THE VALUE OF PERSISTANCE

I remember well the final two weeks of grade twelve. The mathematics course I took forty years ago drove me crazy. Even though it wasn't the most advance course, I couldn't comprehend how fractions could be multiplied and divided.

"Why can't you get it?" my math teacher would exclaim often when I turned in another test paper filled with mistakes. I didn't know the answer then but I now believe that I wasn't able to visualize what was going on in the equations he taught me.

One Wednesday evening, when a woman I call Sister Eileen drove me home from church, I poured out my complaint to her. "I'm so tempted to drop out of that course and try again in September," I finished.

"Don't drop out," she admonished as she parked in front of the house in which I rented a basement room. "You only have two weeks to go. If you quit now, you'll have to spend three months doing the same course over."

I pondered what she said as we sat in her car. It did make sense that I would have to work longer to get my high school diploma. On the other hand, the course felt like pure torture. How well I identified with Alice Cooper's "School's Out" hit record.

Another song which helped me plow through those final days was "Hold On" by John Lennon. I added my name into the lyrics and sang them to myself whenever I felt like I couldn't take one more humiliating day.

I'm glad I hung in there and finished the course. Though my mark was forty, the teacher felt sorry for me and added five more percent so I wouldn't get an F. Because I continued with that agonizing class, I was able to get my high school diploma at the end of June and have a worry-free summer.

Because I stuck with the class, I was able to attend a job and mobility training course at the Canadian National Institute for the Blind in Toronto that September. If I hadn't heeded Sister Eileen's advice, I would have had three more months of slogging my way through the same math problems which I couldn't understand.

As for that summer and the subsequent trip to Toronto, I wrote about it in a book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Read more about how God providentially led me to a true understanding of him at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Powell's Books.

THE JOY OF FEEDING WILDLIFE

I well understand the concerns of certain folks regarding feeding wild animals. Bears and raccoons can become a problem if they learn that humans mean free food. Sadly, some of these animals are exterminated because of human foolishness. Even so, it can be pleasant to feed birds and small animals.

In the autumn of 1975, I lived at the CNIB headquarters in Toronto. While I was there, I took courses in independent living. While in the cafeteria one evening, a friend told me that there were squirrels living in the forest behind the institute. That news gave me incentive to explore the grounds.

While walking behind the buildings comprising the CNIB, I discovered a park bench. I had seen the occasional black squirrel foraging in the grass for food and wished to get a closer look at them. On a shopping trip, I purchased a large bag of unsalted peanuts. The next afternoon, I sat as still as I could on the bench after having scattered peanuts around it.

Sure enough, the squirrels quickly learned that a feast of delicious peanuts was to be had whenever I was there. It soon became part of my daily routine to feed them and enjoy their antics.

As with all good things, stupid people seek to  ruin the enjoyment of others. I ran afoul of a CNIB staff member who figured she was the boss. As I entered the building where the dorm rooms were located she stopped me. "You shouldn't be eating those peanuts, you know. They're ruining your complexion."

"I'm not eating all these," I objected. "I'm feeding them to the squirrels."

"You shouldn't be wasting your money like that. You should be going to movies or dances."

I felt so angry that I clammed up. After all, it seemed the safest thing to do when confronted by nosy and opinionated people. That woman's criticism also strengthened my resolve to feed my fluffy-tailed friends even more.

Before supper one day, I was about to go to the cafeteria when I saw a squirrel in the distance. When I dropped a peanut, he or she bounded right up to me and ate it fearlessly. The squirrel didn't even flee when I took out a camera I borrowed from a friend and snapped a picture. I felt so touched that this wild animal felt safe in my presence. No amount of movies and dances could ever give me the emotional boost I received from that rodent.

My love of small animals permeates all three of my memoirs. View the first two at Bruce Atchison's books. How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity is available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Powel's Books.

MOBILITY: A BENEFICIAL SKILL FOR THE BLIND

Getting around in a big city is something people do without much thought. But imagine traveling without being able to see street signs and bus numbers. This is the challenge millions of sight-impaired people tackle daily.

Mobility, the skill of navigating city streets, is valuable to blind people. With increasing opportunities for employment, knowing how to catch busses and other forms of transit is vital for living independently.

