Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

by Sanford D. Greenberg

In those days, there were no cassette or microcassette tape recorders to slip into the side of a book bag, let alone digital recorders the size of one’s little finger. The model I got was typical: two feet in length, one and a half feet in depth, and one foot in height. When its top was opened, another two feet by one and one-half feet was added to any surface. The thing was so heavy and cumbersome that I had to use both hands to move it, and of course when I got back to college for my senior year, I had to haul it around campus to lectures and classes. The recorder was, nevertheless, a crucial step in advancing my education. It provided me with a degree of intellectual independence for the first time since the onset of blindness.

  Like the voices of my readers, the voices on the tapes I made all sounded the same to me. I heard those voices in my sleep—when I did sleep, which was only four hours a night. In my dreams, there was now the hum and winding noise of the tape recorder, the tape rolling between the magnetic heads, sometimes getting caught, and the snap of the auto-off switch, each snap sounding like a gunshot, my auditory system having become so highly sensitized.

  I set outrageously ambitious deadlines for myself. All senior year I worked like that—early morning to past midnight, single-mindedly attacking my work schedule for that day until full completion—and all year there were those bad dreams. Even while awake, I would hear the crack of a door, the pop of a bottle cap, and think that I had fallen asleep while listening to the tape recorder. Then there was the accompanying panic that the very minutes I might have missed were going to set me back, and lead to…what? To downfall and doom. Determination does not rule out waves of self-doubt and pessimism. When you are blind and in the Big City, things can go south in a New York second.

  One Saturday in the fall, I went to a football game with a bunch of my friends. It was probably one of those good old Ivy League games—maybe Columbia-Princeton. Everything was fine for the first quarter. We were all having a grand time. Then someone had to go get a hot dog or use the restroom, so we all had to stand up. At that point, a person behind us accidentally (I have to believe it was accidental) knocked into me, and I got pushed forward a little bit. I reached out to steady myself on the back of the person sitting in front of me. But the person who had been there was gone. I toppled over the bleachers for a row or two. No broken bones, but I did need stitches—the first of many, many such times—and I felt like such a fool.

  Amid the chaos of my early efforts to adjust, I had already begun thinking about the future beyond my senior year. The prospects looked unpromising. I assumed that the better graduate schools, especially the law schools, would not readily accept anyone who might appear in the slightest way unable to deal with their bloated reading lists. I traveled up to Harvard to talk with the dean of the law school—a humorless giant of a man with a wide mouth and fat cheeks, I was told—about my prospects for law school. That he even took my appointment was surprising. I asked him, given my presumed limitation, what advice he might have for me. He replied that I should continue on my course of study but that it would not lead directly to the law at this time. At least he softened the blow with “at this time.” I accepted his advice.

  Back at Columbia, I began to apply instead to PhD programs in government studies and international affairs. Graduate study at Harvard was still on my mind. I crossed the esplanade to meet with Samuel P. Huntington, my international-relations professor, who would soon be leaving Columbia to join the Harvard faculty.

  After our meeting, I descended the campus steps and, upon reaching the edge of the famous statue of Alma Mater, placed my foot too far in front of a step. Alma Mater, her imposing bronze body couched on a square of concrete, presumably continued staring into the distance as I crashed down the steps in front of her. My pants were torn, my sport coat and shirt covered in blood, my head bruised. I got up, happy that at least no one seemed to have seen me and rushed over to help, and hobbled back to my room.

  I decided to hedge my bets and apply to as many graduate schools as I could manage: Harvard, Columbia, Princeton, Yale, Wisconsin, Chicago, and Cornell. Arthur helped me with the application process, as did Sue. We worked feverishly to meet the deadlines, and we decided to inform the schools straight out that I was blind.

  Arthur’s writing hand almost melted filling out those applications. It was not just the application forms, either, which were many. There were also the essays. Why did I want to study government? Why did I feel I was suited to do so? Why did I want to study at “our” school? What was my background? What were my interests? Well, my overriding interest was to be able to see again, but that did not seem to be in the cards. I also used to like to sleep a few hours a night, but that was clearly out as well. I used to enjoy going to parties, but I had to forget about the partying that all my friends were doing. My interests had boiled down to me and that damned tape recorder.

