[Blindtlk] I Am a Recovering Rehabilitation Professional

[Peter Donahue]

Good afternoon again everyone,

    Below is the article I spoke of in my previous message concerning the
Mississippi Reach Center. It was a presentation given during the 2004 NFB
Convention in Atlanta by Amy Phelps. Unfortunately screen readers don't do a
very good job at communicating conviction, emotion, and passion; something
one can only experience from hearing the live audio of presentations such as
this. Enjoy and ponder:


I Am a Recovering Rehabilitation Professional

by Amy C. Phelps

Two women under sleepshades are crossing a street using long white canes.

Amy Phelps (left) works with Louisiana Center for the Blind student Bandi
Bryant on street crossing.

>From the Editor: One of the highlights of the 2004 convention was the final
item on the morning agenda on banquet day. Most delegates had never heard of
the speaker, and we were intrigued by her title. The speech was delightful,
both funny and inspiring. Amy Phelps earned a master's degree from
Mississippi
State University and became a certified rehabilitation counselor in 1999. As
she relates in the following address, she was directing a small adult
rehabilitation
center (the Reach Center) in Tupelo, Mississippi, when she concluded that,
if her students were ever to become more effectively rehabilitated, she had
to make some changes in her own attitudes about blindness and approach to
rehabilitation. On August 19, 2004, she passed her examination to receive
National
Orientation and Mobility Certification (NOMC). She will officially receive
that certification when she graduates in November from the Louisiana Tech
master's
degree program in which she is now enrolled. This is what she says about her
amazing journey of self-discovery and revelation about blindness:

Hi, My name is Amy, and I am a recovering rehab professional.

When I was asked to give a speech to the National Federation of the Blind,
my first thought was to wonder what in the world I, as a sighted
professional,
could tell you that you don't already know. When I received the invitation
to speak, I thought to myself, "What do I have to offer? How can I impact
the
blind of America?"

Then I began to reflect on the experiences which led me to pursue a master's
degree in orientation and mobility through the Institute on Blindness at
Louisiana
Tech University, and this is where, I hope, what I have to offer begins. So
join me on the journey of becoming a recovering rehabilitation professional.

Before coming to Louisiana, I was lost. Lost, in that I knew something
wasn't right in the services I was providing the blind. I had worked for a
state
vocational rehabilitation (VR) agency for fifteen years, the last eight of
which I worked as a rehabilitation counselor for the blind and as the
director
of a small orientation center. Let me assure you, I thought I knew all there
was to know about blindness. I had the degrees and certificates to prove it,
or so I thought. I had completed the requirements as a certified
rehabilitation counselor and a vision specialist in vocational
rehabilitation. I also
had special training in deaf-blindness--I was knowledgeable; I had papers!

Then, as time passed, I began to realize something wasn't quite right. I
wasn't certain what it was, but I knew something was wrong with services for
the
blind. Consumers in our state were receiving adjustment-to-blindness
training, but some of our consumers rotated through the training centers so
many times
we considered replacing the entrance with revolving doors. As a service
provider I would often question what we were doing wrong. Our blind
consumers were
receiving training, sometimes going to college, sometimes not, but either
way a high percentage of the blind didn't seem to be taking career paths.
Could
it be we weren't doing something right? Did we need to reconsider our
services and attitudes? Did we need to examine our expectations? Of course
as a good
rehab professional I immediately assumed that it couldn't possibly be me.
Remember, I had papers. Besides, this was the way we had always done it, so
it
had to be right.

Now fast forward with me on a flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico, November
2002. I am on my way to a conference for residential training centers for
the
blind. While in flight to Albuquerque, I notice a woman on the plane with a
long white cane. I automatically assume this woman is also going to the
conference
because I never imagined a blind person would actually fly somewhere that
wasn't work related. A blind person going on a vacation, alone? Unheard of!

At this point I am clueless about the conference, assuming it is going to be
another one of those conferences where they tell you what else you as a
professional
must do to help your consumer become independent--modify this, change that,
do more for the consumer, allow him or her to pick and choose the entire
program,
keep everything safe and comfortable because, you know, the consumer is
blind. I am prepared to hear the same old same old--accommodate,
accommodate, accommodate.

