Day before yesterday, I joined my dear friend to get her
first and my fifth tattoos. Bonding over buzzing, we entered the expedited intimacy that arises when
someone permanently alters your body with their art. With the artist etching into
my friend’s shoulder, we chatted about each other’s lives, spirit animals, and
the current social and political climate.
We also discussed my vision loss: diagnosis, prognosis, use
of assistive technology, and accommodations. Throughout, both my friend and our artist
asked questions with genuine curiosity. They sought to understand my experience. My
friend joked, “I’ve known you for years, and we’ve discussed a lot about your
vision, and still I’m learning so much about you!”
She was right, we had spoken a lot about my vision. But, we
had often spoken about my vision as it relates to my identity and perspective.
Surprisingly, the features of my vision loss I encounter most are the asked
about least. Conversations about my vision loss rarely center on what I
see and how I see it.
Perhaps it is simply awkward to ask a question like “how do
you see?” Indeed, it may seem intrusive to probe “have you always had low
vision?” or “how do you read?” Maybe my sensory experiences aren't that interesting. In any case, I welcome these questions. When coupled with
acceptance, these questions signal a desire for empathy and understanding.
For the last year and a half, I’ve attempted a daily
gratitude practice. Coincidentally, one of my clinical courses included a
gratitude mindfulness practice the morning of our tattoo sessions. Inspired by
these practices, I want to publicly acknowledge my appreciation for those who
approach difference with curiosity and humility. Asking questions, seeking
understanding, and avoiding judgment creates connection. I value thoughtfulness, openness, and compassion, as displayed by my friend and our artist. I am grateful for these women for giving me the space to be seen.
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