After recently entering a short story competition, my entry was shortlisted at the Williamstown Literacy Festival.
Ever had one of those days when it feels like everyone is staring at you? If you’re sighted, it’s not a feeling – you know. You can see when all the eyes are locked onto you. And it won’t take you long to figure out why. Generally, these eyeing-off situations fall into two categories – for most people anyway.
Firstly, the things you can’t change. Defacing your face slots in here nicely. And let’s be honest. You went all radical because you want to be ogled at anyway. This category covers things like that fresh tattoo of a Sydney funnel web spider sprawled across your entire face, or the ambitious geometric pattern you had shaved into your scalp, or –going full on Chopper Read and lopping off your own ears.
Then there are the things you can change. Like the soft, downy hairs around the sides of your face that have (temporarily) turned jet black because you tried a DIY hair dye job, or a serious makeup malfunction where you got heavy handed with the blush and ended up looking like you just ran the world’s toughest half marathon. Or, worst of all, a rogue booger clinging to your philtrum – defying gravity, good hygiene, and your last attempt at using a tissue.
But then, there’s a third category—one reserved only to those with low or no vision. Here, you don’t see; you simply sense.
I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, Isn’t this discrimination against the fully sighted?
Of course not. If you’re blind, you don’t have staring capabilities and you certainly don’t qualify for the first two categories – the full-on stare categories. You are the spectacle – whether you like it or not. The moment you step outside, people stare. And why wouldn’t they? They have guilt -free, unlimited access to unsolicited staring.
Today was one of those days when I should’ve cancelled my appointment and stayed home, with my head buried under my pillow—the only way to be 100 percent sure no one was staring at me. But no. Instead, I decided to take a tram into Melbourne’s CBD, to see if I could get around without human support and get to that all-important appointment. Just me and my best friend, my trusty white cane.
Now, I can hear you asking, What’s a white cane?
Well, it’s time to put on my teacher pants and clear this up.
A white cane is a mobility aid that helps people with little or no vision navigate their world. It looks like a long metal stick that is usually white with a black or red handle. It has a ball on the other end that is used to scan the ground surfaces.
Well – no. The ball does not have eyes in it.
But can you believe this? It also serves as an identifier, signaling to others that the user is blind. In fact, the white cane is an internationally recognised symbol of blindness. Despite that, so many people still have no idea what a white cane is?
Sounds simple, right?. Have I lost anyone yet?
No? Well done. Now – just to clarify what a white cane is not.
- A white cane is not a tent pole
- It is not a walking stick.
- It is not a golf club.
- It is not a metal detector
- And it’s not for playing fetch with a dog. Got it?
So when you see someone using one of these contraptions, you won’t need to ask any ridiculous questions.
But before we move on, let’s discuss the most important thing, How do you use it?
Using a white cane is quite simple. You hold the cane in front of your body, gripping the handle lightly in the palm of your dominant hand. That allows you to swing it gently in a side-to-side motion covering the width of your body.
Now let’s break it down. What is the purpose of the cane?
A cane can detect changes in ground surfaces, enabling the user to avoid obstacles like rocks, potholes, staircases, and curbs. It’s like having a second pair of eyes sweeping the ground ahead.
Excellent. And there’s one other great feature.
Most white canes fold up, snapping into something about a quarter of their original size. This means you can put it in your bag when you go out for dinner ….
Anyway, before I got sidetracked, I was sitting in the tram when, suddenly, there was a loud bang, The tram shuddered and lurched forward before coming to a complete stop.
People were shouting. Mostly men’s voices. ‘What’s going on? What just happened? Is anyone hurt? Idiot driver. No, no, not the tram driver.? The idiot in the car. Overtook us on the left. Got stuck on the track. Then the tram hit the car. Did anyone check the tram driver? Yeah, says he’s OK. Seems a bit dazed. Must be OK. , Said the police were on the way. Everyone’s OK mate. . Let’s get outta here then’. With that, people started pushing forward to get out. Except me. I felt trapped like a fly in a glass jar.
As I got closer to the exit, I heard a gentle kind voice with an Indian accent say, ‘You OK, Mam?’
‘Yes, I am. Thanks. But – but what happened?’
‘Car drive on tracks in front of tram. No time to stop. Very, very sorry.’