I am pretty unemotional about the conference. Walking through the airport, I
again notice this same woman, whom I had seen on the plane. Wait, she is
actually
going through the airport by herself, but where is her sighted guide? No
blind person can really go through the airport alone. And then I think,
"Ahhhh,
so that is what superblind looks like." I had heard about it, and now I have
seen her.

I arrive at the conference center, and low and behold there are superblind
everywhere. People are getting in and out of taxis by themselves, going
through
the hotel, walking on the sidewalks by themselves. Someone must have emptied
the superblind barrel right here in the middle of Albuquerque. There are
hundreds
of blind people with long white canes, doing exactly the same things I am
doing. For the first time in my life I actually see blind people going
through
a buffet line independently, walking through the hotel, and going to
different breakout sessions, and they don't have sighted guides. Heck, they
are even
able to pour salad dressing on their salads. So, I think to myself, there
can't be that many superblind people. I soon learn they weren't superblind
at
all--just properly trained. They were Pam Allen, Carlos Serván, Roland
Allen, Jerry Whittle, Jim Omvig, Joanne Wilson, Eric Woods, Allen Harris,
and Jeff
Altman. And, oh, by the way, the competent blind woman at the airport was
Christine Boone.

So I return to my job; I have seen the light; I am going to start making
changes. If the blind in our state can learn to be as independent as the
people
I saw in Albuquerque, then we won't need to replace that front door. If the
right changes are made, once students complete training in a center, they
will
be empowered to go to work and live truly independent lives, but how in the
world will I make this happen? I have a vague idea and a list of names and
telephone numbers of people who presented at the conference and this book
which soon became my Bible for rehabilitation for the blind. It is called
Freedom
for the Blind. After reading the introduction, I know I have to call the
author. So I pull out the phone numbers from the conference and look up the
number
for James H. Omvig, and so begins the rest of the story.

At this point I start making phone calls to Pam Allen and Fatos Floyd almost
daily; Sam Gleese, president of the NFB of Mississippi, weekly; and
sometimes
Mr. Omvig hourly, asking questions. Now mind you, prior to this conference I
knew almost nothing about the National Federation of the Blind. The only
thing
I had been told was that the NFB was sue-happy, confrontational, and a group
you wanted to avoid at all cost. Here I am, a rehabilitation professional
actually calling the organized blind for solutions in providing training to
the blind. I am a radical.

So it is official: we are going to make changes in our center--changes in
how we provide adjustment training to the blind. But again I am not certain
how
to do it. I have an idea of what needs to be done, but I also realize I have
much to learn.

Early in the summer of 2003 I went through two very short weeks of immersion
training at the Louisiana Center for the Blind; I was beginning to see what
needed to take place. I thought I believed in the blind. I thought blind
people could do what they wanted without inconvenience to themselves or
others.
I thought I had the right attitude, until one day during a meal for forty.
At that meal, as a student wearing sleepshades, I had to examine what I
really
believed. While I was sitting at the table, someone asked me if I was going
to get dessert. I had made the big mistake earlier of saying it was one of
my favorite desserts, and Ron Gardner overheard me. When asked the question
again, I declined. Mr. Gardner asked me a soul-searching question. He said,
"So, Amy, are you not getting dessert because you don't want it or because
you are afraid to go get it--because you are blind?" At that moment I really
began to question my beliefs.

Needless to say, I had dessert, but this incident really stuck in my mind.
What did I really believe about blind people? I knew all around me blind
people
were doing whatever they wanted to, but could I? Did I believe that I could
do what they were doing as a blind student, or was I talking the talk but
not
walking the walk? Tough question for someone who has papers!

