Produced by Bryan Ness, Janet Blenkinship and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
CALIFORNIA STATE LIBRARY
FIVE LECTURES
ON
BLINDNESS
By
KATE M. FOLEY
Home Teacher of the Blind California State Library
CALIFORNIA STATE PRINTING OFFICE SACRAMENTO 1919
Copyright 1919 By the California State Library.
CONTENTS
PHOTOGRAPH 4
FOREWORD 5
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF BLINDNESS 6
THE BLIND CHILD AND ITS DEVELOPMENT 14
THE RE-EDUCATION OF THE BLIND ADULT 23
THE ATTITUDE OF THE PUBLIC TOWARD THE BLIND 32
PREVENTION OF BLINDNESS AND CONSERVATION OF VISION
IN ADULTS AND CHILDREN 40
* * * * *
[Illustration: Miss Foley teaching a class of men at the Industrial Home
for the Adult Blind, Oakland, California.]
* * * * *
FOREWORD.
The following lectures were written primarily to be delivered at the
summer sessions of the University of California, at Berkeley and at Los
Angeles, in the summer of 1918. We are printing them, however, so that
the information in them can be more widely distributed, since they are
the outgrowth of almost a quarter of a century spent in work for the
blind, and were written from the standpoint of a blind person, seeking
to better the condition of the blind. They were addressed not to the
blind, but to the seeing public, for the benefit that will accrue to the
blind from a better understanding of their problems.
The successful work of Miss Foley as a student in the California School
for the Blind, as a volunteer teacher, and in recent years as home
teacher for the California State Library, makes these lectures
particularly important and authoritative.
MILTON J. FERGUSON,
State Librarian.
THE PSYCHOLOGY OF BLINDNESS.
In view of the widespread interest now manifested in the blind and their
problems--an interest deepened by reports from the warring countries--I
feel that a knowledge of the psychology of blindness should prove of
great help to those wishing to take part in the re-education of the
war-blinded soldiers.
As early as 1773, Diderot wrote an essay on the psychology of blindness,
and, as this essay was written at the very beginning of blind education,
it is interesting to note that his ideas coincide with the most advanced
deductions on the subject today. However, as these deductions are not
very numerous, and as the available literature is very scant, I shall be
obliged to draw largely from my own experience and that of other blind
persons, in presenting the subject to you.
First, let us consider the subject from the point of view of one who has
been blind from early infancy, whose fingers are his eyes, and whose
mental vision enables him to see many things not revealed by physical
sight. A blind man once said, when asked if he would not be glad to have
his eyesight, "to improve the organs I have, would be as good as to give
me that which is wanting in me." This sentence sums up the whole aim of
blind education. Dr. Eichholtz, a noted educator of the blind, says:
"Education of the blind absolutely fails in its object, in so far as it
fails to develop the remaining faculties to compensate for the want of
sight." "Touch and sight must be developed by means which practically in
all respects are dissimilar. A blind man discerns the sensation from the
real presence of an object at his fingers' end, only by the force or
weakness of that very sensation." So, then, let us consider that, to the
blind, fingers are eyes, and remember that they have ten instead of two.
As I have been blind since early infancy, my own case offers an
illustration in point, so I hope you will not misunderstand the
predominance of the personal note in these observations.
Blindness does not lead to any refinement of the senses of touch,
hearing or smell, but to a greater keenness in the interpretation of the
information furnished by these senses. Diderot says, "the help which our
senses reciprocally afford to each other, hinders their improvement,"
and so the person in possession of all the senses regards the blind man
as a marvel of intelligence and skill, just because, on losing his
eyesight, his remaining senses come to the rescue, and he continues to
live and move and have his being without the most precious of all
physical senses. In the world of the blind child eyesight plays no part,
and so the other senses are made to do double duty, and the extent to
which these may be cultivated is limited only by the mentality of the
child, its early training and environment.
I think hearing is the first sense to be cultivated, both in the infant
and the adult suddenly deprived of eyesight. Through its ears, the child
recognizes voices, detects different footfalls, is enabled to measure
distance with a fair degree of accuracy, and can form a very clear idea
as to the shape and dimensions of a room. All this information is
conveyed to the normal child through the eyes. Dr. Illingworth, a noted
educator of the blind in England, says: "Of course, there is no doubt
that blindness tends to a higher and more perfect development of the
sense of hearing, even in the uneducated, on the same principle that
Nature almost always comes to the aid of her children in providing
protective agencies of one kind or another, even in the very lowest
organisms, and, naturally, for those who are blind, the sense of hearing
is the first to fall back upon for this purpose. Thus it becomes more
highly developed, because there is more frequent call upon, and exercise
of, that sense." Another writer has said, "but a distinction should be
made between sensitiveness and an ability to use the sense, between
native sensory capacity of the sense organ, and the acquired ability to
use that capacity."