Though I now live in a tiny hamlet, I still use mobility skills whenever somebody drives me to the city. What I learned in Calgary, Alberta during a two-week-long course at the CNIB still helps me find addresses and bus routes.

Sight-impaired people such as myself have difficulty when it comes to asking for directions. The fear many of us have is that some fully-sighted person will take advantage of us. I've found that practically every person is more than willing to lend a hand. Each legally-blind person, myself included, needs to set pride aside and ask for assistance when we need it.

But people such as myself haven't always been encouraged to travel independently and ask for help when we need direction. At Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind, where I spent six lonely years, mobility was rarely taught and even when it was, only totally blind kids were given lessons. Nobody taught us how to cross busy streets, with or without a white cane. Neither were we permitted to go to the nearby store alone. Everybody went in a group with a supervisor like prisoners on a day pass.

Little wonder then that I had a rough time when I was mainstreamed into the regular public school. I had no idea how to catch a bus or cross a busy street. Nobody taught me how to call the transit number for directions on which bus to take and at which times it came. Thanks in part to that course in Calgary, I grew bold about going to new places on the busses.

I wrote about my time at the blind school in Deliverance from Jericho Read more about this memoir of life in a government-run institution at my books link. It's at the top left hand corner of this page.

I also have a new book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Check it out at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.\

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE CNIB SMOKE STANDS?

Decades ago, many public buildings had kiosks (called smoke stands) staffed by blind people who sold various snack foods, cigarettes, and other items. As far as I know, they've all been closed. What happened to cause this employment opportunity for sight-impaired adults to vanish? The answer might surprise you.

I worked for about nineteen months in various smoke stands in Edmonton during the late seventies. During those times, I witnessed sighted people walk in and brazenly steal merchandise. One afternoon at the University Hospital, I actually saw a man walk in, grab a carton of milk from the cooler, and walk out without paying. When I objected, the man who was training me said that I shouldn't make a fuss. "That man always does that," he explained. I felt so stunned that I couldn't speak. People actually had the nerve to rob the blind and feel all right about it.

I also was robbed of some merchandise. Two men wanted to look at the various watches we had for sale at the Corona Hotel smoke stand. I dutifully showed them the ones they were interested in. What i didn't see was that the crooks pocketed some of them. Only after they had left and I put the watches back did I discover the theft.

I did manage to catch one boy in the act of stealing when a chocolate bar fell out of his pocket. I hope he realized how despicable it was to rip off the blind.

On another occasion, a man walked in and took a plaque from a shelf and walked out. Fortunately, a hotel staff member confronted the thief and brought back the plaque.  Again I felt disgusted at the callousness of people.

All these thefts by sighted individuals added up. One by one, the stands were closed down and blind people ended up unemployed. As I wrote in my new book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity, the CNIB laid me off. When I asked for another job somewhere else, my former boss told me that there were none and nobody was willing to quit just so I could have a job. Because of that unhelpful answer and other let-downs, I lost all respect for the CNIB.

I mentioned other incidents of unhelpful advice from people I once trusted in my How I Was Razed memoir. Check it out at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers. My previous paperbacks are featured on the left hand side of the left side of this page.

SIGHT IMPAIRMENTS Complicate EVERYTHING.

By high school graduation, almost every student has had some work experience. Unfortunately, nobody taught me how to find employment. As I wrote in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity, the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB) never taught us such important skills.

As a result of this omission, I had no clue about how to look for a job. This excerpt from my newly released memoir demonstrates how helpless I was and how uninformed certain sighted people were about my dilemma.

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"You must get a job, Bruce," Sister Roberta admonished as we ate supper in Sister Eileen's kitchen one Wednesday in January of 1976. "Don't, you know the Bible says if a man will not work, he should not eat? The Bible speaks against sloth you know."

"How can I find a job? CNIB didn't teach me how to do that when I was in Toronto,"

"Oh," she blurted, suddenly realizing her indiscretion.

Sister Roberta's words nagged at me more and more as I wiled away the days in my room. When I called Mom one morning and poured out my conflicted feelings, she asked, "Why should you worry about that? You've got money coming in. People shouldn't expect you to work. After all, you're blind. How can you be expected to find a job?"