Now I was back at work, talking daily with staff and students about their
attitudes about blindness. Armed with just a couple of weeks of blindness
training
under my belt I answered what questions I could, leaning on my new NFB
family to answer questions I was uncertain about. But still I knew I needed
more.
Then one day I was talking with a student about blind travel instructors,
telling her about Roland Allen, who was coming to work with our O&M
instructor.
This student, who had been blind since birth, informed me that she would
never want a blind travel instructor. She said and I quote, "I don't want a
blind
travel instructor because who will keep me from walking into the street and
getting hit by a car? Blind people have to understand their limitations.
Having
a blind travel instructor makes about as much sense as blind people cutting
their own meat in a restaurant." This, my friends, really brought home to me
the fact that as a rehabilitation professional I had missed the mark in the
services we were providing.

The days passed. I was receiving great support from the state agency and my
new friends in the NFB--daily words of encouragement for trying to make
changes,
but still I was uncertain. I often talked with my friends and colleagues
about what I had seen and been a part of in Louisiana. Both sighted and
blind,
some were supportive; some were skeptical.

Then one day the home-ec instructor was out sick, and I had to fill in. I
was going to go grocery shopping with a student. This student had been
through
the training program several times, but still she returned unable to do
anything independently. This student and I were going to learn to use
customer
service. I put on my sleepshades, grabbed my cane, and off we went. The
whole time this student was complaining about going grocery shopping alone.
She
would never do her own grocery shopping; she had friends who shopped for
her. She didn't know anything about shopping and had no desire to learn.
Needless
to say, she was a bit cranky during the entire trip.

Once we returned to the center after shopping, I asked her about going
shopping and how she felt about it. She again reiterated that she would
never go
shopping alone and that I was exceptional if I could. I was astonished. This
attitude was the product of low expectations in the education system,
society,
and rehabilitation; and it had to stop.

What had I done as a so-called professional? If I--after only a couple of
weeks of training under sleepshades--was exceptional, there were huge
problems.
I had to do something. I realized as a result of the Albuquerque conference,
my brief visit at the Louisiana Center for the Blind, and the support of the
National Federation of the Blind that it was time for me to take action. I
no longer wanted to be a mere professional with papers; I had to make a
difference.

The time had come for me not only to push my students out of their comfort
zone and become independent but also for me to do what I was asking my
students
to do. I as a professional had to come to know emotionally as well as
intellectually that I could be independent and self-sufficient. I as a
professional
sighted or blind person had to be able to serve as a role model for my
consumers. No longer could I sit back and talk the talk; I had to learn to
walk
the walk. I must be able to grab my sleepshades and long white cane and just
do it.

At this point I decided I would no longer live a life of low expectations
for consumers; I would raise the bar so that consumers could learn to travel
independently
without inconvenience to themselves or others. This, my friends, is what led
me to leave my job of fifteen years to pursue a master's degree in
orientation
and mobility through the Institute on Blindness at Louisiana Tech
University. I chose this program, not because I wanted more papers or a
string of letters
behind my name, but because this program is the best, with a foundation
developed for the blind by the blind, grounded in the philosophy of the
National
Federation of the Blind. I chose to pursue a master's degree in O&M because
I knew the training I would receive through the Institute on Blindness would
have high expectations for me as a student, therefore equipping me to be a
blindness professional who could really make a difference. I had to prove to
myself that I could travel independently as a blind person. I realized
having papers was not enough.

So I challenge you today to choose to make a real difference. Whether you
are a professional in the field of blindness wanting to become a recovering
rehab
professional or a college student looking for an exciting career, choose, as
I did, to make a real difference. Consider a master's degree program at
Louisiana
Tech University; contact our director Ron Gardner, or visit with staff and
students at the Institute on Blindness table in the exhibit hall. Oh, yes,
let
me warn you. Be prepared for high, and I do mean high, expectations.

To sum everything up that I have learned since Albuquerque, blind people are
nothing more than normal people who cannot see. Blind people can go where
they
want to go when they want to, without inconvenience to themselves or others.
But, most important, it is respectable to be blind. This is why I am proud
to say I am a recovering rehab professional, and I am very proud to say I am
a member of the National Federation of the Blind, and as a rehabilitation
professional it is my privilege and responsibility to help change what it
means to be blind.

Peter Donahue