He apologised profusely, as though it was his fault.
I realised the kind voice belonged to the tram driver. ‘Where are we’?
‘Bourke Street, Mam,’ he said. ‘Where you need to go?’
‘Flinders Street, to the station,’ I said.
He offered his arm and guided me towards the tram door. But then his phone rang and interrupted this touching moment of kindness.
‘Police, mam. Gotta take the call.’
I was on my own again.
I stepped out of the tram in Bourke Street. Cane first to assess the depth from the tram step to footpath. I looked up—yep, all eyes are on me. I couldn’t see them, but I knew. I could feel all those eyes staring, glaring at me. Every head turned in my direction.
Was I being paranoid? Probably. But still…
‘Are you blind, mate?’ asked a stranger.
Great. More help at hand. I thought he was going to guide me through the swarm of pedestrians.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m using the cane.’
‘Really, you don’t have blind-looking eyes,’ he said.
‘Oh, what do blind-looking eyes even look like?’ I asked.
‘Well, you know… googly?’
‘Googly?’ I echoed. ‘Ah well, sorry, mate, no googly eyes. But I am blind.”
‘That’s not what I mean,’ he insisted. ‘You just don’t look blind.’
‘Thank you,’ I said out loud. My inner voice said, You don’t look stupid.
And then, I guess he continued with his day looking out for his next vulnerable victim, while I battled my way through the crowds.
Was I being paranoid? Probably. But still…
Making my way up Bourke Street, I felt like the eyes of a million of pedestrians were piercing my body. It was painful. It was scary. Why was I doing this? Oh, I remember now. I just want to be independent.
‘You can’t be independent if you’ve lost your sight’, sang a chorus of sopranos filling the air.
Ignore them. Ignore them. Keep going. Ignore them.
I continued until I could hear the brutal noises emitting from a busy train station. Delays, arrivals, and departures announcements. Chatter. Pigeons cooing. Suitcases rolling along the hard concrete floor. Trains whooshing in and out of the station. The beeping and clicking of commuters tapping on and going through the turnstiles. People coughing and sneezing all over each other. Were they wearing masks?
I felt overwhelmed by the noise. But I was here. At Flinders Street Station.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone tripped over my cane just as I was about to step into the bowels of the station.
Male. Angry. Probably middle-aged, but clearly not hurt. He sounded like he was overweight by the way he huffed, puffed, and snapped, ‘If you didn’t stick your walking stick right out in front like that, you wouldn’t trip people up.’
‘Thank you,’ I said out loud. My inner voice said, Oh, that’s a great technique—idiot. Watch where you’re going next time.
But of course, he would’ve seen me. After all, doesn’t everyone stare at the blind person? Don’t some people test to see how much they can see by obstructing them on purpose?
I wanted to shout and scream. But then the police would’ve come and handcuffed me and thrown me in remand. Or the paramedics might have rushed in and given me a shot of something to sedate me. And all the onlookers would be staring and getting their faces in front of the Channel 9 TV news cameras.
And one of the many TV news reporters would say to an onlooker, ‘Do you know what happened here’.
‘Well, it was crazy. It was all over her walking stick. She had it poking out too far. The poor man in the suit tripped over it. And then he spoke to her. Not in an aggressive way. I didn’t hear the exact words but he was probably asking if SHE was OK. The next minute she was screaming and hollering. It was so loud it echoed through the station.’
A couple of big fat tears rolled down my face. People were staring. I could feel their eyes glaring at me now. I wouldn’t give anyone the pleasure of seeing me cry. I brushed the tears away with the back of my hand.
Was I being paranoid? Probably. But still…
I couldn’t move, feeling as if I were planted in a block of concrete for what seemed like an eternity. But it was probably no more than five seconds before a hoarse male voice, seemingly directed towards at me, jolted me back to reality.
‘Are you OK, Madam. I’m Frank. Metro Trains Customer Service.’
My head did its usual swing from side to side and up and down- the thing it does when I can’t figure out where someone is.
Frank realised. ‘I’m standing in front of you.’
Have I upset this dude as well, I thought.
‘Oh, hi,’ I said cautiously.
‘Do you need some help?’ he asked. Finally, I had got the attention of someone who understood. A person who cared.
‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘I need to find the Cranbourne platform’.
‘Take a wing,’ he said, chuckling at the joke he just cracked.
I liked this dude. Friendly, funny and smart. He had probably done some vision loss awareness training on the job.
He offered his elbow and guided me to the Tactile Ground Surface Indicators aka TGSIs.
I know. I know. I hear you. What are the TGSIs?
It was time to put on my teacher pants again.
I’m guessing most of you don’t have a clue what the TGSIs are, judging by the groups of people blocking them – standing on them, walking along them, and hanging out on them. And even meeting their friends on them.
I once heard a conversation that went like this.
‘Oh, where should we meet?’
‘Let’s all meet on the yellow bumpy dots at the foot of the escalator near Hungry Jacks at Southern Cross Station.’
For goodness’ sake people, there’s got to be a thousand other places you could meet around this great big city.
Now about the fancy name. No need to get caught up on that. Most people just call them ‘those bumpy things’ that you find lurking in train stations, shopping centres, around the streets, over railway crossings, at the tops and bottoms of stairs …
But most importantly , they were designed to help vision impaired individuals avoid hazards. And give them a bit of confidence and independence when going about their business.
Got it?
I’m not so sure. Let’s go over that point again.
Now what do they look like?
Well, done. Great observation. Some of them DO look like giant Lego pieces. Or bumpy dots. Take your pick. Both answers are correct. Let’s call these ones ‘tactiles’. They come in lots of bright colours, but mostly bright yellow or orange and warn people to stop.
Have you observed any other types of TGSIs?
Exactly! Let’s call these ‘directionals’ because they provide directions to a specific location. They are usually long, made of small bars, and often lead to train platforms.
Frank continued, ‘Walk along the directionals. At the end, turn left onto the tactiles. The tactiles are in front of the lift. The lift only goes down one floor. When you exit the lift, you’ll be on the Cranbourne platform.’ he said.
I took Frank’s advice and walked along to the platform, following the directionals.
‘Watch out!’, someone shouted. Possibly a teenager.
Was he shouting at me? How could I know? I had every right to be on the directionals. But it felt like he was hurtling towards me -maybe on a skateboard or something. Terror gripped me. I stepped off the safety of the directionals and into a sea of cranky crocodiles.
That’s when I became disoriented. Why was everyone looking at me? The rude dude at the tram, the huffy, puffy, snappy guy at the station, the self-obsessed teenager.
Was I being paranoid? Probably. But still…
As I kept walking, someone suddenly overtook me from the side, completely swiping my cane out of my hand. It rolled across the smooth, hard, polished concrete floor of the station. I dropped to my knees, sweeping my palms over the ground, desperately trying to find it. Finally, a kind woman tapped me on the shoulder.
‘I’ve got it love,’ she said. ‘I saw what happened. People are in such a rush these days.’
Maybe Mr Huffy Puffy Snappy was right after all. But what would he know.
Finally, I got to the station and found a seat.
‘Excuse me please. What time’s the next train?’ I asked a woman sitting next to me. She smelt strongly of a very expensive brand of perfume. A peachy aroma. Maybe Chanel or something like that.
‘Er, 2.15’, ‘another five minutes yet,’ she said in a sultry, swanky voice.
I wondered why she was waiting for a train with the plebs. Surely, she’d have a Mustang or Porsche parked outside her double story town house, that she zipped around the city in.
I just wanted to sit quietly and wait, but she was one of those annoying chatty types. You love them. Or hate them. I’m of the latter persuasion.
I could feel her staring at me, and once it dawned on her that I was blind, she began speaking slower and louder.
‘Where are you going today?’ she enquired, carefully enunciating each word, and raising the volume of her voice.
‘I’ve got an appointment at Kensington at the Vision Australia office’, I said.
‘Oh, you’re on the Cranbourne platform, love’ she said.
‘Yes that’s right’, I said, beaming with pride, saying goodbye to poor paranoid me and welcoming clever confident me.
‘But Kensington is on the Craigieburn line,’ she said.
Overwhelmed and vulnerable. I stood up and walked away, squeezing my eyelids together to stop the flood of tears that had started streaming down my face. And naturally, everyone was staring at me.
Was I being paranoid? No, not at all ….’
