Later, the social worker returned to our house to check on me. Over tea, she asked me how the visit to the justice of the peace went. I did not tell her that it was not particularly helpful. I did not explain to her that a life like that would actually be a death for me. She told me that she just wanted me to get a sense of what possibilities were available. It was odd to sit with this woman. I could hear her rise up a bit to set her teacup in the saucer. I could hear the floorboards squeak when she shifted. I could even hear her breathe—but I could not get a sense that she was actually there. It was as if there was a shell of a body pretending to be a human being in her place, like the justice of the peace.
When I asked her what else she might have for me, she told me again that I could cane chairs. I did not know what that entailed. She also told me of other blind people she knew who made screwdrivers. I did not know how a screwdriver was made. It seemed dangerous.
My mother came out to ask us whether we needed anything. I said no. The social worker said she was fine, thank you. I faced my mother when this woman spoke, as if my mother would somehow confirm what I thought: perhaps this woman was not there to begin with. Of course, my peevish attitude was an effort to deny what my life had become. I could deny it by denying the social worker’s existence. She had to be a wisp of air, a swirl of snow left in the wake of a car. I wanted to annihilate her.
“What do you think, Sandy?” the social worker asked. I did not know what to say to her. I wanted to tell her that her rules did not apply to me—that this was not the kind of life I was going to lead. I would not be presiding over marriages in small towns. She was kind, nice, decent, and I appreciated her help. But it was not for me. I wanted to promise her that my life would not be a peaceful drive in the country or a quiet porch from which to stare at the world.
There would be no serenity. My life would be good, but it would not involve rocking chairs or slow walks down a country lane, stick tapping away. She helped me, that social worker, in ways she probably had no knowledge of. I could feel rebellion stirring in my heart.
Before my trip to Detroit, I had privately harbored notions of a future that included Harvard Law School and then, one day, the governorship. The specter of this bottommost rung of the law—a porch in some small western New York town—was unbearable. My confinement within myself seemed inevitable and without end. Yet it was unacceptable. And to be clear: For me on that day, “unacceptable” meant nothing like today’s vague sense of disapproval. It meant that I would not accept such a life.
9
A Walk on the Wild Side
I have worked on this memoir for decades, trying to understand why I began trying to rejoin the race—both contest and human. The struggle was a long process, taking months and years. Many years. And counting.
What was it that lay between my near despair in Detroit in the winter of 1961 and the life that I cherish today, blindness and all? Hermann Hesse may have gotten close to it: “God does not send us despair in order to kill us; he sends it in order to awaken us to a new life.” The awakening, though, was brutally hard.
During those dark days after Detroit, I had to decide what to do. What movement would make any sense at all? In the beginning, I saw nothing—in just about every sense of the word. My friends, family, girlfriend, classmates, and professors had all disappeared. Of course, they had not literally vanished, but how was I to know whether they would or not, at least some of them?
I knew I had some talent and some determination. But would these gifts and the support of my family be enough? My family had a tradition of nagging uneasiness about good fortune. There was always a subtle, unwelcome presence lurking. My misfortune was proof that good fortune was illusory. What then? Was my life’s purpose simply to serve as a reminder that bad things can happen?
I still harbored a stubborn feeling of being unfulfilled. There were things I just wanted to learn and to know. Like pulling the proverbial loose thread from a sweater—there is always an unending more and more. Newly blind and downcast as I was, it was this hunger to know that ultimately provided the fuel for my liberation. One of my most cherished friends would apply the match.
Arthur visited me in the spring after my operation. My family always loved it when Arthur came, and I think he liked it very much, too. Shortly after his arrival, the two of us were walking down Saranac Avenue, squirrels running across the sidewalk in front of us. We walked steadily and leisurely—a pace that seemed at odds with my condition. For the past several months my body had been tense, almost rigid; I could not move around even in my own bedroom without knocking into something. Here on the street, with Arthur, it was as if there was nothing to knock into. I lightly held his elbow as we walked along.
I was uneasy as we began our conversation. Up to this point, I had shared certain of my
