Part II
"Blind people are NOT their blindness!"
Ever notice how many expressions we use all the time refer
to sight? "I see what you mean." "See?"
Last week we met Aviva Barsheshet, blind from birth, who
comes to spend a Shabbos with the Goldbergs. (An eye-opening
experience.) After the ice is broken, the children take to
their new guest.
After the Friday night meal, the children are (supposedly)
asleep in their beds, except for Eli, who rests his head on
my lap. He won't leave the living room where Aviva and I are
sitting. He doesn't want to miss a thing. He's been forcing
himself to stay awake but his eyes are now slowly closing. I
stroke his cheek. Aviva tells me about how her grandmother
here in Israel met Shlomo and thought he was such a nice
person. "Perfect for my granddaughter!" Aviva came to Israel
and after only the second date, they knew they were meant for
each other. "We've now been happily married for fifteen
years!" she says, a wide smile beaming from her face. [For
the readers' information, her husband has gone to spend a
rare Shabbos with friends out of town and Aviva, with the
Goldbergs.]
Shabbos day passes with Aviva regaling us all with her
stories and great sense of humor. My children, so silent at
the beginning, talk to her unabashedly. My six-year-old
daughter brings Aviva a small box that she made out of clay.
"It's beautiful," Aviva comments, turning it over and over in
her hands. I tell her about my daughter's art class and the
different techniques that they're learning. "It's amazing how
these classes have helped her to design her own artwork and
deal with the paintbrushes and other paraphernalia so
expertly," I tell her.
"I see what you mean," Aviva replies.
It's interesting to me how she uses so many `visual' words
like `see' and `beautiful'. Maybe she does that in order to
make us with sight more comfortable, or perhaps it's in order
to fit in more smoothly with those around her.
"You speak so much like everyone else. It's easy to forget
that your're blind," I say.
"Once a friend took me shopping, " she reminisces. "When we
finished, she dashed out to the car. I stood in front of the
store for a while, not knowing where the car was parked or
how to get to it until she finally came back, terribly
embarrassed, saying that she'd forgotten that I couldn't
see!"
"I can understand that," I reply as I sit down to say some
Tehillim.
Aviva reaches into her bag and pulls out one of her, what-
seems-to-be, blank paged magazines. Her nimble fingers fly
over the bumps. I watch as Eli inches towards her, standing
very close to her but not touching her. He hasn't said a word
when Aviva turns and says, "Eli, would you like to know what
this is?"
My mouth drops open. "How'd you know it was Eli?"
"Oh," she laughs. "He's the inquisitive one!"
She then goes on to explain to him a few points about Braille
-- the rest of the children gravitating around her as well.
Peering over the children's heads, I ask, "When did you learn
to read Braille?"
"I went to regular school up to and including high school,"
she answers. "Only for the one year of kindergarten, at the
age of five, did I go to a school for the blind, to learn how
to read Braille. Braille is much more tricky than you would
imagine." She lets Eli run his fingertips over the bumps on
the page she has opened in front of her. "Aside from the
letters themselves, there are about 200 possible
contractions, with more being revised and added every few
years. That's in English, of course. The Hebrew Braille is
much more basic."
"So how did you write at school?" Eli pipes up.
"I typed! Actually, I learned to type practically before I
learned to speak!" Aviva chuckles. "I always was a book
worm."
"Worm?" Eli mumbles, a puzzled expression on his face. Aviva
and I smile. I explain the expression to him and then he and
I set the table together.
As we eat seuda shlishit, I bring up the subject of
cooking and cleaning.
"I manage," Aviva laughs. "I'm not the world's best
baalebusta but the house is tidy and there's food on the
table three times a day. I seldom fry but I bake and cook,
spicy, delicious food, just like everyone else."
"Do people treat you differently because you can't see?" I
ask.
"You'd be amazed," she answers wistfully. "I've been in
stores where the salesperson asks my friend what I want -- as
if I don't have ears or a brain! Thank G-d, my friend always
responds with a `Ask her!' Just two days ago, I decided to go
out. I get a free Egged bus ticket, like all the blind in
Israel. So I went to the new supermarket. I gave my modest
shopping list to a helpful clerk and while he was getting my
items, a strange woman came up to me and said, `Why are you
out here all by yourself?' I answered her, `Why are
you here all by yourself?' "
I can't help but giggle. "I'm sure she meant well."
"I'm sure, too. It's just that I'm more than able to manage,
although it's good when people ASK if a blind person needs
help. It might feel awkward to ask what's needed but for the
blind person, it's horribly awkward to have things being done
to her (or him) -- pushed around or whatever. One should
NEVER touch or lift up a blind person's cane. My cane is in
place of my eyes. It's my balance. The best way to help
`steer' the sightless is to offer your arm and they
hold on to you.
"Blind people are NOT their blindness! It's always bothered
me when people think of me as helpless. My Mom never clipped
my wings. She gave me my freedom and I never particularly
felt different than anyone else. Blind people have the same
likes/dislikes, the same interests, the same feelings, and
the same sense of humor as everyone else. If I had a battle
cry, it would be, `Obliterate ignorance!' "
"Well, when I heard you singing at that Rosh Chodesh party
last week, that's exactly what you were doing!"
Aviva smiles.
She performs for many women's groups, speaking openly about
her blindness and playing her electric organ while singing.
She writes her own music as well as the lyrics. She sang
then, at the Rosh Chodesh party, [which they have in Tzefas
for the women], about the beauty and importance of
friendships, about her mother, about life's trials and
triumphs. She sang that night, with the magical way she has
with people, about herself, her inner beauty shining.
"It seems to me, Aviva, that you have a dream and you're
making that dream come true."
She nods. "Yes," she says softly, "I guess that's true."
I look at her and think, "Yes, she's truly blind, but she's
also truly beautiful."
A couple of hours later, Aviva and I stood in the darkness of
the parking lot, waiting for her husband to pick her up in
their car. I watched her. She seemed so tranquil, which
reminded me of something.
"You know, Aviva," I said, breaking the silence. "A few days
ago, my husband told me about Rav Sheshet in the
gemora. Almost the same last name as yours! Rav
Sheshet was a sage who was also blind. One time, the whole
town turned out to await the passing of the king. A cynic was
ridiculing the blind sage for having come since he wouldn't
see anything, anyway. Each time a group of guards drew close,
with fanfare and excitement, the cynic would say, `Here comes
the king!' But Rav Sheshet would shake his head. `No, not
yet.' This happened three times. Suddenly, everything grew
quiet. Rav Sheshet stood up and recited the blessing over the
king. His spiritual insights were more accurate than the
cynic's eyesight!"
I looked at Aviva, at her constant gentle smile and I
continued, "I guess that there's more to vision than meets
the eye."
She gave a hearty laugh and nodded,
"I see," she said. "Yes, I see."