The second sense to be developed in the blind child is that of touch,
and this development begins at a very early date, supplementing the
sense of hearing. Long before the child is old enough to read, its
fingers have become its eyes, and each of the ten fingers carries its
quota of information to the active brain, the amount and quality of this
information increasing with the mental development. In addition to the
fingers, the nerves of the face and those of the feet contribute their
share of information. The child learns to detect differences in climatic
condition by the feel of the air on its face. I have often heard very
young blind children exclaim, "It feels like rain! It feels like a nice
day! The air feels heavy! The wind feels soft! The wind is rough today!"
The nerves of the feet contribute their share of helpful knowledge,
calling attention to differences in the ground often unnoticed by the
eye, telling whether the path is smooth or rough, grass-grown or
rock-strewn. The auditory and pedal nerves are mutually helpful, the ear
recording and classifying the sounds made by the feet, often guiding
them aright by recalling certain peculiarities of sound--whether the
ground is hollow, whether the sidewalk is of board or cement, and
whether there is a depression here or a raised place there. I often
wonder how deaf-blind people walk as well as they do, when they can not
hear their footfalls. I find walking much more difficult when on a
crowded thoroughfare, or when passing a planing mill or boiler factory.
The last of the trio of senses whose development compensates in large
measure for the want of eyesight, is that of smell. Through this sense,
the child comes very close to the heart of Nature. Of course, the ear is
charmed by the song of birds, the hum of insects, the murmur of wind in
the trees, or the sound of mighty waters. Through the finger-tips, he
learns the shape and size of each flower and shrub and tree, traces the
delicate pattern of ferns, notes wonderful rock formations, and finds
the first blade of tender grass coaxed to the surface by the warmth of
the Spring sunshine. But all this does not bring him the keen pleasure
he experiences when he inhales the fragrance of the rose, the perfume of
flowers with the dew still upon them, the smell of the freshly turned
earth, the newly cut grass, or the blossom laden trees. In the case of
Helen Keller, the olfactory nerves have been cultivated to a very high
degree, and through this sense she is often able to recognize her
friends. A little blind boy once told me that each member of his family
had a distinct odor, by which he could tell things worn by them, or
books they had handled. Laura Bridgeman is said to have selected the
laundry of the pupils in her school by this unusual process. I
frequently astonish my friends by telling them when I pass a drug store
or hospital, a grocery, a confectioner's, or drygoods store, a paint
shop, a florist's stand, or a livery stable. I do not think the blind
have a keener sense of taste than any other class of people, although
this claim is often made, even by the blind themselves.
We have, then, the senses of hearing, touch and smell, each playing its
part in the development of the blind child, and each playing it so well
that the lack of eyesight is not keenly felt in early childhood. Not
until it is old enough to understand the thoughtless remarks of
well-meaning people, to catch the pitying tone, to feel the
compassionate touch, does it realize that this lack of eyesight is to
prove an almost insurmountable barrier to its future success.
I was in my sixth year before I understood the meaning of the word
"blind." Up to that time, I had romped and played with other children,
climbed trees, jumped ditches, accepting bumps and bruises as part of
the game, and having no sense of fear, since some child always held my
hand. In fact, in those days, all the children held each other's hands,
and it was easier going, so. Is it not a pity that, in later life, we
feel so self-reliant we are unwilling to admit that the way could often
be made easier if we resorted to the childish game of holding hands, and
moved forward together as we faced the more serious struggles of life.
My first realization of the meaning of blindness came when, one day,
after hearing some people call me "poor child," and expressing their
sympathy to my mother, I asked if we were very poor, poorer than my
playmates, and why I could not go to school. My mother explained that we
were no poorer than the others, that the ladies did not mean it in that
way, but were sorry that I could not see and did not think I could ever
go to school. But my mother assured me that I was going to school, and
that there I would learn to see with my fingers, better than the ladies
did with their eyes. My childish mind was aroused then, and I asked
every one what it meant to see, and soon realized that I did not know
what "seeing" really was, at least, not in the sense the other children
used the word. I was filled with wonder, since my world had hitherto
seemed so complete--I heard things, or felt things, or smelled things,
and was satisfied--and yet there was another medium of knowledge
entirely unknown to me, and until then unnecessary. How eagerly I looked
forward to the time when I should learn to see and my heart was filled
with childish rapture on the day when I entered the school for the blind
at Berkeley. My first question, on meeting the Superintendent, was, "are
you going to teach me to see?" How well he performed this task, how
wisely he guided my childish feet, how carefully he developed my eager
mind, stimulated my ambition, and renewed my faltering courage, I did
not realize until I was called upon to face life, with its trials and
opportunities. And here, where his work is so well known, I wish to pay
my tribute of love and gratitude to Dr. Warring Wilkinson. He was my
great-hearted, great-souled teacher, father and friend.
When I found myself in a place with children some of whom were, like
myself, blind from infancy, and others whose eyesight had been lost
through various accidents, and yet others who could see to go about, to
tell the color of our ribbons, and advise us of the approach of a matron
or teacher my wonder grew apace. This process of learning to see was
varied and absorbing, but I soon found that it had its limitations, and
that, after all, eyes were very useful possessions, and without them I
could know nothing of color, could not picture the sky, or any of the
heavenly bodies; nor could I distinguish different people, unless I
heard their voices or steps, though no two had faces alike. I found,
too, that some children who could see colors, could not recognize faces,
and I came to realize that vision, however slight, was greatly to be
desired. I could distinguish light from darkness, and this enabled me to
locate doors and windows; but color, with its varying shades, was then,
and is now, a mystery profound. But in my desire to see, to be just like
other children, I resolved to learn all I could about color, and so I
memorized the list of colors, which ones harmonized, which were most
pleasing to the eye, which were bright, which produced a sombre
impression. Thus I soon learned to speak of color with a degree of
intelligence, and to select my gowns with a view to pleasing the eyes of
my friends. I soon learned to associate certain phrases with certain
colors--for instance, blue as the sky, green as grass, yellow as gold,
black as night, red as fire, and brown as a berry. I also learned that a
color had a variety of shades, and that at times colors were changeable,
it being difficult to distinguish blue from green at night. The sky,
with its starred phenomena, was even harder to conceive, and I could not
understand how clouds obscured the sun, or how old Sol could put the
blackest clouds to rout.
My ears and fingers continued to flood my mind with knowledge, and the
want of eyesight did not distress me. When I touched an object, or
listened to a lesson, my mind stored it away for future reference, and
often now, when recalling some facts in history or geography, I can hear
the voice of the teacher who read the particular passage.
I was eight years old when I first examined a horse, although I was
familiar with the sound of its feet on the pavement, and knew whether it
walked, trotted or galloped. The horse I examined had been driven a long
distance, and so was very warm; when my hand was placed upon its mane,
the hair was damp and clung to the back, and there was an odor of
steaming flesh. A fly was tormenting the animal, and, as it tossed its
head impatiently, I could hear the rattle of harness, and the sound of
its restive foot upon the ground. These impressions have always remained
with me. My knowledge of the horse was acquired through the senses of
hearing, touch and smell. And so with the cow. I can hear its low "moo,
moo," hear the milk dropping into the pail, feel the hard outer shell of
the horns, and catch the odor that is ever present in the cow's domain.
The cat and dog have their peculiarities, too--the mewing of the cat,
and the sounds heard when it purrs while washing its face--the dog's
quick bark, and the sound it makes when panting for breath, as it rests
after a long chase. I know the animals have different colors, peculiar
to them, but this knowledge has no place in my mental conception of
them.
In judging people, the voice is my infallible guide. I am instantly
attracted or repelled by a voice, and my estimate of character is rarely
incorrect. By the voice I am able to form a very accurate idea as to
height, weight and age, so here again I do not feel the lack of
eyesight. The voice is an unfailing index to character, and the trained
ear is quick to catch the slightest variation in tone, and can detect
traits and moods hidden from the eye, because not registered upon the
face. There is a strong voice, a brave voice, a voice full of hope and
cheer; a tired voice, a crafty voice, a voice full of dull despair. And
so here again I do not feel the lack of eyesight in noting differences
in my fellow men. I know that there are distinguishing marks, that
heads are shaped differently, and that hair and eyes have different
colors, corresponding to the various types, as blondes or brunettes. All
this I know abstractly, but it is just one of the bits of information
tucked away in memory's storehouse. I do not suppose many of you have
ever heard a smile. I have. I hear a smile almost before the lips can
register it, and to me the sound is as musical as the laughter of a very
young child. I think hearing a smile must be like seeing the light in
the eyes, and so lack of eyesight is no deprivation in this connection.
All during my days at school, I went on acquiring knowledge, learning to
see many things, scarcely realizing the handicap of blindness, because
every help was given me, and I was surrounded by those whose condition
was like my own. But when I went out into the world, I found that many
seeing people, so called, had very little vision, although their
eyesight was perfect. I found, too, that, although I knew many things,
and was well equipped to earn my own living, my lack of eyesight was
responsible for a corresponding lack of confidence upon the part of the
public. This was a great disappointment, for I knew I could succeed, if
only some one would give me the opportunity. After waiting twenty years,
the State Library gave me the opportunity. This lack of confidence upon
the part of the public is one of the most depressing features of adult
blindness. Thus far, I have considered the subject from the point of
view of one who has been blind from early infancy, but now I shall view
it from the standpoint of one deprived of eyesight in adult life, who is
taking his first step in the dark.
M. Diderot says: "The help which the senses reciprocally afford to each
other hinders their improvement," and so the adult whose movements are
no longer directed by his eyes, feels utterly helpless and bewildered,
as one who finds himself on a strange road, very late at night, with no
ray of light to guide him. As the blinded soldier is uppermost in our
thought today, I am considering the mental condition of an adult
suddenly deprived of eyesight, not that of the man whose blindness has
come on gradually.
The first sensation when thus plunged into total darkness is that of
unreality, and, just as the light of day dispels the gloom of night, so
the sufferer clings to the hope that any minute he may open his eyes,
and find things as they were before the darkness settled down, with all
its weird shadows, to fill his soul with dread. The continued darkness
causes a feeling of depression and repression, very hard to combat, and
so the sufferer is in need of "first aid"--in need of a friendly hand
and a cheery voice to help him through these trying days. Of this
period, M. Brieux, Director of Re-education of the Blinded Soldiers in
Paris, says: "The blind are, for the time being, put back into the
helpless condition of children. They have to be sustained and given a
new education for life. They have to begin many things all over again.
Spiritually, they have lost their bearings, and are drifting about in
restless anguish. Physically, their whole organism has been shaken by
the wound they have received, and must have time after such a violent
shock to recover its equilibrium. Their power of judgment has often been
temporarily destroyed. They are weak in body and uncertain in mind. This
double weakness lays on those who surround them a double duty. Much will
have been done when their material welfare has been assured, but the
responsibility will not have been discharged unless they have also
attained to tranquility of soul and a sense of their own dignity. One
must have confidence, in order to give them confidence. Most of us have
no idea what powers to meet new demands are inherent in our organs. We
have within us capacities unknown even to ourselves, inactive, so long
as they are not necessary, awake and efficient, as soon as there is need
of them. They are reserves which most of the time we never call on. They
are a hoard which we do not touch. Our resources and our power of life
are greater than we imagine. The sudden loss of sight gives, after a
time, something like the lash of a whip to the whole organism. All the
other senses are roused to greater sharpness. When the blind soldier
fully realizes this, he will perhaps arrive at a state in which I have
seen some men blind from birth, the state of being proud of being blind.
Why should they not be proud, when they feel that they are as capable of
accomplishing certain things, of practicing certain trades as other men?
If, with their lessened powers, lacking the power that we consider of
supreme importance, they can do things as well as we, are they not,
therefore, cleverer than we? Instead of talking to them of resignation,
incite them to revolt at the limitations of their condition. Inspire
them to conquer circumstances. Insist that they can. Picture life to
them, its beauty and its power, and tell them that it is good."
In administering to the needs of this readjustment period, the volunteer
should be an optimist, and should exercise common sense in guiding the
adult over the first lap of the unfamiliar road. I have advised the
volunteers who are now in France, and those preparing to go there, to
take writing boards, games, bright, pithy stories, and a lot of nonsense
verse. I have told these Red Cross workers that they themselves must
know how to laugh, must be able to rise above the horrors about them,
for they are there to serve heroes, not cowards, heroes who will laugh
with a sob in their throats; heroes who, after a short respite, will
reach for a new sword with which to resume the battle of life. God grant
we may have the new swords ready for them--swords of hope, swords of
confidence, swords from which all the old prejudice and misconception
have been removed--swords of occupation and independence!
Of this readjustment period, Clarence Hawkes, the well-known blind
naturalist who lost his eyesight at the age of fifteen, says: "the loss
of eyesight seems, for a time, to upset the perfect working of the
nervous system. The nerves have to adjust themselves to new conditions,
and rearrange the channels of communication. On first losing one's
eyesight, one is impressed with the fact that all noises sound much too
loud, and it takes several months for sounds to get toned down to their
normal volume, and one never quite overcomes the tendency to jump at
sudden sharp noises."
As to the blind child the senses of touch, hearing and smell prove
efficient carriers of knowledge, so these senses come to the rescue of
the blind adult, and compensate, in large measure, for the loss of
eyesight. Training does not increase the sensitiveness of a sense organ.
It merely puts this capacity to better use. So the blind adult does not
suddenly come into possession of wonderful powers, but, in time, his
"acquired sense perception" enables him to do many things hitherto
considered impossible of accomplishment. But to the casual observer,
anything done without eyesight is considered little short of marvelous.
The adult soon learns to recognize voices and footsteps, to measure
distance with a fair degree of accuracy, and, in many cases, to go about
alone, with only the friendly cane for company. Many of the blind have
what is defined as a "sense of obstacles," and it is sometimes called a
sixth sense. Dr. Illingworth defines this sense as "an exceedingly
subtle kind of instinct that enables a blind individual to detect the
presence or proximity of a person or object under circumstances of
absolute silence, and very often to know the nature of the object." Dr.
Illingworth believes that this remarkable power is of electric origin
and latent in everybody. This power seems to have its seat in the nerves
of the face, and is possessed by the blind adult as well as the blind
child. This sense of obstacles, this "touch at a distance," enables a
person to tell when he is passing tall buildings, fences, trees, and
many other obstructions. Mr. Hawkes says: "The sixth sense, if such it
be, probably depends upon three conditions--sound, the compression of
the air, and whether the face be free to use its sensitive feelers. This
subject is still in its infancy, and time may reveal many interesting
facts concerning it; but for our purpose it is enough that the blind
have a sense of obstacles, and let us regard it as another proof that we
are wonderfully made and divinely led."
In a surprisingly short time, the blind adult becomes accustomed to the
new conditions, the various organs perform their new functions, and he
finds life in sightless land to be, in many respects, very like life in
that world of light and color, now only a memory. But a very living
memory--enabling him to recall the faces of his friends, the glow of
sunset, or the rosy light of dawn with the eye of the mind whose vision
is keener, clearer than mere physical sight. This ability to call up
mental pictures is yet another of the compensations, and these pictures
never fade, but come, when familiar scenes or objects are suggested. The
adult is deeply interested in form and color, and likes to have them
minutely described. This fact is not well understood by sighted friends,
and so the blind are often deprived of details which would give them
keenest pleasure, because friends fear to recall painful memories. In
this connection, and by way of conclusion, I shall give a poem written
by one of our pupils, who lost his eyes when a drummer boy in the Civil
War. This man learned to read raised type after being blind fifty-three
years. His poem follows:
A BLIND MAN'S SOLILOQUY.
What, then, is blindness? This and nothing more:
The window blinds are closed, the outer door
Close shut and bolted, and the curtains drawn.
No more comes light of stars nor morning's dawn,
Nor one lone ray from day's meridian light.
And men pass by and say "within is night!"
Not so; for Memory's lamp, with steady blaze,
Shines on the hallowed scenes of other days,
While Fancy's torch, prophetic, flashing through
The vistas of the future, brings to view
Scenes passing strange, but scenes that yet shall be,
Which I can see, but which he can not see
Whose dazzled orbs find nothing hid away
Beyond the brilliant margin of today.
To me the radiant world forever gleams
With the rich halo of my boyish dreams;
The faces I have loved no wrinkles know;
My dear ones' eyes ne'er lose their cherished glow;
The hair of gold ne'er turns to silver hair;
The young are young, the fair are always fair.
With reason strengthened, feelings more intense,
The senses, multiples of former sense,
Vicarious servants for dead sight become.
I see the city in the city's hum;
I catch its subtle undertone of trade;
I hear of fortunes lost and fortunes made,
In sounds to him a mystery profound
Who, seeing, knows not vision muffles sound.
Distinct to him must sound become, to whom
Life walks in darkness--call it not in gloom.
'Tis only an exchange of good for good,
A new plant growing where the old one stood,
Old blessings taken, and new blessings given;
Sweet compensation, thou wert born in heaven!
There is not silence unto him whose soul
In darkness sits and listens. Like a scroll
On which the secrets of the world are traced,
Blindness is but a sea-shell kindly placed
Beside the ear, and in its varying tone,
Who will, may make life's secret all his own.
And thus misfortunes bless, for blindness brings
A power to pierce the depths of hidden things,
To walk where reason and fair fancy lead,
To read the riddle of men's thoughts, to read
The soul's arcana in each subtler tone,
And make man's joys and sorrows all my own.
Nor can I sit repining at my lot
As bitter or unjust, or curse the shot
Which tore away my sight. The world is kind
And gentle to her sons. Though I am blind,
Smooth paths of enterprise have always stood
Open for me, and, doing what I could,
With hand or brain, with simple earnestness,
Have gathered what was due me of success.
O you, who sit in darkness, moaning o'er
Your dead and vanished vision, mourn no more!
Keep in the current. Be you brave and strong!
The busy world is singing--join the song,
And you shall find, if you no duty shirk,
Who will may prosper, if he do but work.
And as a last thought, permit me to quote the concluding words of
Clarence Hawkes' wonderful book, "Hitting the Dark Trail": "If night has
overtaken me at noonday, yet have I found beauty in night. The sun at
noontide showed me the world and all its wonder but the night has shown
me the universe, the countless stars and illimitable spaces, the
vastness and the wonder of all life. The perfect day only showed me
man's world, but the night showed me God's Universe."
THE BLIND CHILD AND ITS DEVELOPMENT.
As a foreword to this lecture, I shall quote from a paper entitled
"Blind Children And How To Care For Them," written by Dr. F. Park Lewis,
an eminent oculist of New York City, and a man who has devoted much time
and thought to the blind and their needs.
Dr. Lewis says: "It is the mind and the spirit which control, and when
these are great, they dominate and rise superior to mere physical
deficiencies. The inspiration of great ideals must be held out to the
blind, even more than to the seeing, from the very beginning. It is not
enough that the blind man or woman shall have physical strength, but his
training must be so well balanced as to give him poise as well as vigor.
It does not suffice that the blind man shall be as well educated as his
fellow who sees. Handicapped by the loss of the most important of his
special senses, he must supplement this deficiency by a better training
of his mind and body. It is not enough that he should have the good
character of the average man. His word and his reputation should be
beyond question. He should be independent, and proudly unwilling, except
when absolutely necessary, to accept that for which he can not, in some
way, return an equivalent. He must be taught to reason with clearness
and logical precision, for he must succeed by the aid of his mentality
and character, rather than by his manual exertions. These facts are
emphasized here, because if such qualities are to be secured, the
training which produces them should begin in the cradle." If I could
bring it about, a copy of the foregoing lines should be framed and
placed on the desk of every teacher of blind children, and such teachers
requested to read these words at least once each day.
In considering the development of the blind child, we must recognize the
fact that, in mental attainment, at least, he is the peer of the child
who sees. But in order to bring this about, the early years of the child
must be carefully supervised, and his training calculated to fit him for
the tremendous task awaiting him, a task requiring the courage of a
Spartan, the wisdom of Solomon, and the patience of Job. Unfortunately,
the parents of blind children rarely understand the importance of this
early training. They are too often too absorbed in their own sorrow at
having a child so afflicted, too sure that loss of eyesight means loss
of mental vigor, to realize that their own attitude, their own
self-pity, may prove a greater handicap to the child than blindness
itself. If a child lives in a house where he is waited upon, and made to
feel that mere existence and the ability to eat and sleep are all that
may reasonably be expected of him, and that he must depend upon his
family for everything, he will grow up helpless, selfish and awkward,
and no amount of later training will entirely counteract the pernicious
effect produced in these early, formative years. When placed in school
with other children, he will be very sensitive to correction, and may
become morbid and unhappy, thus giving a wrong impression of the blind
in general. If, on the other hand, the child is taught to be
self-helpful, permitted to join in the work and play of other children,
made to feel that, with greater effort, he may do just what they do, he
will soon become cheerfully alert and hopefully alive to all the
possibilities of his peculiar position. It is true that natural
disposition has much to do with one's outlook on life, but cheerfulness
and a certain form of stoicism may be cultivated, and to the blind child
these qualities are absolutely essential if he is to attain any measure
of success in later life. It would be foolish for me to ignore the
difficulties and limitations in the path of everyone deprived of
eyesight, either in infancy or adult life, but I know that these very
limitations and difficulties may aid in forming a character whose quiet
strength and unfaltering courage can not fail to win the admiration and
co-operation of all who witness its tireless efforts for success. But in
order to achieve success, let me repeat that such training must begin at
the earliest possible date.
You may never have thought of it, but the blind child has no model, no
pattern. It must acquire everything. It learns nothing by imitation. The
normal child copies the gestures and mannerisms of its parents, and so
learns many things unconsciously, and with little or no instruction. But
the blind child must be taught to smile, to shake hands, to hold up its
head, to walk properly, to present and receive objects, and the thousand
and one details of daily living so naturally acquired under ordinary
conditions. Long before it has reached school age, the blind child
should be permitted to romp with other children, to take bumps and
bruises as part of the game, and should be encouraged to run, jump rope,
and join in all harmless sports, thus acquiring that freedom of
movement, muscular co-ordination, and fearless bearing, so necessary if
he is to cope successfully with the difficulties awaiting him. His toys
should be chosen to instruct as well as amuse, and in this way he should
be made familiar with the different forms, the square, the circle, the
oblong, the triangle and the pyramid. The Goddard form board and
Montessori insets are invaluable at this period. He should be trained to
recognize the difference between smooth and rough, soft and hard, light
and heavy, thick and thin. He should be given plasticine or clay with
which to model, and be urged to reproduce his toys, thus assisting in
the muscular development and intelligent use of his fingers--another
essential equipment. As soon as possible, the process of dressing should
be taught. The child may learn this more readily if a doll is used as a
model, and he is required to put on its clothes each morning, and remove
them just before his own bedtime. This important process should be made
as interesting as possible, and each successful effort greeted
enthusiastically, each failure carefully pointed out, its cause
discovered, and its repetition prevented, when possible. In this way he
acquires system, learns to put his clothes away in a certain place, and
to locate them again without assistance. His little fingers should be
kept constantly employed stringing beads, putting pegs in a wooden
board, cutting paper with kindergarten scissors, and modelling with
plasticine. If thus occupied, he will escape the mannerisms peculiar to
the blind child whose only amusement has been to put his fingers in his
eyes, shake his hand before his face to see the shadow, rock his body
back and forth, and whirl around in dizzy circles. I found just such a
child, a girl of eight years, who had never done anything for herself,
and whose parents refused to send her to school. It took me some time to
win the child's confidence, but when I did, I had no trouble to correct
many of her habits, and I soon taught her to dress herself and learn to
read. When I asked her what she did all day before I brought her the
beads and the little scissors, and she answered, "Oh, I just sat in my
rocker, and rocked back and forth, shaking my hands." And when I asked
why she did not play and act like other children, she began to cry, and
said, "Nobody never told me nothin' else to do till you came."
When six years old, a blind child should be sent to the nearest state
school for the blind, or to a special class, if there is such a
department in the public schools of the city in which it lives. The
necessity of sending the child to school thus early can not be too
strongly emphasized, and education of blind children should be made
compulsory, just as in the case of ordinary children. This is a measure
which should be considered by all those interested in child welfare. The
unwillingness of parents to send their children away to boarding school
at so early an age is one of the strongest arguments in favor of the
special classes in public schools. But it is not possible to have such
classes in the small cities and towns, and very often the home
conditions are often unsuitable for the proper development of a blind
child, and so, in every state, a residential school is an absolute
necessity.
Such a school should consist of a kindergarten, primary, intermediate
and high school department, and the life of the children should conform
as closely as possible to that of a large family in a well-ordered home.
Those in charge of the children should be impressed with the
responsibility of the task they have undertaken and should do their
utmost to assist in the work of fitting the little ones for the
preliminary skirmish in the battle of life. All children should have
constant supervision during the formative period, but more especially
does the blind child need watchful guidance in his work and at his play.
Little habits must be broken, awkward movements discouraged, self
confidence fostered, and every effort made to develop the child along
sane and normal lines, so that, in later life, he may have the poise and
bearing so often lacking in those who are blind from early childhood.
It is sometimes claimed that it is not essential that a teacher of the
blind be possessed of more than an ordinary education, and this is why
so many schools for the blind fail to turn out capable, cultured,
self-reliant boys and girls. Dr. Illingworth, the noted English
educator, gives the following qualifications for a teacher of the blind:
"a sound education, self-control in a high degree, a boundless
enthusiasm, a determination to succeed, should be kind and sympathetic,
and at the same time firm, and should be true to his word." These are
qualifications which should be possessed alike by the blind teacher and
sighted teacher, and only teachers so qualified should be entrusted with
the divine privilege of bringing light to the minds of these helpless
little ones. I wish to add a few more qualifications to Dr.
Illingworth's list, and they are these: a broad, comprehending sympathy,
a sense of humor, and a heart brimming with love for all children--a
heart capable of sharing the joy and grief of every child heart. And I
wish to emphasize, in a special manner, one of the doctor's
qualifications--namely, "a boundless enthusiasm," and to add yet
another, a living, breathing faith that teaching is a divine calling,
and that the opportunities for good or ill are limitless. To be
successful, a teacher should be able to bring himself to the level of
his pupil. I once heard a man say of a great teacher, "he had the heart
of a boy, and understood our every thought and feeling."
In many schools for the blind the inspirational value of a blind teacher
is overlooked or ignored. In this connection Dr. Illingworth says: "it
is almost as impossible for a seeing teacher to realize what it is to be
blind, and know all the difficulties of his blind pupil, as for a
congenitally blind person to enter into and share with one who can see,
the beauty of a glorious picture or landscape." Dr. Illingworth
continues, "it takes a seeing teacher to become what might be called a
naturalized blind person, that is, one able to see things from the blind
point of view; though he is never in the favorable position of a blind
teacher who can say to a child, 'do it so; I can do it--I am blind like
you.'" In the residential schools Dr. Illingworth recommends that the
ratio of blind teachers to seeing should be one to two. He says, "their
very presence is a continual inspiration and incentive to the pupils,"
and he adds, "the education of blind children in those subjects in which
the methods of instruction are necessarily and essentially totally
different from those of the seeing, is best in the hands of a properly
qualified blind teacher." The wisdom of this recommendation is
recognized in the largest schools of England and France, and some of
them have blind superintendents as well. America is slower to recognize
the ability of the blind, but this period of reconstruction and
readjustment through which we are passing may quicken their sense of the
importance of employing blind teachers and superintendents, whenever
possible. Superintendents are no longer required to perform clerical
work. All these details are left to stenographers and bookkeepers.
Neither is the superintendent expected to teach. But he should be a
scholar, a man of culture, with broad vision and high ideals, and with a
sympathetic knowledge of the difficulties to be met and overcome by the
students in his care. It should be the aim of the residential school to
train its pupils along lines best suited to their individual needs, and,
when possible, to fit them to become partially self-supporting, if not
wholly so.
The child in a residential school knows very little of life outside the
buildings, knows little of the trials and struggles going on in its own
home, perhaps. Its days are well ordered. It is clothed and fed, and is
not expected to practice self-denial or to exercise any of the qualities
of courage or fortitude which the exigencies of later life demand.
