White Cane Magic

I was given my first white cane when I was 12 or 13 years old. The powers that be suggested that I carry a short 'symbol cane' to let everyone know that I might need help crossing roads and finding my way in busy areas. I think I took the cane out with me once. I could see well enough to notice the stares of pity or mockery which I was getting from all and sundry. Adolescent girls are sensitive enough about their appearance; I was not ready to be an object of public scrutiny. I hated this cane. It was a tangible sign of the stigma of blindness which I was doing all I could to distance myself from. My aim was to 'pass' as a sighted person. I would rather appear clumsy, absent-minded, stupid, drunk than blind.

(Portrait by James Kent, March 2012)

But when my cataracts stared to impede my already very limited vision a couple of years ago, I was advised to use a cane at night for my own safety. Not a 'symbol cane' this time but a 'long cane' which I would use to sweep the ground in front of me, checking for obstacles, curbs, steps. I have almost no sight in the dark and so I reluctantly agreed. I began cane training with a lovely and very patient teacher who understood why taking the cane out always made me cry. Funnily enough, I was a natural apparently, and soon began using my cane, under cover of darkness, and only when alone, to get myself home from work or out at night.

About four months ago I realised something that I wish I'd known when I was 12 or 13. I discovered that blindness isn't a bad thing. Sure, it can be annoying in lots of little ways, but it is not a disaster or a tragedy. In fact it is an exciting and interesting way of being in the world. This liberating realisation made me see my cane in a very different way: not as a sign of stigma but as a magic wand. When I have my cane with me I feel like I am enclosed in a wonderful bubble of kindness. I use it most of the time now, day or night, with others or alone. People who probably used to think I was shy or standoffish now know that the reason I haven't said hello to them is because I have no idea who they are. Strangers who once tutted at me for being clumsy or not looking where I was going, now thoughtfully move to one side to let me pass. Some people say that using a cane makes them feel vulnerable. But it makes me feel much safer. I was walking through a decidedly dodgy area of Paris in February when a Parisian youth offered to help me across a busy road. A couple of years ago I would have been terrified by such an encounter, but with my cane I knew that if he tried anything untoward, a dozen passers-by would immediately leap to my aid.

Using a cane is not a sign of weakness or helplessness. It does not make me feel isolated or stigmatised. It is a liberating and eye-opening experience which has shown me a much nicer side of human nature. It has also given me the confidence to travel alone and to strike up conversations with strangers. I had at least three interesting conversations in Paris that I would not have had otherwise. It also functions as a reminder, to the world at large, that disability is not something to be ashamed of. I am proud of the way I look and I want everyone who sees me with my cane to think again about their own (mis) conceptions of disability.