[nfbwatlk] NYTimes.com: Seeing the World Through my Wife's Eyes
Noel Nightingale
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Mon Jul 10 19:13:11 CDT 2006
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By RYAN KNIGHTON
Published: July 2, 2006
MY birthday is a conflicted 24 hours. While I'm more than happy to
bumble about this mortal coil looking for whatever it is we look for, my
birthday also
happens to mark a second beginning. The morning I turned 18, I was told
I was going blind.
David Chelsea
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My doctor said the twilight would dim for another 5, maybe 10 years,
then, well, poof. Now, as someone for whom the lights have gone out, I
puzzle over
our zeal for blowing out candles on cakes. Sighted folks get off on the
strangest rituals.
Not that I'm party-pooping at my own bash. I've other causes for
celebration. For one thing, my wife, Tracy, and I were born on the same
day, 12 hours apart.
We discovered this neatest of facts when we met in graduate school 10
years ago, when I was still a somewhat sighted guy.
Our joint birthday catapulted us into a first date, wings and beer at a
sports bar. That night we turned 23 together. More accurately, I had
already aged
in the morning, and I gloated that Tracy would understand certain things
when she was older. We've been inseparable ever since. Sort of.
I would give anything to tell you what my wife looks like, but I can't.
I haven't seen her face in five years, and even my memory of her is
rapidly fading.
Her expressions, body language, the shapely gait of her walk, all of
those things are dissolving in my mind as I move further away from the
visual world,
and the memory of what it means to see. Blindness is a troubling
separation from my gal, and for her from me.
The paradox stings, too. Always with me is a feeling that I miss her,
even though she's here, in traces of smell, sound, taste and texture.
These hint at
the pleasure of an image I used to know but can't have.
NOW, I bet I know what you're thinking. Sure, I'm acutely aware that I
must delight in my other senses. In fact, sighted people are almost
always the ones
reminding me to get with the program, and to enjoy it. In so advising
me, many of them subsequently become lost in daydreams about a partner
who really
listens. You know, like a blind guy might.
No doubt sight can dominate, if not overwhelm us. The rest of the
sensorium is clearly capable of subtle attachments to another person's
body and mind.
Having said that, the whole blindness deal still stinks. It's a lesser
bliss, I'm sorry to report.
I do my best, though. Consider Tracy's sound. I like to. The other day,
when she finished shopping, she returned to fetch me from a bench. I'm
not a fan
of noodling around the mall. Really, I'd rather test electrical sockets
with a wet finger. That's in part why I prefer to wait on a bench. It's
also more
comfortable than standing around Banana Republic, looking lost and
confused, as I tend to look.
Although I didn't see her coming, I thought I recognized her footsteps,
so I stood up.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, placing my hand on her elbow.
The leather was unfamiliar. A new coat. Had I not identified Tracy by
her footsteps, I still would have known her by the feel of her elbow,
even when dressed
in this new, smooth texture. I would wager everybody has known the body
of a lover to this degree. Touch is enough, and I doubt it's a party
trick specific
to squinty folks.
"Nice coat," I said. "I guessed it was you by the way you walk. Your
boots make a certain music when you move. Just sounds like you."
Call it an attempt at charm, honesty or a surrender to my condition, but
I've learned to appreciate such sensations more than I used to. Tracy's
sounds
and smells mean more to me and my desire than they did when I was a
sighted guy. At least that's what I tell myself, and practice on a daily
basis, the
way others work at yoga.
Were I less shy, I wouldn't have stopped at saying I recognized Tracy's
walk. I would have added that she sounds attractive to me. Her walk is
quick and
sure. She prefers hard soles, and higher heels. Tapered ones, not
wedges. Each of her boots makes two defined clicks when she steps. That
sharpness is
nothing like, say, the sound from a rubbery sneaker. I think of those as
the footwear of wallflowers. Practical but mute. And alarming to the
blind. They're
called sneakers, after all.
List of 2 items
1
2
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Next Page >
Ryan Knighton, who lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, is the author
of "Cockeyed: A Memoir" (PublicAffairs, June).
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Modern
<http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/02/fashion/02love.html?ex=1152849600&en=
63aeb4c54e473726&ei=5070&emc=eta1> Love: Seeing the World Through my
Wife's Eyes
By RYAN KNIGHTON
The morning I turned 18, I was told I was going blind. I would give
anything to tell you what my wife looks like, but I can't. A real blind
love, the literal kind, is a giving over of consciousness.
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2. The
<http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/04/health/04teen.html?ex=1152849600&en=6
d4319808192f1f2&ei=5070&emc=eta1> Grim Neurology of Teenage Drinking
3. Homeless
<http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/05/us/05homeless.html?ex=1152849600&en=b
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<http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/05/us/05liberty.html?ex=1152849600&en=34
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See the controversial film Time Magazine proclaims "A Triumph." Set in
1938 Colonial India, against Mahatma Gandhi's rise to power, Water
begins when 8-year-old Chuyia is widowed and sent to a home where Hindu
widows must live in penitence. Chuyia's feisty presence deeply affects
the lives of the other residents, including a young widow, who falls for
a Gandhian idealist.
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From July 2 New York Times.
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ad.131305/2006na_768x90
Modern Love
Seeing the World Through my Wife's Eyes
List of 5 items
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Single Page
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Save
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By RYAN KNIGHTON
Published: July 2, 2006
MY birthday is a conflicted 24 hours. While I'm more than happy to bumble about this mortal coil looking for whatever it is we look for, my birthday also
happens to mark a second beginning. The morning I turned 18, I was told I was going blind.