Even with her encouragement, I felt guilty as I lounged in my room while others laboured. Since I lacked skills or training, I decided to wait for a CNIB counselor to find me work. I expected this organization would soon place me in a position somewhere.

The phone rang one morning in late January. A CNIB counselor named Bob gave me the good news that I would be employed as a dishwasher in the cafeteria at the Alberta legislature. As I gazed into the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth, I realized that I needed to tidy up my appearance. That afternoon, I rode the bus downtown. At a barber school, I had my long hair cut and my scrawny beard shaved off.

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I wrote extensively about that house church in my newly-published memoir, How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Please check it out at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm.

BADGES AND CONFLICT.

The saying, "Too late smart and too soon old," certainly is one that transcends time and human experience. My youthful desire to be a witness for Christ caused friction between me and non-believers. Some of it was justified since I didn't think through the consequences of my actions. From my soon-to-be-published memoir, How I Was Razed, here is one instance where criticism of my witnessing was justified. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- While working at the smoke stand that summer, I discovered a new way to evangelize the customers. The Christian bookstore sold a collection of badges with slogans printed on them. I bought as many as I could afford, then wore several of them at a time on my shirt when I reported each day for work. Some customers mocked me but as far as I know, none gave their lives to Christ. I assumed nobody would mind what I wore until Bob confronted me one afternoon at the shop several weeks later. "You're going to have to take those badges off, Bruce." "What for?" "Because religion offends some people. You'll have to stop wearing T-shirts too. It doesn't look neat." "These badges aren't offensive. Besides that, I'm a Christian and I need to tell others about Jesus." "Well, do that on your own time. You're paid to work, you know." Though I hated Bob's order, he made a valid point. CNIB employed me so I needed to dress in a way which wouldn't repel customers. I stopped wearing T-shirts and badges on the job after Bob's warning. Instead, I pinned the badges to my coat. What I did off the job wasn't his concern. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ How I Was Razed is the testimony of how God lead me from cultism to Christianity. I hope to have it published soon. Meanwhile, check out my previous books at the Bruce Atchison's books link on my Blogspot page.

THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF WORK, EH?

The saying, "easier said than done" is true of practically every endeavour. Work is no exception to that aphorism. High school and post-secondary students are frequently presented with rosy images of employment in glamorous careers by recruiters from various industries, all touting their company's virtues.

In December of 1975, a CNIB representative extolled the benefits of Caterplan, an employment scheme designed to place blind individuals in cafeterias and kiosks, to a group of us teenage patrons visiting the headquarters in Toronto. Being in need of a job, I applied to Caterplan for work the next month.

In my How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoir, I described my dismay when the promise of a rewarding career didn't immediately materialize. Here's an excerpt from my manuscript that describes what happened.

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The phone rang one morning in late January. A CNIB counsellor named Bob gave me the good news that I would be employed as a dish washer in the cafeteria at the Alberta Legislature. That afternoon, I had my long hair cut short and beard shaved off.

My joy turned to shock on the morning that I reported for work. Except for two coffee breaks and a short lunch, I continually loaded the large dish washing machine's conveyer belt with dirty dishes and dried them when they tumbled out the other end. Additionally, I scrubbed pots and checked the racks by the kitchen for more dirty dishes. The pressure never let up.

By the end of the day, I called Bob at the CNIB from the nearest pay phone. "I can't do this job. It goes too fast," I complained.

"Don't worry, Bruce, it takes time to get into the swing of things. You'll get better at it as the days pass."

"I hope you're right. I didn't realize dish washing would be this hard."

"Just keep working at it. We don't have any spare stands for you to work at now so you'll have to stay where you are."

I did my best to keep up with the demands of the job. Even so, a constant backlog of dirty dishes and angry co-workers badgered me.

"If you think this is busy, wait until the Legislature is in session," one woman admonished. "This will seem like a picnic."

The manager dismissed me at the end of the month. Though I beamed with pride as I held my first pay cheque, and knew that I had earned every penny of it, I lost much of my starry-eyed optimism for the wonderful world of work.

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How I Was Razed is the testimony of how God revealed his true character to me after charismatic house church elders misled me for more than fifteen years. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about this upcoming paperback.

