Don’t just look at me!

When you see me walking across campus, would I be wrong if I said that the first thing your eyes rested on was the cane that I held in my hand? And then, your eyes would travel up to meet mine, and you would realize that they were different from yours. Would I be wrong if I said that the first thing you noticed about me was that I am blind?

What do you feel when you see me?

Are you overwhelmed with pity for a girl who will never be able to see the beauty of the world as you do?

Do you say to yourself, “I don’t know how she lives every day, every moment, with the weight of her all-consuming disability. I would be devastated if I was her.”

Do you see me as the helpless heroine of a sad story?

Or, do you look at me and say: “I wouldn’t be able to do what she does.”

Do you see me as the brave warrior who overcomes every challenge that life places before her with the sheer strength of her will?

But, I am not the helpless heroine of a story that fate wrote for me. Neither am I the undaunted warrior who never gives in to weakness and despair.

I am much more than that.

Do you know that “Anne of Green Gables” is my favorite book? Do you know that growing up, I wrestled with my brothers just as you did with your siblings? And do you know that math exams have made me cry more times than I can possibly count?

For a long time, I was angry at the world because it made assumptions about me. I was angry at the people who wanted to know how I ate, studied, clothed myself and lived my life, just because they assumed that these simple tasks were impossible to perform without sight, because they found it hard to believe that a blind person could live a life of joy and fulfillment. I saw myself as an angry, rebellious victim of a heartless, thoughtless world steeped in ignorance and prejudice.

But at some point, I looked deep into my heart. And I was shocked at what I found there.

I have always experienced the world through my ears. Sounds have carried stories to me. And so, when I hear the approach of a wheelchair user, I catch myself wondering: “I don’t know how they do it! Not being able to walk, to run, to stride confidently.” When I interact with a person who is deaf, I say to myself: “I would never be able to be happy in a world where I cannot listen to music, or listen to the voices of my loved ones. I could never be as brave as they are.”

And every time I allow these thoughts to rise from the ignorance and prejudice that I secretly hold in my heart, I forget that the friend who is a wheelchair user, the friend who is deaf, does not need my pity or my admiration. I forget that their lives are as beautiful, imperfect, joyful, sorrowful, full of adventures and misadventures as mine is. When I create stories about them, I forget that only they can share themselves and their stories with the world.

So, this is not about anger at the world that refuses to see me. But this is an admission.

I too am guilty. I too closed my ears to the stories that needed to be heard. I too embedded myself in a false world in which I could look down or gaze up at those who were different from me. I too am guilty of the same condescension and admiration that I accused the world of.

So, to all the people that I judged and made assumptions about even before I had come to know you, this is the only thing I have to say:

I’m sorry. I am sorry for every unworthy thought, and every assumption that denied you your dignity as a beautiful, complex human being. I am sorry for all the times when the sound and texture of your voice, your accent and the language you speak, made my heart turn away from yours, as if you were unworthy, as if I was somehow superior. I am so sorry that my heart wasn’t big enough to embrace you.

Today, I confront the painful realization that I too still continue to have shameful moments when my heart refuses to free itself from the years of prejudices and stereotypes that it has amassed against the other. So, I am not here to point an angry finger, but to admit that I too have failed. I am here to own up, but also to challenge myself to be better, to slowly become someone who refuses to be defined by the stereotypes of a heart too small to hold love.

And I offer you the same challenge. The next time you see me walking across campus, look at my eyes and know that I am blind. But don’t stop there. Don’t just look at me and turn away, allowing your heart to cage me into something I am not. Look deeper, because I want to be seen. I want to be known, not as the blind girl, but as Hannah Alice Simon.

And, I promise to listen. I promise to truly open myself up to the person that you are, and the stories that you can tell. Because I believe that a person is not one unique story, but many, and each story deserves to be heard.