Blinded By Pride

Will Butler, who is legally blind, hid his handicap for as long as possible:

The cane stayed in storage. To me, it signified defeat, so I kept it out of sight at college, social events, job interviews — everywhere.

After college, I moved to San Francisco. My vision became worse, but I still took pride in faking normal — even if it caused more problems. At restaurants, I’d ask about the menu, and waiters would point to it, exasperated. I never tipped for coffee, because I couldn’t locate the tip jar. I failed to yield on dark sidewalks, terrifying fellow pedestrians. And I was tortured by my inability to recognize faces. I imagined my reputation crashing and burning as I passed acquaintances on the street, unwittingly snubbing them.

Late one night, desperate and unable to find a restroom, I ducked into a quiet parking lot to relieve myself. Voices shouted at me through the darkness. I turned to flee but couldn’t move fast enough. Soon I was sitting on the curb, staring blankly as two police officers informed me that I had urinated on their station house. They didn’t believe I was blind. (“Where’s your stick?”)