A QUESTION OF QUESTIONABLE QUESTIONING.

Perhaps some folks will disagree with me but I believe having partial vision is, in many ways, worse than being totally blind. Fully sighted folks seem better able to comprehend total blindness better than poor vision.

Throughout my life, I've had to explain my level of vision. Neighbourhood kids, mimicking parents and other sighted adults, held up fingers and asked me to count them. I hated that. It made me feel like some sort of freak. They also threw stones at me while calling, "blindie, and "four eyes." No wonder I often played alone.

My school days were likewise filled with incidents where pupils and teachers felt uncertain about what I could or couldn't see. At first, I was allowed to draw pictures and play with plasticine because the teacher believed I couldn't possibly be taught anything. When I started learning aurally, she showed me off to the principal as if some sort of miracle happened.

My freedom came to an end in 1964 when a government agent convinced my parents to send me to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind. They, never suspecting the institution's endemic sexual harassment of deaf children, sent me there for six long years. I only came home for Christmas, summer, and three Easters. Because the bar magnifying glasses they had there weren't of any help to me, somebody decided I should learn braille. I objected since I had enough vision to read with an eight power magnifying glass. My teachers soon gave up on me and let me read large print.

On September 16, 2011, I blogged about the pathetic vision aids that were provided to me by my parents in junior high and high school. My visual arts teacher gave me the first decent magnifying glass, a type similar to what jewellers use. Though some thug cut the combination lock on my locker and stole it, along with the monocular which I read the blackboard with, I managed to find similar visual aids through the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB).

I've also experienced similar challenges to my truthfulness in several workplaces and in personal relationships throughout my adult life. These are too numerous to mention here.

The crux of the matter is that people feel a sense of unease about me until I demonstrate how much or little I'm able to see. As I've explained in Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) and to a lesser extent in When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), I see well enough to get around but I can't see details. I have to go close to something to tell what it is. I've also learned that there are always work-arounds to my difficulties. As long as I can, I intend to live as independently as possible.

HOW I "BAGGED" A SQUIRREL

In the previous post, I described how my house rabbit became alarmed when I put an exercise bike in my bedroom. The sudden appearance of this large foreign object in the place he considered safest completely flustered him. The thought of Gideon's astonishment still makes me chuckle. It reminds me of another time when an innocent prank caused a certain squirrel extreme consternation.

In the autumn of 1975, I boarded at the head office of the Canadian National Institute for the Blind in Toronto. After the weekday training and mobility course sessions, our instructors allowed us an hour of leisure time before supper. A fellow student casually remarked to me one afternoon that squirrels lived in the park behind the training centre. Having never seen those animals in the flesh, this gave me an idea. I bought some unsalted peanuts from a local convenience store, went to the park before supper, and scattered a handful around the bench. Then I sat down and waited.

After a minute, I heard rustling noises amid the leaves above me. Two black squirrels climbed timidly down the tree trunks, snatched the peanuts, and ran back up. They soon learned that I was harmless and that I provided a feast whenever I sat in the park. Before long, they not only stayed on the ground but boldly strolled within a foot of me.

My following of bushy-tailed freeloaders grew until I had half a dozen black squirrels, a few grey ones, and a tiny tawny fellow dining confidently at my feet. Encouraged by their acceptance of my hand-outs, I decided to test the limits of how hard they would work for treats. I placed peanuts on my shoe, on the bench next to me, and tossed them directly behind their tails. Finally, I placed a few peanuts in a paper bag and waited to see what would happen.

One bold black squirrel sniffed at the opening, then crawled inside to seize a peanut. Feeling the paper enveloping him, he panicked. The other squirrels scattered as a white object with a black behind zoomed across the lawn, spurred on by my raucous laughter. The moist grass weakened the paper so that it tore, freeing the frightened rodent. He raced for the nearest tree with all thoughts of peanuts forgotten. Though I hadn't intended to "bag" a squirrel that day, the trick provided me with a memorable highlight of my stay in Toronto.

Likewise, I treasure the memories of those pranks I once played on my house rabbits. Many hilarious vignettes, similar to this post, are included in my When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) memoir. Click here to read more about this book. You're also welcome to contact me directly for more information.