David Chelsea
Podcasts
Podcast
Listen to the weekly essay from the Styles section on matters of the heart.
•
How to Subscribe |
All Podcasts
•
Download an MP3 Version
My doctor said the twilight would dim for another 5, maybe 10 years, then, well, poof. Now, as someone for whom the lights have gone out, I puzzle over
our zeal for blowing out candles on cakes. Sighted folks get off on the strangest rituals.
Not that I'm party-pooping at my own bash. I've other causes for celebration. For one thing, my wife, Tracy, and I were born on the same day, 12 hours apart.
We discovered this neatest of facts when we met in graduate school 10 years ago, when I was still a somewhat sighted guy.
Our joint birthday catapulted us into a first date, wings and beer at a sports bar. That night we turned 23 together. More accurately, I had already aged
in the morning, and I gloated that Tracy would understand certain things when she was older. We've been inseparable ever since. Sort of.
I would give anything to tell you what my wife looks like, but I can't. I haven't seen her face in five years, and even my memory of her is rapidly fading.
Her expressions, body language, the shapely gait of her walk, all of those things are dissolving in my mind as I move further away from the visual world,
and the memory of what it means to see. Blindness is a troubling separation from my gal, and for her from me.
The paradox stings, too. Always with me is a feeling that I miss her, even though she's here, in traces of smell, sound, taste and texture. These hint at
the pleasure of an image I used to know but can't have.
NOW, I bet I know what you're thinking. Sure, I'm acutely aware that I must delight in my other senses. In fact, sighted people are almost always the ones
reminding me to get with the program, and to enjoy it. In so advising me, many of them subsequently become lost in daydreams about a partner who really
listens. You know, like a blind guy might.
No doubt sight can dominate, if not overwhelm us. The rest of the sensorium is clearly capable of subtle attachments to another person's body and mind.
Having said that, the whole blindness deal still stinks. It's a lesser bliss, I'm sorry to report.
I do my best, though. Consider Tracy's sound. I like to. The other day, when she finished shopping, she returned to fetch me from a bench. I'm not a fan
of noodling around the mall. Really, I'd rather test electrical sockets with a wet finger. That's in part why I prefer to wait on a bench. It's also more
comfortable than standing around Banana Republic, looking lost and confused, as I tend to look.
Although I didn't see her coming, I thought I recognized her footsteps, so I stood up.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, placing my hand on her elbow.
The leather was unfamiliar. A new coat. Had I not identified Tracy by her footsteps, I still would have known her by the feel of her elbow, even when dressed
in this new, smooth texture. I would wager everybody has known the body of a lover to this degree. Touch is enough, and I doubt it's a party trick specific
to squinty folks.
"Nice coat," I said. "I guessed it was you by the way you walk. Your boots make a certain music when you move. Just sounds like you."
Call it an attempt at charm, honesty or a surrender to my condition, but I've learned to appreciate such sensations more than I used to. Tracy's sounds
and smells mean more to me and my desire than they did when I was a sighted guy. At least that's what I tell myself, and practice on a daily basis, the
way others work at yoga.
Were I less shy, I wouldn't have stopped at saying I recognized Tracy's walk. I would have added that she sounds attractive to me. Her walk is quick and
sure. She prefers hard soles, and higher heels. Tapered ones, not wedges. Each of her boots makes two defined clicks when she steps. That sharpness is
nothing like, say, the sound from a rubbery sneaker. I think of those as the footwear of wallflowers. Practical but mute. And alarming to the blind. They're
called sneakers, after all.
List of 2 items
1
2
list end
Next Page »
Ryan Knighton, who lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, is the author of "Cockeyed: A Memoir" (PublicAffairs, June).
More Articles in Fashion & Style »
Need to know more? 50% off home delivery of The Times.
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Advertisement
Ads by Google
what's this?
Interfaith Marriages
Rabbi Steve Mason of Connecticut can officiate for your special day.
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Uncanny - they have the same birthday too!
FASHION & STYLE
| July 2, 2006
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/02/fashion/02love.html?ex=1152849600&en=63aeb4c54e473726&ei=5070&emc=eta1 Modern Love: Seeing the World Through my Wife's Eyes
By RYAN KNIGHTON
The morning I turned 18, I was told I was going blind. I would give anything to tell you what my wife looks like, but I can't. A real blind love, the literal kind, is a giving over of consciousness.
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1. http://www.nytimes.com/2006/06/25/fashion/25love.html?emc=eta1 Modern Love: What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage
2. http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/04/health/04teen.html?ex=1152849600&en=6d4319808192f1f2&ei=5070&emc=eta1 The Grim Neurology of Teenage Drinking
3. http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/05/us/05homeless.html?ex=1152849600&en=b100604f627f4de0&ei=5070&emc=eta1 Homeless Alcoholics Receive a Permanent Place to Live, and Drink
4. http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/section/timesselect/ts_icon.gif http://select.nytimes.com/2006/07/05/opinion/05dowd.html?emc=eta1 Op-Ed Columnist: How to Train a Woman
5. http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/05/us/05liberty.html?ex=1152849600&en=348beb43339ceb87&ei=5070&emc=eta1 Memphis Journal: Lady Liberty Trades In Some Trappings
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