You might recall a post our guest blogger Ali Krage wrote in 2016 explaining how college students who are blind can figure out how to get around a new campus without being able to see. Ali must have mastered that very well — today she is heading back to DeKalb for her final semester. Here she is with a guest post highlighting what just may be the most valuable things she’s learned from her college experience.

by Alicia Krage

Photo by Dolores Pantaleone

Recently when we were talking about my goal of trying new things and going to more campus events this semester, someone said something interesting that resonated with me long after it was said: “People are scared to do things even when they can see. And then if you add your situation on top of that, it does make it a little more challenging. But it doesn’t mean you can’t do those things.”

This is my last semester at Northern Illinois University, and those words made me think of college as a whole and left me reflecting on my entire college experience.

I’ve had challenges because of my blindness. Let’s not sugar-coat that. Being blind does make college life a little more challenging. But this isn’t going to be a negative post where I talk about the negative aspects of being a blind college student. Instead, I want to do just the opposite. In this post I’ll look at the positives, the things I’ve learned. And who knows? Maybe there’ll be things you haven’t thought of!

1. I learned a lot about self-reliance. When I was in high school (and even when I was at community college at College of DuPage) I was able to visit the campus before classes even started to get oriented. At Northern Illinois University (NIU), I have never had that luxury. The campus is a bit of a commute from my hometown for something like that, and orientation and mobility (O&M) isn’t provided by NIU’s Disability Resource Center. That means I have had to learne the routes to my classes by showing up early enough to wander the buildings myself. On the occasion I wasn’t able to show up early enough, I had to ask for directions and focus on exactly where I was, what turns I was making, and so on. Eventually I was able to memorize the routes.
2. I learned to be resourceful. I take the bus from class to class, but sometimes the bus was late. Sometimes I had another obligation with no way to get there. Sometimes I resort to asking friends, but often times I just use Uber. My friends have their own schedule. Why should they go out of their way to lead me somewhere when I could find other ways of doing it? I learned to use other resources.
3. I learned a lot about patience. This is still a work in progress. I am not the most patient person — I’ll admit that. But being in college has taught me that, as a blind person, I spend a lot of time waiting. Waiting for the bus, waiting for someone to ask someone else where a certain room is, waiting for an Uber, waiting to receive my list of accommodations for my professors. Things take time, and I learned early on that I needed to accept that.
4. I learned not to rely on people too much…because they can’t always be there. I don’t mean this in a negative sense, like we don’t talk anymore or anything of the sort. I mean they’ll drop out, switch to another college, or they’ll graduate. I’m starting my last semester with very few people I know. My close friends graduated, Joe doesn’t go to school here anymore, and I lost touch with a lot of friends from past semesters.
5. Again, I’ve learned a lot about self-reliance. While I do accept help once in a while, I know not to rely too much on it. When Joe went to school with me while we were still together, he helped me navigate the residence hall. My friends ran through routes with me when I’d get lost and asked them to teach me an alternative route, and they’d take me off campus to explore sometimes, too.
6. I learned that in the end, it’s on me. It’s up to me to do these things, make new friends, and figure it all out.
7. I have to work twice as hard. In high school, a teacher told me that as a blind college student, I was going to have to work twice as hard as everyone else. I didn’t know how to take that when I first heard it, but now I know it’s true. I get extended time on tests, I needed tutoring one semester, and sometimes, I need help from the Disability Resource Center just to get assignments done. Let’s be honest. When you can’t see, things take longer.

So yes, being blind can sometimes make it a little more difficult, but it certainly doesn’t make it impossible. I’m very excited to be going back to school and making the most of my very last semester.

Travel everywhere you go with the help of a guide dog, and strangers will feed you an earful of stories about all the other service animals they’ve read about. Helper parrots pecking at shoppers in stores, comfort pigs going crazy on airplanes, a therapeutic rat that quells anxiety in his owner, you name it.

