“Or, if you would prefer, there are canes available,” Miss Borlak added. “Canes are better than dogs as guides in some ways because they don’t require upkeep and generally cannot be damaged. The institute can arrange to procure the most modern, lightweight collapsible model for you.” I was still reeling from her comments about a dog, so the idea of a cane made me suddenly deeply sad. Politely, I asked her if we might discuss this again next week. “Well,” she asked again, “how do you feel about being blind? It can be a big change in a person’s life.”
I looked up at her as if she were saying something very foolish, which she was. For a moment, she probably wondered whether my being blind was an elaborate scheme, for I looked directly at her. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t enjoy it, obviously. Right now, I’m trying to adjust to things.” I was being forthright, and yet I had the feeling that my responses came across to her as somehow rehearsed.
She concluded with, “I hope you will give these ideas serious consideration.”
As Arthur and I stepped into the warmth of the sun, he must have seen my fixed expression because he remained silent. Miss Borlak had touched upon one of the painful truths of my situation. It was indeed inappropriate, even unfair, to burden my friends, and in particular Arthur. I could not easily travel alone. In many situations I did require assistance, which was at times seriously inconvenient for my friends. Since I could not bear the thought of a dog or a cane, I remained perpetually torn about asking friends for help. This was a monumental dilemma—one that, if not resolved one way or the other, promised to extend throughout the rest of my life, as Miss Borlak had bluntly pointed out. That would not be acceptable. There had to be a resolution, and before long.
At what turned out to be our last meeting, in the spring of 1962, I came into Miss Borlak’s office the same as I always had. Arthur brought me in and sat me down gently. I had an obvious scrape on my head from having bumped into something. She asked me whether I had changed my mind and accepted the fact that I was blind and was going to have to change my life. I said that I could not see—she was right about that. “No,” she said, “you’re blind. You’re a blind man. You need to understand that.”
“That’s not really why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
I was almost too angry to speak. She wanted me to reveal all. “I’m here because I thought this might be of some use to me. I did. But I can see that it’s not. I don’t want a dog or a cane.”
“You don’t even want to admit that you’re blind, do you?”
“Well, I’m not,” I said.
“What do you mean you’re not? Of course, you are.” Her voice rose. “You’re blind. And you need help. This is the Institute for Blind Persons. You came here for our help. Do you think it’s fair to drag poor Arthur here all the time? Are you going to have people walk you around your whole life? What kind of way to live is that? You can’t rely on other people. You have to do it yourself.”
“I don’t think,” I said, trying to sound calm, “that whether or not someone helps me is any of your business.”
“You just don’t want to look at reality, that’s all. I guess I understand it, but listen, it’s not going to work out for you if you don’t accept reality. You just need to know that. You do know that, don’t you?”
I didn’t say anything for a time. I just sat quietly. She had said what needed to be said, but at the same time I’m sure she still felt a deep absence, the lack of something—a lack of recognition.
Suddenly, however, something soft and heavy brushed against me. It was a dog. The door had opened, and a man, a dog at his side, had entered the room. I began to perspire. The dog was breathing heavily. Miss Borlak said, “I thought you would like to see how a blind man travels independently.” I tried to remain calm but began to panic.
As I pushed my chair awkwardly back toward the wall, the blind man moved toward me. He groped for my hand and placed it on the dog. “You’re blind, young man!” he shouted, echoing that rabbi in the Detroit hospital days after I actually was blinded. “You must use a seeing eye dog. That’s the only way to travel alone and maintain your dignity. This is your first lesson. Get up!”
I jerked backward, striking my head against the wall. “Miss Borlak, it’s not worth the price. I have to go. Where’s Arthur?”
Arthur and I rushed out of the building. I told him that the meetings were becoming intolerable. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“They want me to use a damn dog! They might as well give me a tin cup and sunglasses and sit me on a street corner.” I clung lightly to Arthur’s elbow in an effort to be inconspicuous.
The episode that has come to define me began that same day, outside the institute offices at 3:30 p.m.
Arthur suddenly remembered that he had to turn in a sketch of the famous Seagram Building, also in Midtown, at nine o’clock the next morning. He asked me what we should do. I told him that I expected a reader back uptown at the university in an hour and that we had better start back right away because I would like to be on time. He replied that wasn’t
