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  Disability professionals warned me: work hard or you’ll never find employment. Around seventy percent of blind people are unemployed. I studied hard in school, graduating high school as valedictorian. I spent a summer sharpening my independence skills at the Louisiana Center for the Blind. My college GPA is excellent. I even have volunteer work experience on my résumé. The seventy percent unemployment rate still managed to claim me, leaving me jobless in Jobville, Alaska.

  When you do everything right and society stomps on you, over and over, it creates a piercing, gut-twisting pain. It causes you to question the conventional wisdom that a person who works hard will always overcome obstacles.

  Gordon offers encouragement, but I don’t want to hear it. He drummed up Alaska as the land of long summer days where the sun doesn’t set until 10 p.m. He promised that I’d find a summer job here. Instead, I find employment discrimination.

  Blindness is just the lack of sight, but people inflate the disability to an absurd degree. They assume incompetence, intellectual challenges, and an inability to contribute with alternative techniques. This is decades of cultural stories perpetuating the idea that people with disabilities are inferior to the nondisabled. Wherever I go, regardless of how hard I work, I keep encountering ableism.

  Laurie bakes chocolate macaroons. The alluring aroma of warm chocolate pulls me away from the computer—just for a spell. While everyone else is at work, she invites me on a hike along the waterfalls of the steep Perseverance Trail. Feeling the sun on my face as I breathe in the smells of a mountain creek rushing through grass and trees helps me forget that I’m an unemployed failure—possibly forever.

  Then Laurie recommends me to her friend Rachel, the manager of a local gym. Rachel reviews my résumé, interviews me, and hires me as a part-time front desk clerk. On our tour of the gym, Rachel teaches me how to use the machines, clean up the changing rooms, and manage the cash register. My white cane doesn’t faze her at all. Whether I use sight or a nonvisual technique matters less than whether I get the job done.

  One day a woman walks up to the front desk. “Hi, I’m trying to use a treadmill but it’s not working.”

  “I’ll take a look. Which one?” I follow her to a row of treadmills. She stops by the second machine. Setting my cane down, I step up to the machine and press the on button. Nothing. I try the other buttons on the panel. Nothing. Using both hands, I search the machine from top to bottom. Along the base I find a switch. When I flick it, the treadmill whirs to life.

  “Oh my god, thank you! That was amazing! I didn’t even see that switch,” she says.

  My lips turn up in a playful grin. “I didn’t see it, either.”

  We laugh, a cathartic, soul-healing laugh.

  Sometimes tactile techniques beat visual techniques. Someday the world will learn that people with disabilities are talented, too.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Little Dog That Makes Earthquakes

  Morristown, New Jersey. Summer 2009.

  “You need to trust Maxine,” my instructor says. George and I are standing on a sidewalk in downtown Morristown, New Jersey. Instead of battling employment discrimination this summer, I’ve decided to train with a guide dog. “Feel what she’s doing through the harness.”

  I nod. Maxine is a highly trained Seeing Eye dog. She spent the first two years of her life with The Seeing Eye, the oldest guide dog school in the United States. Over the last few months, George has provided Maxine with extensive training to prepare her for a life of guiding.

  “If she makes a mistake, correct her by saying ‘no,’ or, if it’s something serious, say ‘pfui’ in a mean voice.” Pfui, pronounced “foo-EE,” is a German exclamation of deep displeasure. “It’s more important to praise her, though, so give her lots of praise and encouragement. She has to want to guide you.”

  I drop down to Maxine’s level and begin petting her. “You’re a good girl, Maxine.”

  For a German shepherd, she’s actually quite small: at fifty pounds, she’s almost half the size of the other shepherds, but her size is perfect for me. Maxine has smooth black and tan fur that turns super soft along her adorable ears. Her cute long nose points, probes, and pushes my hand to request more petting. She’s completely charmed me after only one day together.

  “Have her take you around the block. Start by going to this next corner.”

  “Okay.” I stand up and get into position. My left hand holds a leash and harness designed by The Seeing Eye. Soft leather straps wrap around the dog’s back, chest, and front. An adjustable buckle helps ensure the fit is comfortable. The straps connect to a light handle that rests across the dog’s back. Holding the handle with my left hand, I gesture forward with my right. “Maxine, forward.”

  She charges ahead, yanking my arm. I jog to keep up, until I remember that a little tension in the connection helps a leader guide a follower on the dance floor. Feeling for tension in the harness handle, I switch to a brisk walk. Centering myself, I concentrate on making long quick strides to match her four fast feet. My left foot slams into a large crack in the sidewalk. Stumbling, I hop up and keep walking. Maxine continues pulling forward. Inside my shoes, I curl my toes up to minimize tripping. Maxine leads me through more uneven sidewalk, and this time I maintain my balance. Then she stops where the sidewalk ends.

  “Good girl!” I scratch her ears.

  “How was that?” George asks.

  “Awesome!”

  “Was she going too fast?”