Clarence Hawkes says: "courage a blind person should have above
everything else. He must be literally steeped in it. It will not do to
have just the ordinary, temporary supply allotted to the average seeing
man--he will run out in a single day. But he must have courage that is
perennial, a ceaseless fount of it--courage for the morning, courage for
the noonday, and courage for the evening. Life is a battle and a
struggle which never ends. He must fight for hope and cheer, laughter
and happiness, every inch of the way along life's path." Another writer
has said, "courage is the standing army of the soul, keeping it from
conquest, pillage and slavery." But the child in the residential school
knows little of all this, has little occasion to know. Dr. Park Lewis
says: "The added importance of having blind children educated with those
who see is, that they may realize more keenly the real difficulties of
life which are to be met, and which have to be overcome. They will not
always find kindness and courtesy, and they must be prepared to adjust
themselves to the harder conditions when they arise."
When the child finishes the required curriculum of the residential
school, and goes forth to his place in the world, he is often unprepared
for the struggle, unable to adjust himself to the altered conditions,
lacking in patience, perseverance and pluck; the "three P's" of which
Clarence Hawkes so often speaks, and without which he claims no blind
person can successfully overcome his handicap. The need for this
preparation is better known to a blind teacher or superintendent, and
for that reason, if for no other, his presence in the school is
desirable. He knows the value of higher education to the blind, and he
will urge the pupils to fit themselves for college, reminding them that
blindness is a physical, not a mental, handicap. And who is better
qualified to fire the youthful mind, to strengthen the wavering
ambition, and arouse the latent enthusiasm, than one who has made the
effort, has fought the fight, and won gloriously!
Although Dr. Warring Wilkinson, who was Superintendent of the California
School for the Blind for over forty years, and his brother Charles, who
taught for the same period--although neither of these men was blind,
they were true teachers and college men, and understood the value of
scholastic attainment to the blind. As far back as I can remember, they
urged us all to prepare for college, and, to stimulate this desire, they
kept in close touch with the work of the university, and often brought
essays written by the advanced students, to encourage us in our literary
efforts, assuring us with a little practice we could write as well.
Often, too, they would take classes to hear a lecture on some subject
under discussion, thus forging the first link between the school and the
university, in whose shadow our young lives were spent. In preparing us
for competition with seeing students, Mr. Charles Wilkinson used to say:
"never ask for quarter because of your blindness. Do your work so well
that people will say not, 'how wonderful this is considering your
affliction,' but 'how perfect in spite of it!'" This thought has
remained constantly with me, strengthening and encouraging me, enabling
me to overcome difficulties that would otherwise have been impossible to
surmount.
It is of vital importance that the blind should have pleasant,
well-modulated voices, and for this reason elocution should be included
in the course of study. In recent years a number of blind students in
eastern schools have been trained as readers and public entertainers, a
line of work in which eyesight is not an essential factor. Reading aloud
should be encouraged among the pupils, and frequent speed tests given,
thus stimulating in them a desire for reading.
The school at Berkeley has included business methods in its course of
study, and this is an excellent thing, because the day is not far
distant when the ability of the blind to fill positions as typewriters,
stenographers, telephone and dictaphone operators, and salesmen, will be
recognized. And when this time comes, let us hope that our young people
may be ready and eager to prove their worth in these lines of endeavor.
If the students are made to feel that they are blazing a trail, and
making it less difficult for others to follow, their ultimate success is
assured.
Having outlined the aim and purpose of the residential school, and shown
it to be a necessary factor in the education of the blind in every
state, I wish to call attention to some of the advantages to be derived
from coeducation of blind and seeing children.
As early as 1900 Chicago started a special class for blind children as a
part of its public school system, thus inaugurating the movement in this
country, if not in the world. Since that time many large cities,
including Boston, New York, Jersey City, Rochester, Milwaukee, Detroit,
Cleveland, Toledo, Cincinnati and Los Angeles, have started similar
classes, carrying the children from the kindergarten, through elementary
and high school, and preparing them for college. The class in Chicago
was started through the efforts of John B. Curtis, a blind teacher, and
the Superintendent of Public School classes of Cleveland, Toledo and
Cincinnati. Mr. R. B. Irwin, is a blind man, and so it is not strange
that a blind teacher of Los Angeles should be the first to recognize the
need of such a class in this state.
The State Library was glad to further this forward movement in the
education of blind children, and permitted me to devote a great deal of
time to organizing the class, and it provided the books and some of the
apparatus for carrying on the work for the first year. It still supplies
many of the books, though the Board of Education provides its own
apparatus. Dr. Albert Shiels, Superintendent of the Los Angeles City
Schools, was glad to have a class for the blind in the city, since he
has seen how successfully the work was carried on in New York, where
more than two hundred children attend special classes, and this in spite
of the fact that New York has two state schools for the blind. When the
home conditions are favorable, and a special class is available, it is
wiser to permit the blind child to remain with its parents, to attend
school each morning with its brothers and sisters. In this way there is
no break in the family relation and the child does not grow indifferent
to home ties, as so often happens when he is sent to a residential
school. Mr. Irwin says "the special class is the twentieth century
emphasis on the integrity of the home."