Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

by Sanford D. Greenberg

  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 the world. Moreover, it would not only proclaim it; it would in itself be a dependence. No, I would not use one—I would remain independent. FDR, the great president, had always been a model of how one handles a disability—you carry on as if it doesn’t exist.

  “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 an option: he had to stay in Midtown and complete the sketch, as it would count heavily toward his final grade. For the next few minutes we discussed the alternatives and concluded that there weren’t any.

  By this time, our attitudes had become polarized: Arthur stuck to his position while I insisted that I not miss my reader appointment. The discussion turned into a debate as to the merits of the other person’s “giving in.” This made Arthur an even more stubborn
proponent of his proposal that I stay in Midtown with him, while I dug in on the other side, claiming that were I to miss this reader, I would be finished at Columbia. We wasted half an hour in this way.

  “Well, if that’s the way you want it, so be it,” I said. “I’ve got to get back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I felt that I was being abandoned but shrugged it off and began to move forward as though I was part of the crowd. And so I was.

  Arthur had now left me. I could feel that; his smell, his voice, his presence—all had disappeared. I would have to take the subway back up to the campus by myself. So why did I not just get into a taxi? The mentality of scholarship students figures here. We did not even think of taking taxis—a blatant waste of precious funds. My stubbornness was a factor, too. I didn’t realize that the ordeal ahead of me would take on an almost mythic cast.

  I began to walk in the direction of what I thought was the subway entrance. As I walked, I held my arms out in front. That must have looked silly to the people around me, now on their way home from work. My hands and forearms came up against suited elbows and women’s backs although most of the people must have known to give me a wide berth.

  There is always a spark of kindness in this world. A woman asked me where I was going. I said that I was trying to reach the subway. She asked what was wrong. I told her nothing was wrong.

  “Clearly, something is wrong.”

  “No. I’m just having a little difficulty seeing. If you could point me in the direction of the subway, that would be a big help.”

  “I can, but if you’re having trouble seeing, how would you know how to even walk there?”

  The woman seemed young, but she had a throaty voice. As she walked along with me, she touched me here and there to make sure I did not step too widely out onto the street. “I’ll find it,” I said.

  “If you’re sure you’ll be okay, then I’ll tell you,” she said. “But you have to promise me that you’ll be okay. That you’re up for it. It’s not an easy thing.”

  “I am. I will be.” She gave me the directions. She explained how many steps this way and then how many steps that way. I did not know how she knew how many steps would lead me to the stairway down to the track, but she seemed to know.

  “I’m going to walk on,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said, but I did not want her to leave.

  I felt my way along the edge of a building until it disappeared and the street became quieter. It was a smaller side street, and no one was on it even though it was a busy time of day. As I walked farther along, I felt as if the street were sloping downward, but at least it was easier to navigate. I placed my arm against flat brick walls and continued. My foot went into the breast of a pigeon; it chuckled and moved out of the way. A rush of sadness came over me, not for myself but for this lowly creature. My hands now felt gritty from pressing them against buildings.

  I came to an intersection I needed to cross. I walked into a man’s chest, bounced off, and fell to my knees. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He reached down with one hand and lifted me quick as a jump. “No, it was me,” he said. “It happens all the time.”

  “What happens?”

  “I take up too much space,” he said. “It’s hard for me to get around. Not that I can’t move—I can, but other people seem to fall into me.”

  I didn’t know what this man was talking about. I knew only that he was a giant, well formed.

  “I’m a fighter,” he said. “So I guess in some regards, it’s good.”

  “A fighter? You mean, a boxer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That must be hard.”

  “It’s hard to get beaten on every day. That’s no fun. But winning is fun.” He had a light voice. I would never have guessed that he was a fighter.

  “You seem to be having some difficulty,” he said.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe a little. It’s just that I can’t see. That was why I knocked into you. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Really,” he said. “Perhaps it was my fault. Though, sometimes no one is at fault.”

  I didn’t know what he was saying. It was like talking to a ghost. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I’m not myself. Can you tell me where I am?”

  “New York,” the man said.

  “Am I close to Grand Central Station?”

  “Very close. Right across the way there.”

  “Can you point me in the right direction?”