The New York Times published an article about miniature horses last week after The Department of Transportation (DOT) released new formal guidance regarding animals on planes that prioritizes three types of service animals for travel: cats, dogs and miniature horses. Now strangers in elevators and at street crossings are asking me about “guide ponies,” too. From the article:

Shortly after the guidelines’ release, a photo of a small ginger horse, squeezed in front of a woman’s knees, circulated on the internet. It appeared atop numerous articles, without any sort of caption, only adding to the questions raised by the travel document: If flying horses are so common, how come I’ve never rolled my carry-on past one? How could that photo be real? And even if it is, why would you ever want to squeeze a horse in front of a seat like that?”

The article shows a picture of a couple sitting in bulkhead seats of an aircraft, the leg room in front of them occupied by a pony who is standing and lodged between their kneecaps and the bulkhead wall.

After interviewing a blind woman who uses a pony as a guide, the reporter spelled out the advantages of working with a miniature pony, noting that they are:

• mild-mannered
• fast learners
• known to have nearly 360-degree vision
• able to work three times as many years as a guide dog, thanks to a longer life expectancy

I can understand that last advantage. My own Seeing Eye dog, Whitney, is nearly ten years old now and has lost the fervor she once had for her work. Mike, Whitney and I were at a White Sox game with friends the other day, and when Mike was explaining Whitney’s upcoming retirement to them, he said, “You know, she really loved working when she was young.” Our friend responded with an understanding laugh. “Hey, so did I!”

Anyway, back to this horse thing. Horses can work longer than dogs, yes, but I haven’t come across any evidence that they are better at guiding than trained guide dogs are. Ask others to accommodate a service animal who requires extra room on public transit? Expect people in neighboring seats to sit uncomfortably throughout a live performance to accommodate my pony? Take legroom away from whoever sits next to me on a plane? All of that, when for nearly 100 years now well-trained guide dogs have been doing their work in a far less obtrusive manner? Not me. Before the end of this year, I’ll be heading back to the SeeingEye to train with a new young dog.

Seeing Eye pioneers worked long and hard to open the doors and give our dogs public access. At risk of being labeled as a species-ist, I wish the DOT had limited the definition of service animals to dogs. Specifically, dogs who are public-access trained, as well as individually trained to do work or perform tasks for a person with a disability.

The description of the photo with the New York Times implies that the couple giving up their leg room is traveling together. I often fly alone with my guide Whitney, who knows not to take up my neighbor’s leg room on a plane. A 57-pound Yellow Lab/Golden Retriever cross, she was public-access trained at the Seeing Eye to sit with her bottom under the seat in front of me, and her head on my feet. On trains and buses, she sits under the bench seat. At restaurants, libraries, conferences and the like, she sits under the table.

The New York Times article reports that miniature horses stand at their owner’s feet throughout each flight. I wonder. If you are being guided by a miniature pony, Do they stand on buses, too? On trains? At movie theaters? During live performances? I have long believed that the phrase “reasonable accommodation” goes both ways. Is it reasonable to ask the person who landed that seat next to you to give up their legroom (or the entire seat, if necessary) to accommodate a pony?

The woman interviewed in the article said she “usually buys flights on short notice, calling the airline the day before to give a heads up that she will be traveling with a horse.” In the past, some airlines have told her there wouldn’t be enough room, but she is hopeful the new guidelines will discourage such behavior from here on out.

She has come up with a “tidy defecation setup” for long flights, and when she senses her miniature horse needs to go, she signals the horse to go into a deodorized bag. “I don’t want my accidents to be someone’s first impression,” she told the reporter.

The story also reports that some airport officials have asked the woman traveling for an official identification card for her miniature pony, but “unaware of any organization that offers such a thing, she and a friend eventually made a card themselves.” The New York Times article I am referring to in this post is titled “The Completely Reasonable Reason People Are Flying With Mini Horses,” but I’m not sure I get it. Exactly what “completely reasonable reason” is the reporter talking about?

A version of this blog post was published yesterday on the Easterseals National blog.

Good news! I’ve been invited to give an Author Night Presentation about Writing Out Loud at Max and Benny’s Deli Restaurant in Northbrook! Even better news: the event is free, all you need to do is register.

• When: September 16th, 2019 7 pm – 8:30 pm
• Where: Max and Benny’s Restaurant, Deli and Bakery
  461 Waukegan Rd
  Northbrook, IL 60062
  847-272-9490

Chicago high school girls were invited to the Cliff Dwellers event, too, and I had the privilege of talking to each one as I autographed their books. (Photo: Dana Ellenby-Bergeron).

