LEADERSHIPThe fact that all officers and board members of the American Action Fund for Blind Children and Adults are themselves blind and serve as volunteers is of central importance to the overall philosophy and operation of the organization. It means that those forming policy and establishing priorities know from first-hand experience the problems blind people face and the kind of help that is needed. Barbara Loos is president of the American Action Fund for Blind Children and Adults. In many ways her life and the experiences she has had are typical not only of the leadership of the Action Fund but also of those whom it serves, as well. She spends a great deal of time working to help make the future brighter for blind children growing up today than it was for the blind of her generation. Recently she spoke to a group of parents of blind children about her own upbringing, and how her parents laid the foundation for her independence as an adult. Here is what she had to say: I have always been blind. My sister Laurie is also blind. Our older brother Lani isn't. There was, to our parents' knowledge, no history of blindness in our family. Concerning my sister, the doctors said they didn't know the cause of blindness but thought there was probably a one in a thousand chance of recurrence. Since I arrived—blind—fourteen months later, either I'm one in a thousand, or they didn't know what they were talking about. All of us are now grown, married, and have children—none of whom are blind. So, you may ask, what are blind babies like? If my sister and I were typical (and I believe we were), it is as impossible to generalize about blind babies as it is to do so about any babies. My sister, from what I remember Mom telling me, crawled, walked, and talked at about the same time as neighbor kids her age. She ran away from home more than once while still in diapers, handled everything she could get to, was quick with her fingers, questioned incessantly, and insisted on a prominent place in the world. I, on the other hand, neither walked nor talked until I was about two; showed little visible evidence that I was particularly curious about my environment; and was clumsy and awkward with my hands and body—breaking many things with which I came into contact. As toddlers and preschoolers, we continued to show contrasts. Laurie, at age two, walked along the piano, reaching up to pick out melodies on the keyboard. She generally chose gentle play— interacting with others, real or imaginary—and was afraid of high slides, going on carnival rides, and the like. I loved rough play— wrestling, running hard, swinging and/or climbing high, flipping over and off of bars, throwing and catching balls—and I loved high slides, carnival rides, and the like. My point is that blind babies, toddlers, preschoolers—in fact all blind children, youth, and adults—have as wide a range of interests, abilities, and approaches to life as do others—even when raised in the same family. As I mentioned before, there was no known history of blindness in our family. Mom and Dad knew nothing about blindness. They struggled with stereotypes as all of us do, but their hope for us was the same as that for our brother—that we would eventually be contributing and fulfilled adults, no longer needing or wanting to live under their care. Mom, the more verbally expressive of our parents, said there were many times when she didn't understand how we would or could do things, and it scared her to have us try. But she didn't stand in our way. She learned Braille so that we could correspond privately. She persistently went to bat for us when we were left out or mistreated—not in ways which made us dependent upon her, but in ways which preserved respect and dignity for everyone, and provided us with experience in everything from fielding questions to finding alternative methods for doing things ordinarily done with the use of sight. Dad showed his acceptance of us in other ways. He showed us how things worked. He pointed out nonvisual qualities of things generally perceived visually, like the contrasting cool and hot pavement where the shadow passed. He made us doll cribs and a playhouse, and shelves that would accommodate Braille books. Dad also took me fishing, showed me how to shoot baskets, and encouraged my interests in competitive sports. My sister and I were given hands-on experiences whenever their availability and our interests coincided. I was a very shy child, and sometimes my self-consciousness prevented me from taking full advantage of these opportunities. If Laurie was along, I generally asked her later about whatever we had seen, and she would explain it in detail—sometimes creating a replica to show me. Underlying all of these things were our parents' respect for us as people and their encouragement toward our finding a place in society—not a pigeonhole created by them or anyone else, but a place we would learn as others do. That genuine attitude of respect and belief in our worth and dignity did more than all the experiences and skills combined in allowing us to grow and become contributing members of society. Now that I am an adult, I continue to be grateful to my parents for the upbringing I received. Barbara Loos is a lifetime resident of the state of Nebraska and a graduate of the University of Nebraska. She has served as Director of the Nebraska State Rehabilitation Center for Blind Adults. Barbara chose to become a full time mother and homemaker when she and her husband Jim had their first child in 1981. Widowed suddenly and unexpectedly in 1989, Barbara is raising her two children, Marsha and John, alone and continues to be an acknowledged leader in affairs of the blind—both in Nebraska and on the national level. |