Businesspeople and policymakers would refer to the hours and hours of help Arthur gave me freely in terms of the “opportunity cost” to him. What, then, was the “opportunity” for which he was willing to sacrifice hours of devotion to his own expected career in architecture? What he did for me stands outside of scale or measure.
One day, Arthur dashed into our room, a copy of the New York Times tucked under his arm. “Sanford,” he said, “let me read you this article…” It was about me and how I was managing at Columbia, despite my disability.
I had known this was coming, of course—I’d talked at length with the reporter—but with all I had to do just to get through each day, the article had been low on my priority list. Arthur, though, insisted on reading it aloud. Thus I learned that at six foot two and 180 pounds, I “looked like a blocking back with glasses” and dashed around the campus like one, too. The dashing, my faculty adviser explained, was “pride.…He had to prove to himself that he could manage as well—and better, if possible—than the others.”
The reporter noted that I was now earning higher grades than in my days as a sighted student despite a heavier workload than most upperclassmen. “It’s a grind,” I explained. “It has to be. Simple things like turning back textbook pages become painfully intricate tasks when those pages are on a tape recorder. But it’s worth it. I’m fighting total frustration, and I feel I am winning.”
Nights, I confided, were the worst time for the blind, “and when they awaken, the reality of their darkness is heartbreaking.” That, in fact, is how the article ended.
“Well, what do you think?” Arthur asked as soon as he had finished.
“Arthur,” I answered, “let’s start with the last sentence first: ‘And when they awaken, the reality of their darkness is heartbreaking.’ It’s not exactly what I meant. It was a glib statement. When I was reborn as a blind man, when the metal pads came off, it wasn’t the reality of my darkness that was heartbreaking. When I had my eyesight, I didn’t really use it, and I didn’t use time. I didn’t stop and really see all that was around me. That’s the heartbreaking part. It concerns the loss of time.”
Uncharacteristically, Arthur did not speak for a minute or so. Finally, he said, “I think we all squander our lives away—and we don’t even know we’re doing it.”
“So what’s the use of it all, then?”
“Maybe not much,” he replied.
We both needed relief. We always thought we had the answers, but now we clearly had none. “I think the article is terrific,” Arthur said, “don’t you?”
“It’s terrible,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Now I have no place to hide. Everyone will think I’m a blind man.”
“Sanford, you’re dead wrong. It’s a terrific article—highly complimentary of you.”
“That’s not the point. It’s that I am not a blind student. I will not allow myself to be blind, or to be thought of that way. In any event, I don’t deserve the acclaim.”
“What do you mean?”
“A blind man rises from his chair—applause. He walks across the room—a standing ovation. That’s what I mean. If over the years I achieve something significant by everybody’s standards, then I might deserve some praise.”
“I disagree,” Arthur insisted. “What you’ve accomplished the past year has been incredible.”
In my heart, I agreed with him, but doing well “for a blind person” wasn’t enough. “I guess the article is okay in its way,” I allowed. Anyway, the Times was right about one thing: I had come to believe I was winning, and, perhaps foolishly, I was confident I could pass the tests ahead.
11
Tough Love
At the end of October of my senior year, I decided I had to do something about the everyday-living side of my dilemma. I spoke with my doctor, who immediately arranged an appointment for me at what I will call the Institute for Blind Persons. Two days later, Arthur and I worked our way there through Midtown Manhattan crowds.
I was introduced to a Miss Borlak (not her real name), who was to work on my “case.” She had a high-pitched voice, and her perfume seemed vaguely reminiscent of dry grass. Arthur told me later that she was probably in her early thirties, wearing glasses and purple lipstick. As she led me to her office, leaving Arthur in the waiting room, I noticed that her hands were soft. After the routine biographical information had been taken, she wanted to know whether I had any particular problem. I mentioned that things were not proceeding perfectly but that I hoped they would shortly arrange themselves.
After more of what I assumed were the standard preliminaries, Miss Borlak suddenly sprang an abrupt change of pace on me: “How do you like being blind?” I was taken aback. The question was blunt, if not crude. However, since I was asking her for help, I felt compelled to answer.
“To be frank, I don’t like it. The fact is, I dislike it very, very much. The past couple of weeks, especially, have been extremely disturbing, and I really don’t know that I’m going to be able to graduate this year.”
“Let me be a little more specific,” she responded. “Do you consider yourself to be a blind boy?”
That seemed an odd question, but I answered, “Well, in the sense that I can’t read or move around by myself, I guess you might say that I’m blind. I don’t think it’s all that important whether or not I consider myself blind.”
“It is important,” she replied, “particularly because it affects your attitude toward life, and now you have a