Here’s the back story: After hearing the presentation I gave for the International Women’s Day celebration at Chicago’s Cliff Dwellers Club last March, Richard Reader, the perfectly-named creator and coordinator of the Chicago Jewish Authors Literary Series at Max and Benny’s, asked if I’d be willing to come to the deli to talk about Writing Out Loud. I’d love to, I said. “But I’m not Jewish!” Richard waved that concern off. “Some of your writers in that book are Jewish,” he said. “You’re in!”

I’d been hearing about the Jewish Author Literary Series at Max and Benny’s for years. A well-attended (yet casual) gathering, the literary series welcomes listeners to nosh during the presentation. I just checked out the menu – gefilte fish, kiske, hot pastrami sandwiches, half chicken in the pot, you name it. The Book Bin, and independent bookstore in Northbrook, will have copies of Writing Out Loud on hand for me to sign afterwards as well.

But wait. There’s more! Two Beth Finke Memoir Teacher MasterClass graduates will be there with me to talk a bit about the memoir-writing classes they are leading now: Heidi Reeves has a class starting at the Blackstone branch of the Chicago Public Library in the Kenwood neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side, and Sharon Kramer teaches memoir-writing for members of Chicago’s Skyline Village.

I hope you’ll come. How can you resist?! I’ll leave you here with my bio from the Max and Benny’s Jewish Author Literary Series web site. For More information, email events@maxandbennys.com or call 847.272.9490.

Author Beth Finke will be featured at Max and Benny’s! Beth Finke met her husband in journalism school, and both planned on long careers as newspaper reporters.

But then the spots showed up. A year later, at age 26, Beth was blind.
The Americans with Disabilities Act had not been passed yet, and Beth’s career path took some major detours — including a long stint working as a nude model for university art students.

Her persistence paid off, though.

The recipient of a writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, Beth is the author of three published books. Her radio essays air on NPR, and her writing appears everywhere from Cheryl Sandberg’s OptionB to Hollywood’s Variety Magazine. The Lisagor Award she won for a 2005 essay she recorded about the World Champion White Sox put her in a class of her own: she is the only blind woman in America to win an award for sports Broadcasting.

Beth’s latest book, Writing Out Loud, is a look at how leading memoir-writing classes for Chicagoans 60 and better help her continue living the fun, creative and pleasurable life she always has.

Beth lives in the Printers Row neighborhood of Chicago with her husband, Mike Knezovich, and her Seeing Eye dog, Whitney.

And she no longer models nude for art students.

A week ago this past Saturday, Beth and I took the Amtrak to Milwaukee, snagged a Zipcar, and visited Gus at his group home in Watertown, Wisconsin. We stayed the night, and I took an earlier train train back than Beth did, as I had to fly out for a business trip.

Amtrak reserves a row at one end of most cars for people with didsabilities. There’s extra room to store a wheelchair, or, in our case, to let Whitney rest comfortable. As I boarded, I passed this row—noting that two able bodied men, one on either side of the aisle—were occupying the seats.

At first, I thought, “no harm, no foul,” and I didn’t say anything. But as I ruminated, I began to get aggravated. Because I travel with Beth so much, and because I used to push Gus in his wheelchair (a friend of mine joked once that if you look up pre-boarding in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Mike and his family), I’ve had a lot of experience in these matters.

I’m not a militant. In fact, I frequently take exception with some disability activism. I like to believe that reasonable accommodation must in some instances cut both ways.

But, here’s the deal. If I board that train with Beth we are left to either walk to another car, which we sometimes do, or, ask them to vacate the seat.

Is asking them to leave a big deal? It kind of is. There’s hubbub and we block the aisle for a bit. Before we get to our seats Beth (or any other person with a disability) has already had to negotiate a lotof obstacles. They don’t need another one that can be avoided by people simply observing signs. Amtrak is very good about these things, and the signs on these rows say, simply, “Reserved for passengers with disabilities.” (The train was nowhere near full, by the way.)

Everybody’s different, and I don’t mean to speak for all people with disabilities or their companions.

