The case of S.B. and later research have helped answer Molyneux’s question, posed to Locke, about whether a man born blind and now made to see can recognise a cube and a sphere by vision alone. Molyneux’s question was a pure thought experiment, aimed at exploring the structure of sensory knowledge. And over the years, it has been turned around and nuanced by both philosophers and scientists. (See our blog for the philosophical approach and the scientific approach.)
“We differ, blind and seeing, one from another, not in our senses, but in the use we make of them, in the imagination and courage with which we seek wisdom beyond the senses.” (Attributed to Helen Keller.)
But are people in general able to take up William Molyneux’s challenge and imagine life from a different sensory perspective? And if so, do they reach the same conclusion as Helen Keller – that true understanding goes beyond what the “blind and seeing” can or cannot do?
This time, I have invited Sidsel Størmer to share her lived experiences of how everyday beliefs have shaped her sense of self and confidence in relying on other senses rather than vision. And her journey towards reshaping her identity – both for herself and in the eyes of others. Sidsel holds a degree in Philosophy from the University of Cambridge, has worked as an analyst at The Government Pension Fund Global (also known as The Norwegian Oil Fund), and is currently pursuing a degree in Law at the University of Oslo. Her eyesight has been limited for as long as she remembers: No vision in her right eye and tunnel vision in her left, with less than 20% of the normal visual field.
I wasn’t blind
Growing up I was never blind. Yes, I had a white cane, and yes, early on I had braille lessons, but I was never blind. One of the first phrases I learnt – after my name – was to tell people that I did not see very well. I could see the sun, I could see pictures in art galleries, I could see my outfit in the morning when I got dressed. I could see enough to read in print – sometimes – and very slowly. To my parents and teachers, this made me “not blind”.
I soon learnt to embody this vision of myself. To me, being not blind was very important, because the people I saw around me and the people I admired were not blind. The people I had met who were blind seemed – to me – strange, scary and fundamentally different from me. As I grew up, I learnt that “the blind” were unable to work, dressed badly, and did not care about architecture, art, design or fashion – things which all mattered deeply to me. But: that was okay – I wasn’t blind.
This attitude carried me into adulthood. While I needed many adjustments during my undergraduate degree, I still took notes by hand, even while needing everything to be recorded for me. I colour coded my notes, as I had always done, in order to get as much as possible out of the pinprick of vision I had. I went clubbing, not knowing who I was going with or where we were. “Blind people don’t go clubbing” I thought, terrified, as I tried to find out where I was.
As I entered the workforce, my blindness caught up with me. I had landed a job in Oslo, where I had grown up, and was going to be living independently for the first time. I continued as I had always done, getting the most out of my vision and pretending like I could see more than I actually could.
Slowly, I came to realise how unsustainable this approach was. My psychologist diagnosed me with burnout two years into working full time. In the year and a half that followed, I slowly began to realise how little I could see and that I had to do something about how I navigated the world. I learnt to use a screenreader, and took time off from work to improve my slow braille and re-learn mobility and orientation skills. I started learning to echolocate, to use my fingers and ears to read instead of my eyes. This journey continues.
Now I choose both – I am blind, and I am sighted
I still love art, fashion and design. I am still deeply invested in the visual aspects of my life. But: I have also come to realise that my other senses sometimes work better than my eyes.
Yet, I have come to realise that I have the privilege of choice. I can choose which senses I want to use on different occasions. When using my recently acquired national gallery membership in London, my guide dog leads me through the halls, but I look at the paintings. I sit in the a nearby cafe reading The Times in print, before reading the braille sign on the bathroom door, I still like to know where I am and to be able to decide “ladies, not men”.
These actions are not contradictory to me. They embody the choice to use different senses for different things.
The thought of blindness is probably scarier to the sighted than it is to the blind. For me, this fear led me to live in a strange in-between state I was neither sighted nor compensating as well as my peers who are “fully blind”. While enjoying the privilege of using all my senses to the full, I wish I had learnt to do so sooner. To be proud of my blindness and my sight. To love art while reading with my fingers and orienting with my ears.
If you know a child who is blind and have some vision, teach them to be proud of their blindness and their sight. Teach them to read with their fingers, orient with the ears and see things that matter to them with their eyes. They will thank you.
See our blog for Activities; especially 91-93.
Some suggestions for further listening, reading, and watching:
- Helen Keller
- Your identity is your superpower
- Your Reality Might Not be Mine: Sensory Perception and Empathy
- Where Does Your Sense of Self Come From?