  “No way. That was fun.”

  “Okay. If she goes too fast you can tell her to slow down.”

  “Mhm.”

  “I want you to tell her to turn left and walk to the end of this block.”

  “Maxine, left.” She turns left. “Maxine, forward.”

  She pads along, and my long strides help me keep up. I breathe deeply, centering myself. My feet glide over uneven terrain. Then Maxine stops at the next corner.

  “Good girl! What a good girl, Maxine!” I drop to her level and massage her neck.

  “That was great,” George says. “Keep going.”

  I stand up. “Maxine, left.” We reposition ourselves and I give her the forward command again.

  My left hand feels a strong tug, and I immediately move with it. My legs take long quick strides as all my attention zooms in on the leather harness connected to Maxine. Little tremors climb up the harness to the handle every time she steps forward. Left, right, left, right. I marvel at how much tactile information travels through the harness handle.

  My foot smashes into an object. I’m falling. My hands and feet jerk out, breaking the fall at the last second. My legs tremble as I stand back up.

  George arrives. “Say pfui.”

  My voice feels trapped in my throat. I take a deep breath and utter a fierce “Pfui!”

  Maxine steps back, upset. I’m upset, too. She walked me right into some potted plants.

  “Are you hurt?” George asks.

  I consider the question for a moment. “No.”

  “Okay. Turn to the right and have her go forward, back to the sidewalk, then continue around the block.”

  Hesitating, I look down at the little dog. She tripped me! A Seeing Eye dog tripped me!

  I adjust the leash and harness to the proper position. “Maxine, forward.” She takes two steps, then stops. I put more authority in my voice. “Forward.” She starts walking again. “Maxine, left.” Several steps later she turns left. Back on the sidewalk she picks up speed. My toes reach for the sky, anticipating another fall. When we reach the end of the block, we stop.

  “Praise her,” George says.

  I give him an incredulous look. “She tripped me.”

  “That was earlier. You corrected her when she made a mistake. When she does something right, she needs to be praised. She just guided you to this corner, and you should praise her.”

  “Okay.” I lean down and scratch Maxine’s ears. “Good girl! Good girl, Maxine!” I straighten u
p. “Why did she trip me? I thought you trained her.”

  “It takes time for a dog and human to develop a working relationship. If it worked from day one then we wouldn’t need a three-and-a-half-week training program. You’re going to have to be patient. These things take time.”

  I frown skeptically, still upset.

  “Let’s go back inside.” George leads the way to the training center. It’s a large room with couches and armchairs where students and instructors congregate.

  I find a spot on the couch and sit down. “Maxine, sit.” She ignores me until I gently push her butt down. “Good girl!”

  “Hey, Haben!” A woman calls to me from the other end of the couch. “How was your walk?” Keianna is from Chicago. She’s here to train with her third guide dog and doesn’t mind answering my rookie questions.

  I scoot over to sit next to her. “Maxine tried to kill me.”

  “What! What happened?”

  I describe the incident to her, and Keianna laughs. “Honey, that happens to everyone. The dogs are going to mess up during training. You have to trust your dog.”

  “I trusted her, and she tripped me!”

  “Aww, she didn’t mean it.”

  I mutter darkly, “Uh huh, sure.”

  Keianna chuckles. “Trust me, it gets better. It’s like dating. The first date is a little awkward, but over time the relationship grows stronger.”

  I look down at the dog stretched out on the floor by my feet. “I’m sure you’re right.” I get up, and Maxine leaps to her feet. I smile. “I’m going to go find something to read.” Reaching down, I grasp Maxine’s harness. “Maxine, forward.” We walk across the room, Maxine in the lead. She stops. Glancing down, I observe her sitting with her head bent down and her tail straight out. Puzzled, I just stare. Then it hits me: she’s peeing! She’s peeing indoors! Shock freezes my limbs like an arctic wind. Then George’s advice cracks through the ice. I lean down close to her ear. “Pfui!” She keeps peeing. I try my meanest voice. “Pfui!”

  “Good job correcting her.” Peggy, another instructor, steps over to us. “It’s okay, I’ll clean this up.”

  I hesitate. Shouldn’t I be the one to clean up after my dog? The instructor did offer, though. “Thanks.” I wave for Maxine to keep moving. “Forward.” I carry a braille magazine back to the couch and grumble, “Maxine just peed in here.”

  “Bob’s dog just peed in here, too. They act up sometimes during training,” Keianna explains.

  I shake my head. “I thought they were trained.”

  “They are trained. I told you, relationships take time.”

  I open the magazine on my lap. “As far as first dates go, this one’s pissy.”

  By nine in the evening I’m ready to sleep. The Seeing Eye gives every student their own dorm room. I tie Maxine by her dog bed and climb into my human bed beside her. She sits up next to my bed. “You’re a good girl, Maxine.” I pet her. When I stop, she pokes me with her nose. “Sweetie, you need to sleep.” I pull the comforter over my head. