Sarah Blake LaRose

My first class date at The Seeing Eye was scheduled for July, 1991. I was notified in January, and I was comfortable that I had plenty of time to prepare. My second semester at Anderson University ended in early May, and I took a trip to visit a friend for a few days. When I got home, I had a phone message from the admissions director. There was a cancellation in an earlier class. Could I come on May 18?

Would my life have been different if I had made a different choice? Undoubtedly. I have never spent time thinking about that possibility. I simply did what I had the opportunity to do. I went.

In later years, landing at Newark would be a significant event for me–not only because one of my trainings took place in October, 2001, but every time thereafter. Newark would have meaning because of its association with September 11; and it would cause me to remember. But in 1991, it had no such meaning. It was simply “New York” to me. Once I was on the ground, I forgot about stinky breath and slimy tongues. I had other things to think about.

I was supposed to make my way to baggage claim, where a driver would meet me and transport me to The Seeing Eye. I thought that this should be simple enough. I had experience traveling alone. All I needed to do was ask the airport assistant to escort me and assist me in locating the driver.

What I did not take into account was the fact that on my prior trips, I had traveled to meet people who could recognize me. The driver took some time to locate me, and I began to wonder if I had been forgotten. My anxiety increased when airport personnel asked repeatedly for the name of the person I was meeting. Would they get suspicious because I had no name to give them?

The driver found me after about half an hour. She was responsible for picking up several students, and another student’s plane had been delayed. This possibility had not occurred to me, though it made perfect sense. Why send out individual drivers when several students could ride together?

I have little memory of the drive to campus. I don’t remember which student rode in the car with me. My only memory is of standing outside the airport for some reason with the driver and the other person, that nervous feeling beginning to creep up again. I don’t know why we stood outside. Suddenly a man stepped in front of me, and I started to shiver. The driver stepped up to him and said in her thick Boston accent: “Excuse me, sir, you’re blocking our sun.”

I was just a few days shy of my nineteenth birthday; and I should have felt grown up. Instead, I felt like I was going straight into the lion’s den of orientation and mobility instructors.

O&M was my least favorite subject in school. I could never say that to anyone. For one thing, my family and most of my friends and acquaintances were sighted–they didn’t know what it was. If they had known, they would probably have been devastated to hear that I hated it. After all, it was my education in how to get around safely and independently. I learned how to make decisions about crossing streets using the sounds of traffic, how to build mental maps of my surroundings, how to use a white cane with a narrow tip to explore the space in front of me, how to use the small amount of vision that I had to locate important landmarks, and a few concepts about how to use public transportation. But I always felt that I was being tested–and that I was failing.

It probably didn’t help that teaonce I started using my cane in high school, teachers who had classrooms along my routes built relationships with my resource teacher; and I suspect they gave her notes about how often I used my cane and how often I walked with classmates as guides. One teacher remarked consistently as I passed his classroom, “Are you using your caaaaaane?” His voice never failed to liftabout six notes as he sang the word “cane”. It is a sound that I will never forget.

How was it that I got myself into this environment, where there was a whole staff of people who were ready to test me again? And stinky breath and slimy tongues on top of it!

The car stopped, and we all got out. The nice, sun-defending driver retrieved my heavy bags from the rear, and we proceeded to the front door.

“Hello, Miss Blake,” said a cheerful lady. “I’m Miss Early. I’m one of the instructors. I’ll take you up and show you your room.”

I nearly fainted. Even the children in the nursery at church didn’t call me “Miss Blake”. To a few of them, I was “Miss Sarah”. But I thought this kind of title belonged on an old lady! I would certainly address Miss Early appropriately, as was fitting for an instructor. But this was not at all necessary for me!

“Oh, please don’t call me that,” I protested. “It’s fine to just call me Sarah.”

“Oh, we can’t,” she explained. “Everyone here is Mr. and Miss. That’s how we respect each other.”

I took a deep breath, and we proceeded up a wide set of stairs to the second floor, where my room was located. My room, which I shared with another person.

The other person was out of the room. I noticed that she had left a braille magazine on her bed. I intentionally did not look at it. I wondered if she was young or old. Would we get along? After all, we would be spending the next four weeks together. Unlike college roommates, who may not take classes together, we would be sitting in the same lectures, eating in the same (small) dining room, perhaps riding in the same van, and witnessing each other’s deepest emotions as we figured out this new life together with dogs.

Oh, dear God! She was going to witness my reactions to stinky breath and slimy tongue! And she was going to hear me talk to a dog every morning when I had no voice. I had suffered with chronic voice loss for several years. What was I doing, enmeshing myself with a dog and a life in which I would need to give commands at all hours of the day?

Miss Early left me to unpack my belongings. No sooner had she closed the door, then a knock came. A lady introduced herself as the nurse and asked if she could write down some information while I was unpacking. I let her in, and we began to talk about my medical history, medications, etc. We didn’t get far before another knock came.

The nurse opened the door; and to my surprise, she said, “You can’t come in.”

A man on the other side of the door said, “What are you doing in here?”

The two began to argue and laugh, and suddenly the man shoved his way into the room. “I can come in if I want!”

What on earth was this about?

“I’m Mr. Franck. I’m your instructor.”

“You’re not an O&M instructor, are you?”

“Actually, I am.”

The lion’s den got a little quieter. If Miss Early could be cheerful and Mr. Franck could be funny and play-argue, it couldn’t be all that bad.

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About Sarah Blake LaRose

Sarah Blake LaRose teaches Biblical Hebrew and Greek at Anderson University School of Theology and Christian Ministry in Anderson, Indiana. She is one of three blind academic scholars who received the Jacob Bolotin Award from the National Federation of the Blind in 2016 in recognition of innovative work in the field of access to biblical language texts and tools for people who are blind. In addition to her work as a professor, she provides braille transcription services specializing in ancient languages. Her research interests concern the intersection of disability, poverty, and biblical studies.

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