What a white cane really means

"You're a faker!" the lady on the train berated me while my two small children looked on.  "If you can read that book, you aren't blind."

I was reading a picture book to my kids on the commuter train that takes us to my six-year-old daughter's choir practice. Neither of my kids can read very well yet and besides I love reading to them. The problem was that my white cane was hanging by its thong from the coat rack. 

Many blind and visually impaired people avoid using a white cane for a number of reasons, the stigma, the comments, the weird interactions, the physical hassle and the occasional idiot like this one. (For the record, yes, I'm very visually impaired but not totally blind. I can see well at about two inches, where I hold the book. The steps on the train are significantly further away.)

Most people in society assume that a white cane means that the person carrying it is totally blind. Some cane users are but many - most according to statistics - are not.  I've personally struggled with the issue all my life.

To cane or not to cane? That is the question. The unhappy answer is that you're damned if you do and damned if you don't.

An image of a woman's hand holding a white cane with the tip in fallen autumn leaves and a cat playing with the end of it - by Arie Farnam

There are a great many legally blind and significantly visually impaired people--like myself for the first thirty years of my life--who don't use a cane because we rarely trip on steps and don't need a cane to keep from running into walls. (Good hearing and a lot of experience with echolocation is usually good for both even for many totally blind people.) 

Obviously, some of us make ourselves vulnerable to physical hazards (especially motor vehicles) by not using a cane. Some totally blind people don't use canes but they often simply restrict their movements to areas that they know well. That is... well... restrictive.

As a teenager and then an adult in my twenties, I felt self-conscious about using a cane. The thought of someone calling me out for "faking" blindness was so mortifying that I couldn't face the possibility. And besides, the cane was clunky and I only need it every now and then, mostly to cross streets and alert drivers that I can't see their car. Carrying the thing the whole time was just too much of a hassle. 

And then there was my job. For several years I worked as a newspaper correspondent and I went into dangerous areas and conflict zones. I had editors who gave me a bullet proof vest and sent me there. They had no idea I was legally blind. Whenever I met them face to face, I went out of my way to hide it. I know this will make some people uncomfortable, but it's called equal opportunity in employment. Deal with it. I was very good at my job and no one ever had reason to doubt me. 

I used a cane once when I went for my first journalism interview just before I graduated from college and was told in no uncertain terms that blind people need not apply for this type of job. (And that was tame journalism in small-town America in 1998.) So after that, I hid my disability and did the best I could on my own. 

Thus, my aversion to canes was deeply ingrained. But as I got older, my enjoyment of risk-taking diminished. And besides, seeing doesn't really help you avoid mortar shells. In a war zone, I'm not really that much worse off than everyone else. Seeing does, however, help you avoid speeding drivers. And on the average city street, I'm at a distinct disadvantage. 

And then I had kids. And it's one thing to risk your own life streaking across busy streets on the basis of hearing and gumption. It's quite another thing to do it with an infant or two. 

To add to the dilemma, I was increasingly having conflicts with random people when I went out in public. I no longer looked like a teenager and people were less forgiving of my mistakes. People in the check-out line at the grocery story would say nasty things because I was just a bit slower counting money or bagging groceries. Once I was physically seized and accused of stealing by a store clerk because of how close and long I looked at the labels on ketchup bottles. No one would answer when I asked for help reading the bus numbers zipping by at a busy city stop.

A teaser showing four fantasy-inspired book covers featuring a young woman. The text reads, "A fragile hope in dark times, a struggle against all odds, a voice that will touch your soul, a story that will change how you see your world..." The book titles are The Soul and the Seed, The Fear and the Solace, The Taken and the Free and Code of the Outcast. The author name on all is Arie Farnam.

I found myself prefacing half of what I said in public with a very uncomfortable, "I'm visually impaired and I can't see very far, please understand..." I was tired of it.

The combination of the danger to my kids and the exhaustion of minor conflicts finally beat me into submission and I started using a cane, not just occasionally but all the time. It was awkward. Even my eye specialist was upset because he thought my vision must have degenerated. I had to have A LOT of complicated discussions with my friends and acquaintances, many of whom had never entirely believed that I couldn't see much until the moment they saw me with a white cane. 

