solid. How will you know these things if you can’t read and write Braille?”
None of that had occurred to Natalie.
“What if your technology breaks down or loses its battery charge? How are you going to take notes that you can read back?”
“I don’t know,” Natalie answered.
“If you lose your sight and you can’t read Braille, Natalie, you will be considered illiterate.”
Here we go again, Natalie thought, jumping to the worst possible conclusion. She plucked a water bottle from her backpack on the floor beside her.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Natalie took a sip of water and looked away.
“Is it because learning Braille would be admitting that you have a serious vision problem?” Miss Karen asked.
Natalie’s eyes widened and she swung her head around. “Miss Karen, you don’t understand how hard this has been.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Natalie, because I do understand. I lost my sight when I was fifteen years old. Like you, I had to make the transition from reading print to recognizing Braille code. It was difficult—losing my sight, learning Braille, learning to use a cane. I won’t kid you. Many times I wanted to give up.”
Miss Karen was fifteen years old when she lost sight? A swarm of questions raced through Natalie’s mind. How did it happen? What was it like? Was she devastated?
“Everything may seem overwhelming right now,” Miss Karen went on. “You just have to take things one at a time. At least with the Braille, there is a system that you can learn, Natalie.”
Miss Karen seemed so together—so upbeat—how did she ever get to that point?
There was another long pause. Miss Karen cleared her throat. “So. Are you envisioning the Braille cell?” She was going to continue the lesson. “The raised dots numbered one through six?”
“Yes,” Natalie replied. She should at least try. “One through six.”
“The first ten letters of the alphabet use only the top four of the six dots in the cell,” Miss Karen noted. “The next ten letters, K through T , are identical to A through J , except that they have an additional dot in position three. . . .”
That night, while some of the kids went to the gym to play Bingo (with Braille cards), Natalie stayed behind in her room. Her roommate was sitting in the hall with her cell phone, talking to her boyfriend, so Natalie figured it was a good time to practice. The sooner she learned everything, she figured, the sooner she could return home for good. So she picked up the heavy gray Brailler that she’d been tripping over the last few days and set it on her desk. There was a short stack of heavy Braille paper in the desk drawer. She rolled a piece into the Brailler.
The Brailler worked like a typewriter, except that it had six tabs, one for each dot of the Braille cell, instead of letters. The tabs needed to create each letter had to be pressed simultaneously. After creating a letter, Natalie felt with her fingertips what had been punched out in the paper. She had to put some muscle into making each Braille letter. It wasn’t nearly as easy as using the sensitive computer keyboard. She did ten letters, messed up on five of them, and, arms resting on the desk, leaned her head on one hand.
Her heart just wasn’t in it. The Brailler was difficult to use, and Natalie’s right wrist hurt from the cane lesson that afternoon with Miss Audra. Reach out and take hold of the cane as though shaking hands, Natalie. The movement should come from the wrist. Your hand may hurt. It takes a lot of practice. But Natalie didn’t want to “shake hands” with her cane. She didn’t want to learn how to hold it, or sweep the area in front of her. She wanted to break the darn thing over her knee!
Natalie moved the Brailler to one side of her desk. Her mind drifted. Learning Braille would be admitting that you have a serious vision problem. . . . Meredith’s chirpy voice echoed: You’ll see. . . . Natalie’s cranky
None of that had occurred to Natalie.
“What if your technology breaks down or loses its battery charge? How are you going to take notes that you can read back?”
“I don’t know,” Natalie answered.
“If you lose your sight and you can’t read Braille, Natalie, you will be considered illiterate.”
Here we go again, Natalie thought, jumping to the worst possible conclusion. She plucked a water bottle from her backpack on the floor beside her.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Natalie took a sip of water and looked away.
“Is it because learning Braille would be admitting that you have a serious vision problem?” Miss Karen asked.
Natalie’s eyes widened and she swung her head around. “Miss Karen, you don’t understand how hard this has been.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Natalie, because I do understand. I lost my sight when I was fifteen years old. Like you, I had to make the transition from reading print to recognizing Braille code. It was difficult—losing my sight, learning Braille, learning to use a cane. I won’t kid you. Many times I wanted to give up.”
Miss Karen was fifteen years old when she lost sight? A swarm of questions raced through Natalie’s mind. How did it happen? What was it like? Was she devastated?
“Everything may seem overwhelming right now,” Miss Karen went on. “You just have to take things one at a time. At least with the Braille, there is a system that you can learn, Natalie.”
Miss Karen seemed so together—so upbeat—how did she ever get to that point?
There was another long pause. Miss Karen cleared her throat. “So. Are you envisioning the Braille cell?” She was going to continue the lesson. “The raised dots numbered one through six?”
“Yes,” Natalie replied. She should at least try. “One through six.”
“The first ten letters of the alphabet use only the top four of the six dots in the cell,” Miss Karen noted. “The next ten letters, K through T , are identical to A through J , except that they have an additional dot in position three. . . .”
That night, while some of the kids went to the gym to play Bingo (with Braille cards), Natalie stayed behind in her room. Her roommate was sitting in the hall with her cell phone, talking to her boyfriend, so Natalie figured it was a good time to practice. The sooner she learned everything, she figured, the sooner she could return home for good. So she picked up the heavy gray Brailler that she’d been tripping over the last few days and set it on her desk. There was a short stack of heavy Braille paper in the desk drawer. She rolled a piece into the Brailler.
The Brailler worked like a typewriter, except that it had six tabs, one for each dot of the Braille cell, instead of letters. The tabs needed to create each letter had to be pressed simultaneously. After creating a letter, Natalie felt with her fingertips what had been punched out in the paper. She had to put some muscle into making each Braille letter. It wasn’t nearly as easy as using the sensitive computer keyboard. She did ten letters, messed up on five of them, and, arms resting on the desk, leaned her head on one hand.
Her heart just wasn’t in it. The Brailler was difficult to use, and Natalie’s right wrist hurt from the cane lesson that afternoon with Miss Audra. Reach out and take hold of the cane as though shaking hands, Natalie. The movement should come from the wrist. Your hand may hurt. It takes a lot of practice. But Natalie didn’t want to “shake hands” with her cane. She didn’t want to learn how to hold it, or sweep the area in front of her. She wanted to break the darn thing over her knee!
Natalie moved the Brailler to one side of her desk. Her mind drifted. Learning Braille would be admitting that you have a serious vision problem. . . . Meredith’s chirpy voice echoed: You’ll see. . . . Natalie’s cranky
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