The Woman In The Front Of The Room

I remember where she sat in the classroom.
She sat in the first seat in the right corner of the room.
The door was directly in front of her.
Her seat choice was purposeful.

She was an older woman.
She had come back to college to finally get her degree.
We were used to seeing the continuing education students in our classrooms.
The college had just begun the program and women were taking advantage of it.

I would always hear her before I could see her.
I heard her long cane tapping against the floor.
I would see the tip of her cane in the doorway before I saw the woman herself.
The woman was blind.

All of us were used to the older women in our classrooms in this all women college.
None of us were used to this woman.
She found her way expertly around the building.
She confidently took the seat in the front on the first day of class.

After that first day, no one even attempted to sit there.
It was as if that seat had her name on it.
She had a satchel that crossed over the front of her which held all she needed.
Her eyes darted about, never seeing anything that was in front of her.

It was her braille writer that was the problem.
She would take it out of her satchel and place it on the desk in front of her.
She would take out the special stylus.
She would take notes as the professor spoke.

The incessant tapping of the braille writer was a huge distraction.
She took notes incredibly fast.
The constant punching of the stylus against the desk sounded like Morse Code.
It was so hard to concentrate those first few weeks.

I found myself getting annoyed.
I was not annoyed at the woman.
I was annoyed at the sound that I could not seem to turn off.
It was a Psychology class that needed my undivided attention.

I watched her when we had a break time in the middle of our two hour class.
She got up from her seat.
Her long cane went before her, tapping all the way.
She went out into the hallway and turned right.

The only thing at the end of that hallway was the vending machines.
The woman, with her cane in front of her, walked to the machine.
She stopped directly in front of it.
She put her coins in the slot and made her selections.

She put her choices inside her satchel and walked back to the classroom.
She amazed me.
I learned much later that she actually counted her steps.
She knew the number of steps from the classroom door to the vending machine.

I thought how incredibly exhausting that must have been for her.
The woman walked around without her sense of sight.
Yet her other senses were acutely aware of everything around her.
She had to work hard to do all the things I took for granted.

I never knew how the woman got to school each day.
I did learn that she was married.
I felt ashamed that the noise of her braille writer annoyed me so those first few weeks.
She never knew, but I knew.

I learned so much from her.
I learned to appreciate my sight.
I learned to appreciate the menial tasks I do each day without thinking.
I learned the importance of the education that was simply handed to me.

I was cutting some celery the other day.
I had asked the young man in the produce section of my organic grocery store, a question.
How do I keep celery fresh and crispy throughout the week?
You know, you’re the second person who asked me that; let’s look it up.

He took out his phone and searched for an answer.
He read the information he discovered out loud.
It seems that you cut the large end of the celery and wrap the stalks tightly in tin foil.
I could not imagine something so easy would actually make a difference.

To my surprise and delight, doing this simple thing keeps the celery fresh all week.
It is what I do when I get home from the grocery store each week.
The other day, I cut off the large end and was amazed at something I never saw before.
As the end laid there on the cutting board, I saw the shape of a beautiful flower.

I had never known that the inside of a bunch of celery could be so magnificent.
That flower shape was there all the time.
I just never saw it before.
I never noticed it in my rush to get the celery wrapped in tin foil.

I thought of the woman in my class.
I thought of her ability to see more than I ever saw with my own two eyes.
I thought of the hidden-ness of life that I miss each day.
I thought of how she saw far more blind than I ever did sighted.

How I wish I knew where that woman is today.
I would confess my annoyance at the constant tapping of her braille writer.
I would tell her how she amazed me with her abilities.
I would tell her how much I learned from watching her.

I could blame my annoyance on immaturity.
Today, that seems to be a feeble excuse.
I had never been so close to someone who was blind.
Ignorance kept me away from really getting to know her.

She kept to herself.
Perhaps it was because she was older than all of us.
Perhaps it was because none of us took the time to engage with her, short of a quick hello.
That was my loss.

To the woman who sat in the front of the room, thank you.
I can still hear the tap of your cane in my memory.
I can still hear the sound of your braille writer against the desk.
It is music to my soul.

Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
T’was blind but now I see