Do You See What I See? A Multicultural Tale from a Low Vision Perspective

Hello, world! I’m Char, and I have low vision. And what I experienced during a random shopping trip last week is a public service announcement for everyone who has little or no experience with folk like myself. 

I walk by faith and not by sight. And this has been my life for nearly twenty years now. I was a first year law student when my ophthalmologist announced that I had a juvenile form of macular degeneration. He was saddened to give me the news as much as he was intrigued to have discovered this very rare condition.

People who have impairments like mine have a tricky little challenge in public. We don’t walk around with any device, t-shirt, or other obvious signal that alerts fellow humans that we have a visual impairment. Instead, we tend to carve out routines and limit our adventures to familiar spaces where we are not visually overwhelmed. Unfortunately, this can appear as anti-social to the uninformed. But it is a necessary adaptation for navigating a world that you cannot always see and which does not always understand your special needs.

So when I took a detour from my careful, controlled routine, it put the entire store on notice that there was more to me than meets the eye.

I dropped my kiddo off at our home school co-op. Because he’s a teenager, I asked him if he wanted me to get lost so that he didn’t have to feel like I was the cringe helicopter mom in the classroom. But I hadn’t charged either of my phones. Even more, I left my car charger in my truck. And there was no way I was going to make it through the day without having some juice for my phone. 

 

So I went to the neighborhood Walmart—a store I never been in before. 

 

Walmart is the type of store that has a predictable familiarity for figuring out where to find things. That was no problem for me as I entered the electronics section. However, this store was super annoying because all of the merchandise was encased, requiring assistance from an associate. During this initial encounter when my friendly neighborhood Walmart guy, an older Latino man (hereinafter referred to as “mi Asocio”)  was rushing me along to point to what I want, I told him, “I’m a person with a visual impairment and I can’t just pick out my stuff from a distance like this.”

I told him what I needed. I also told him I wanted the cheapest one. He quickly pointed to what I described. Then he watched me fumble around to grab the car port of my choice. Then we were both relieved to be away from each other. I was relieved because his energy was rushed and unwelcoming. He was relieved to have me out of his hair. 

 

At checkout, I realized I left my wallet in the car. So I saw the greeter, an older African American man (hereinafter,  referred to as “Unc”)  for the second time, and let him know I would be right back.

 

I came back inside with a third hello to Unc. Paid for my stuff.  I greeted Unc again for the fourth time, and gave him a pleasant farewell. Back in my car, I realized the car port was the wrong input. When did they start making dual micro USB car chargers? I giggled.

 

I came back into the store and exchanged pleasantries with Unc for the fifth time. I encountered the customer service associate to handle my return. She was an older, lovely African descended lady with a French accent. I asked her if her French was African or Caribbean. She was Haitian. We exchanged a few pleasantries in Creole and she sent me on my way with a smiling face after I explained how I picked the wrong charger. Then I revisited mi Asocio  again in the electronics section. He slowed down a bit more than before, but was still mildly annoyed with me. 

 

Self-checkout part two was painless. then I exchanged a quick little laugh with Unc for the sixth time.  Back in my car, I was satisfied I had a USB plug now, and was looking forward to grabbing a bite and listening to my latest binge worthy book. When I opened the cable I purchased, it was the right size for my phone, but the wrong size for the car port. 

 

I burst into laughter.

 

Upon seeing Unc for the seventh time in less than 30 minutes, I explained, “I need help seeing and I got the wrong thing again.” And like a comforting bowl of grits for breakfast, Unc was warm and unbothered. He gestured with a sweeping arm with a classic “welcome to Walmart” gesture. 

 

The Haitian lady at customer service was a little surprised to see me again, but was kind and understanding and sent me on my way after taking care of my return.  And when I saw mi Asocio in electronics this time, he was not playing with me anymore. 

 

He saw me coming. 

He adjusted his attitude.

He slowed down.

And he made sure that not only did I have the right cable, but that he helped me find the one for the best price.

 

I shared my gratitude with “Muchisimas gracias.”

And he responded with an equally pleasant “De nada, no problema.”

 

On the way out, I said to Unc, “Okay, I think I’m finally out of your hair for the day.”

He responded with a big grin and removed his cap from his head, revealing a shiny chocolate dome with tufts of gray coils above his ears. 

“I don’t have any hair for you to bother.” And we both erupted in laughter with a heartfelt departure and well wishes.

It took eighteen years for me to find the courage to share my impairment with others without falling apart in tearful frustration. Besides, I was conditioned to be an independent strong black woman. And there is no faster way to lose your independence than needing a helping hand when you can’t see the world as most others do. I share this story because you never know what type of impairments you interact with on a daily basis that are hidden in plain sight. And now that I’m no longer afraid to face the world and share my need for a helping hand, I have found more kindness and humanity that I believe we should share with anyone—regardless of their disability, ethnicity, or differences—real or perceived. 

 

Be blessed and encouraged, 

Judge Char