No, my vision had not suddenly taken a turn for the worse. No, I still won't run into the wall if I'm not carrying a cane. But yes, I do actually need it. 

Worse than that, I was once accosted by a very confused woman from our local community center when she saw me riding a bike with my family. She was sure I must have had eye surgery, because now I could obviously see and she'd seen me with a cane the week before. 

Well, no, no surgery. I just ride very carefully and follow my husband. Same funky eyes.

Soon the comments of neighbors and people who know me by sight in our small town whenever I didn't carry a cane built up another kind of pressure. And that forced me to carry it every time I left our yard, even though I don't physically need it to skip down to the corner store, where I know the pleasant Vietnamese lady behind the counter will always read out the price to me instead of just waving at the screen and expecting me to read it off of her cash register like some do. 

So, there are times when I now carry the cane when I don't actually technically "need" it, except as a means to avoid complicated and repetitive conversations and accusations of fakery.

On the other hand, I've found that I do sometimes trip on curbs at dusk without the cane and it is very handy for judging how high the step is at an unfamiliar train platform. But the real surprise for me when I started to carry the cane was in people's reactions to me. It wasn't just that store clerks no longer grab the back of my shirt and shout for security when I try to identify the merchandise. I also immediately had different and better relationships even with friends. Most people now believe me when I say I can't recognize them, instead of being insulted and insisting that I forgot them. A larger percentage of people reserve harsh judgments when they first meet me, because they realize that my lack of correct eye contact isn't due to my being "strange" or "aloof" but rather a vision problem.  

At the same time, I try not to bow to social pressure and to only carry my cane when I truly need it physically or socially. But the repetitive conversations make that hard. There are many moments, when I stand by the front door struggling with myself. I'm not going anywhere with cars or I'm going to be with my husband every minute and I don't really need the cane to tell people I can't see in this circumstance. And yet I know I'll have to explain myself and the thought of the embarrassment makes me tend toward the cane. And the cane keeps me moving slow and cumbersome. I miss the days of freedom when I could have my hands free and move quickly without getting comments. 

An image of Arie Farnam with her hair pulled into a bun, wearing very thick glasses and a patterned black and white poncho

It has made me think. I do want the general population to associate white canes with blindness. That's the lion's share of the point. Yes, canes are somewhat helpful for physical navigation, but less than you might think. Their primary purpose is often social, letting drivers and others know that a person can't see. But that useful stereotype then gets in the way in so many ways.

So, what does a white cane really mean? How should the average person react? 

It is actually pretty simple. A white cane means that the person using it has significant vision loss, but that is all it means. It doesn't tell you what kind of vision impairment the person has. Some see quite well within a small field and can read street signs just fine, but use a cane so they don't have to constantly look at the ground to see steps. Some are very nearsighted and see well close up but little at all a few feet away. And some, of course, are totally blind or close to it. There are all sorts of other issues that I can't list here. 

If drivers see a white cane, they should be aware that the person using it likely won't see them or their hand signals. Storekeepers should be aware that a person with a white cane might peer closely at things or need more time with something. Friends should know that a person with a white cane may not recognize them even if they are really good friends. That's the sort of thing a white cane means. But it may not mean one or more of those things in a specific case. You can't necessarily assume because vision is changeable and complex.

What it certainly doesn't mean is that a person is faking blindness. Okay, I have read about a few studies conducted by people using white canes to study social reactions to blind people. But barring that... seriously, think about it.  Carrying a cane is a pain. It's cumbersome and in the way. It doesn't actually give you any advantages. Even if blind people do very occasionally get a disability discount on something like public transportation in some countries, they get it based on an official disability card obtained through lengthy and involved investigation, not based on the fact that they carry a cane.

There is no reason a person would go to the trouble of faking blindness by carrying a cane everywhere. So, why is that the first thing people think when they see a person with a cane and a printed book?

Please share this. By putting this out there, I'm hoping to make it just a little bit easier for people who use canes to use them when they really need them, rather than being chained to them. I'm hoping to make busy streets safer for people who can't see well and prevent conflicts of the type I've experienced. 

You are most welcome to add to the discussion with your comments below. I love hearing from you