It’s just that I see up close what Beth deals with every day; we have friends in wheelchairs; I wheeled Gus through countless tight spots. It’s hard. And when I see anyone making it any harder than it needs to be, like humans with ill-behaved fake service dogs, or completely able-bodied people using automatic doors that are clearly labeled as accessible features (guaranteeing those doors will get more use than designed for and be out of service more often), well, I teeter between sadness and anger.

As for those two guys on the train? At one point the conductor came through and admonished them: You can sit there for now but if someone in a walker or a chair comes in, you’ll have to move.

They sheepishly found new seats.

When I heard that yesterday was the 90th anniversary of the Bud Billiken Parade in Chicago, I called Wanda Bridgeforth. Sure enough, she was in the parade a few years after it first started. “Oh, yes-in-deedy, I was 11 or so, and we were the Young Girls Athletic Club of Bud Billiken,” she said. “We dressed in our green gym suits, white socks and white Keds.” When I mentioned I might use that in today’s blog, she said, “Just be sure you say they were Keds!”

These days over a million people gather in Chicago’s Bronzeville neighborhood to watch the Parade at the end of every summer. As one of the oldest – and largest – annual parades in the country, the Bud Billiken Parade marks the end of summer and celebrates all the kids heading back to school. “The first few parades were like neighborhood affairs, and over the years, three generations of my family have participated in the Bud Billiken parade,” she says, pointing out that her daughter Wanda Jr. was named Best-Dressed Walking Girl when she marched in the 1950s. “Junior’s prize was a Pekingese puppy, and the next year she was on the float of the Royal Court.”

Last week I assigned the writing prompt, “Something You Wish People Understood About you.” Ninety-seven years old now, Wanda came back with an essay describing herself as an elderly toddler – her mind is sharper than ever, but her body is shrinking. “I toddle around now,” she acknowledged over the phone. “You can probably hear it in my steps.”

When I asked if I could excerpt some of her essay for my Safe & sound blog today, she gave an enthusiastic, “Sure!” Here it is:

Here’s a screen capture of the live feed screen from when Wanda and I were on WGN radio two years ago. There’s Wanda in the upper left screen.

Something I Wish People Understood About Me

by Wanda Bridgeforth

I think my experience with stereotypes may be a bit unique from those human beings younger than I am. People have two minds about ETs (Elderly Toddlers): age and physical appearance. I fall into both. Because of spinal stenosis, I am unable to sit or stand up straight, which makes my chin rest on my chest, an indication of mental loss. Thus, I appear to be senile.

I have noticed looks of pity, wonder, avoidance, and perhaps, of contagion. Some encounters have been distressing, and some comedic. A little boy was staring at me and opened his mouth to speak when his mother jerked him away, whispering out loud, “Don’t stare at people!”

Some parents stutter apologies for the stares and questions of the little ones. I don’t mind the children; they are curious and honest in their looks and conversations. It’s the adults, babbling apologies and excuses, that raise my hackles.

At many functions I sit alone with my chin resting on my chest. Because of a lifelong hearing loss I am a good body language reader. I watch feet approach, stop, turn and move elsewhere. I have seen fingers pointed in my direction, accompanied by whispers. I ignore them and sometimes laugh inwardly. People are so often confused, uncomfortable, or don’t know how to react to me and other ETs.

A stereotype of the elderly with a physical disability is that we are also senile. They see the elderly as all drooling, babbling idiots. I’ve known shocked looks when I speak clearly, coherently and intelligently.

An example of this reaction: during a visit to the emergency room an interviewer asked me questions, and I answered. When she finished, she told me to take a seat, then she called Daphne (who had accompanied me) up to her desk and asked her the same questions. Daphne refused to answer.” Didn’t my grandmother asnswer you?” she asked.

”Welllll, yes. She did. But at her age, you know….”

We, the elderly, come in feisty, independent, and/or quiet moods. The mind tells us we are able, but the body knows we are not. Very confusing. Don’t fret, just keep trying to understand and live with us ETs. The problem is two-sided: we are trying to cope with others, and with ourselves, too. So be aware that one day, if you’re fortunate to live long, you’ll be an ET, too.