  Then the man did something amazing. He took me by the shoulders and turned me right in the direction of the station. It was such a gentle movement that it was hard to believe he was a fighter. I could hear the noise of a crowd coming from over there.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I left him and walked across the street and into the station. I found a railing and hung on to it as I made my way down. The railing was rock-steady, and the anger and desperation I had been feeling in my stomach were gone for a few moments because I knew the railing would always be there. It had been there for a long time, providing support for countless people. This random thought gave me an inordinate amount of comfort.

  I made it down into the cavernous main area of the station, which I knew was both broad and complex. I was aware from my sighted experience that I would have to find my way to the crosstown shuttle train to Times Square. The shuttle would take me west to a change to the uptown Broadway train, which would then take me some seventy blocks north to Columbia. It gave me a sinking feeling. I asked someone how to get through the central hall to the shuttle area. He probably thought I was drunk, but he told me anyway. I still had my arms out, as if sleepwalking.

  Being told directions is one thing; following them when you are blind is another. I knocked into benches, suitcases, briefcases; into people who had their backs to me. I stumbled on coffee cups that people had placed at their feet. Somehow, the skin on my shins got split open; I felt blood wetting my socks. My knees seemed to be swelling, probably because I had banged them so many times. I wanted to be both dead and alive, but alive only if I could get out of that pit.

  Fortunately, I recalled some landmarks from my days with vision, and travelers around me answered my questions and turned me in the right directions. By this method, bumping into people and asking questions, I made it to the general area where I could take the shuttle train crosstown to Times Square. When I hit a turnstile, I reached into my pocket for a token, felt around the turnstile for the token slot, and paid my fare. A small thing, but it was huge to me.

  I was walking toward the track when I bumped head-on into an iron column. My arms, which had been held out like a zombie’s, had missed it completely and it was my face, instead, that met it. Blood came down my forehead. I swiped at it with my forearm. It hurt, but worse than the hurt was the idea that everyone would see me bleeding. I wished that because I could not see people, they could not see me.

  I swung around to get away from the column. My forehead was still bleeding, but I think it had stopped a little. The smell down in the subway was greasy and oily. It made me feel dirty. I started to shuffle, little by little, toward the platform area. I again had my hands out. I dipped my toe into empty space and was suddenly greeted by a terrifying sound—to my left a train roared toward my probing leg.

  I lunged backward, changed direction slightly, raised my arms once more as I pushed onward. They hit something soft. It was a woman’s breast.

  “Pardon me!” this woman said.

  “Oh God,” I said. “God, I’m sorry, I can’t—I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s a first,” she said.

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “It’s all right. In my line of work, it happens, though never like that.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “But you’re not bad,” she said. “You look like a nice boy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are
you?”

  “What?”

  “Nice.”

  I thought about what to tell her, what version of myself I should reveal. I didn’t know, actually, if I was a nice boy or not, good or not, decent or not. I thought I was all those things, but it was as if this affliction was somehow bringing me down, was spoiling all the goodness in me into darker things. I thought again of the market in Buffalo and the blind beggar I had seen there with my mother. The entire scene repeated itself to me now. He was a sickly looking man, with peeling scabs on his hands. He wore ragged clothes that seemed to fall off him, and his eyes were not covered—they were marked with black specks, as if they’d seen fragments of a grenade. When he held out his hand to me, my mother drew me close. Now, battered and lost in the subway, I was becoming that man.

  “Well, you seem nice,” the woman said. “A nice young man. There’s a cut on your head.” She put her hand to my forehead.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I have to get going,” I said.

  “Good luck. It’s always the hardest, at first,” she said cryptically, “but then it gets easier, I think.”

  She continued on her way.

  Rocked by my frustration, I nonetheless was still feeling lucky that my encounter with the woman had not turned out as badly as it might have. That feeling lasted only until, walking a bit more quickly, I slammed into a baby carriage. I fell onto the concrete and felt as if the ground would not let me up. I think the mother caught the baby. She said something very quickly, which I could not understand. It sounded angry. I couldn’t blame her.

  When I got to my feet, I apologized. I said I was sorry for knocking into her, for knocking her baby down, for not being able to understand what she was saying, for not being able to see where I was going. I apologized for my poor condition, for being stuck down here. It was my fault.