were
spread wide far above my head, clinging to outcrops that were no
wider than a quarter of an inch.
     The guide who was holding my rope said in a calm (not to say
placid) voice, "Now find a place to put your right foot," (which
was, as I remember it, flailing around in a frantic effort to do
just that). She told me to look higher, that there was a nice hold
about two feet above my out-thrust foot.
     Eventually, I found what she was talking about. It is no
exaggeration to say that the crack in question was at the level of
my right shoulder. When I got my foot up there, it felt like it was
above my head. Then the guide said, "Now, just transfer your weight
to your right foot."
     She was so calm about it, as if such a thing could be done. I
suggested that she had better begin singing "Climb Every Mountain,"
and several folks obligingly began doing so. This was the point at
which the absurdity of the situation made me begin to laugh, and I
peeled off the rock and hung there, helpless with laughter.
     My guide told me to rest before trying again. I did so, but by
this time my limbs were shaking with fatigue, and eventually I
asked her to lower me to the ground.
     If I had been a member of a real class, however, I would not
have been able to get off so easily.  For the only time that day I
was glad that I was not engaged in a real rock-climbing course.
     This entire experience is a small jewel in my personal
collection of memories. Beauty; the camaraderie of adventure shared
with good friends; the encouragement and help of warm, calm, and
unsentimental experts; and the exhilaration of testing myself
against a formidable challenge: these things set that day apart in
my memory.
     I can readily understand how valuable a whole course of
rock-climbing would be as a part of a rehabilitation program. One
emerges from such an experience more confident and self-assured.
This is the very essence of rehabilitation.
     One word must be said about the International Alpine School
and its staff who are dedicated to providing climbing experience to
blind people. They and their other instructors are wonderful people
to work with. They begin with the premise that all climbers can
benefit from experience on the rocks. They are unflappable and very
encouraging, but above all, they are inspiring climbers, who
believe that there is no reason why blind people can't learn to
climb well too.National Federation of the Blind

     YOU CAN HELP US...

     Publicize our nationwide annual contest (similar to a summer
reading program for sighted children through a local public
library) which encourages blind children to compete against one
another in the reading of pages of Braille books.

     Publicize our scholarship program for deserving blind
students.

     Make books about the capabilities of blind persons available
to local public libraries of schools and universities, and
distribute films and other literature about positive attitudes
about blindness for school and other gatherings.

     Recruit volunteers interested in reading or driving for blind
persons, or assisting with shopping needs.

     Conduct or attend Job Opportunities for the Blind (JOB)
seminars for prospective blind employees and job applicants to
teach the skills of resume writing, job hunting, interviewing, and
choosing the appropriate field of work.

     Plan seminars for prospective employers of blind persons to
broaden employers' awareness of the capabilities of blind persons
and to help eliminate artificial barriers and unfounded prejudice
about employing the blind.

                     WE CARE ABOUT YOU TOO!

     If a family member, friend, or someone you know needs
assistance with problems of blindness, please write:

     Marc Maurer, President

     1800 Johnson Street, Suite 300,

     Baltimore, MD 21230-4998

     Your contribution is tax-deductible.