She was toying with me, in a way. I seemed to be defiant, and I made a guess that she hated defiance, particularly when she was in a position to help. It angered her to think that I wasn’t going to appreciate her help, although she understood my attitude. It made sense to her—the issue of denial.
Some of that made sense to me, too, but I was not totally in step with it. She had thrown her sallies at me so rapidly that I had no time to digest them fully. When the half-hour introductory session was over, I left in a somewhat uneasy state of mind. She walked around her desk and opened the door. Arthur ran up from the waiting room to get my elbow.
On the way back to our room, we discussed the meeting. I told him some of the things Miss Borlak had said. As I was speaking, I suddenly realized I had been naïve in the interview. I had a vague feeling that she was grasping for something. I had not helped her out but was not sure I wanted to. We returned to our dorm room to find three of my friends outside the door discussing which of them had come to read at the wrong time.
How I had gotten to that moment—that blurted-out assertion that “I don’t think it’s all that important whether or not I consider myself blind”—had not been easy. Just a few months earlier, I had been plagued by my own insecurities, by my desperate efforts to keep up with my studies, by my almost pathologically demanding determination to lead a “normal” life—the “life” the New York Times reporter took note of—and by what seemed to be the impossibility of obtaining the logistical support necessary to do so. In fact, my encounters with Miss Borlak were shortly to prove one of the critical factors in my turnaround from insecurity toward self-confidence, but not in the way she probably expected.
At our subsequent meetings, Miss Borlak wasted no time with social amenities. Taking command from the moment I stepped into her office, she continued the same line of questioning. “Now, tell me, do you consider yourself to be blind?” It was as if no time had elapsed between our previous conversations and this one. At our penultimate meeting, for instance, she asked, “Do you think it’s important that you evaluate your situation in the context of blindness? Or are you still trying to confront your present problems with the attitude that you’re a sighted person with some visual difficulty that can be overcome by slight changes in your daily routine?”
I was surprised by her aggressive tone. I thought these sessions were supposed to deal with practical problems of daily living and were not intended to be psychotherapeutic. I did not know how to respond.
“I feel that I’m making a great effort to cope with the problem,” I replied. “Because I can’t read, I use readers and tape recorders. And because I can’t easily travel about by myself, I often travel with someone. I don’t think this is an unusual way to handle the problem. I haven’t begun to perfect all the techniques that I’m sure would be useful, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
I sensed her impatience. “That’s precisely my point,” she said. “You won’t admit you’re blind. You do everything you can to avoid being a blind person. You are fortunate in that your blindness is not as obvious as it is with most others. You are able to focus your eyes on objects, or at least appear to be able to. This is fortunate for you socially, but the plain fact is that you are blind.”
I winced. The words came across as harsh, but they did not disturb me as much as Miss Borlak probably thought they would. She continued, “You’re trying to do everything you used to do, as though nothing happened. If there are some inconveniences, you merely drag people in to help you face the problems. A perfect example is the fact that since you can’t travel alone, you travel with someone else. Every week you come here with your friend, and you think nothing of it. Certainly, he is a devoted friend, but can you call him constantly to aid you? Is he or someone like him going to travel around with you for the rest of your life? You take about two hours out of his life each time you come here, and I can’t even begin to think of the many other hours you demand of him.”
I was now annoyed, and I was sure she knew it. I was about to respond angrily but thought better of it. She must have believed that her prodding would provide me with important insights. “Miss Borlak, I’m not convinced that this is your concern. My relationship with Arthur is a personal matter.”
Miss Borlak was not at a loss for words. “Don’t you think,” she said, “it would be easier for those around you if you could travel independently? Wouldn’t that restore your pride?” I was unhappy about that suggestion but nevertheless thought about its merits as she continued. “You may not like this idea, but I think it will enable you to adjust and lead a more normal life. As you probably know, there are various other means of traveling for blind persons. One of the most popular, of course, is the use of a dog. They are wonderful companions, as good as humans, perhaps even more loyal. I believe that if you would agree to use one, the institute could make arrangements to procure one for you. A dog can become a best friend.”
“I already have a best friend,” I said. I thought about relying on a dog and how degrading that would be. A dog would proclaim my blindness and my dependence to