  Anyway, no Harvard law degree. But graduate study in anything was hardly a fallback to some dismal second choice. Issues of governance had long been of interest to me. Having fled the horrors of a once-civilized Germany, my family had imbued in me a sense of patriotism and pride in our country. The promise of the righteous land that had rescued their own lives was being fulfilled each day I attended the university. That realization was never far from my thoughts. It fed my resolve and helped motivate my ant-like discipline. Still does.

  To call the wide array of things Arthur did for me after I returned to the university “kind” or “thoughtful” or “gracious” would be an insult to him. Those words convey far too little. He divorced himself from the life he had been living, altering his own ways to conform better to mine. He fixed the tape recorder when it was broken. He read to me every day all that was not read by others, which was a great deal—and for hours at a time. He also read to me when others failed to show up or when I needed someone close by for whatever reason. He not only filled out my graduate-school applications, he also kept audiotapes of them (so I could refer to them if necessary).

  Arthur would sit beside me on the bed, or he would pull a chair up to my desk. He arranged papers spread out on the floor. Like spies, we would also map out my work in the basement of his home in Forest Hills. There was nothing he would not do for me: He walked me to classes; he picked me up from classes. He escorted me across the city. He bandaged my shins when I bloodied them, which was often. He also bandaged my forehead and my knuckles, getting my blood on his hands and under his fingernails. In this way, we were like brothers. He did not say anything about his help, though I knew he did not like the sight of blood.

  What my roommate and friend did, he did without having to be asked, and with vigor. He did it quietly, too; after the walk down Saranac Avenue, we never once discussed his decision to help me in the ways he did.

  I certainly needed his help beyond the support I received from my readers. The help I required most urgently was to have study material read to me every night. He would say, “Darkness is going to help you today.” Or, “Darkness is going to read to you from The Iliad.” I suppose he meant that for me his voice was emerging from the darkness. The voice was smooth and light. He would read with expression and intensity, as if he had written the words he was reading.

  When he walked me to classes, we walked as if nothing was wrong and talked en route. Anyone who happened to notice us must have thought it odd to see one young college student holding on to another—unless they had heard of my situation, as many people on campus had.

  It was not as if Arthur did not have much to do. He was a motivated student of architecture, and he took the extensive coursework quite seriously. There was a clear formula for students back then: do the work, go to the best graduate school, get the best job, earn a lot of money, spend your life around the best people—whatever those things may mean to each student.

  I do not know to what hope my dear friend most ardently clung at the time. He was an artist, a poet, a singer, and a guitar player. He mostly wanted to be an architect, however, and that demanded diligence. Left-
handed, he wrote and drew with such care and precision that it was a minor miracle when he finished any graphic piece at all. While I studied, I could frequently hear the slow drag of his pencil against paper. Sometimes he would sing to himself while he worked.

  What was the cost to Arthur of all the help he gave me? Reading for countless hours. Holding my elbow while taking me to meet my social worker. Holding my elbow on the subway. Holding my elbow to cross campus. Turning me away from oncoming buses, from potholes, from misfortune and tragedy. Helping me not to experience confusion or terror. Helping me with the tape recorder—that iron maiden I was wedded to. Collecting my mail and reading it to me (including all the small print). Reading my teachers’ nearly indecipherable handwritten comments. Helping me plan my future and work for it.

  Sometimes just his being there was the biggest help of all. We were roommates, after all. When you are blind, you are unable at times to distinguish night from day, to separate when to be awake from when to sleep. The sound of Arthur’s breathing—the one deep breath before he got set to sleep at night, as he made himself comfortable in his bed, maybe reading by the light of a small lamp or finishing a drawing—was important for me, even necessary. It was part of being a normal human being living with other human beings. As a blind person, you have to pretend that everything is okay when it is not. Arthur understood this very well. Last but not least, there were his words of encouragement, the expressions of faith, the expressions of knowing something that was impossible for him to know but sounding as if he did.

  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 whole new life ahead of you. A different kind of life, not the normal, regular life you’ve been used to leading.”

  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 so
mething. 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.”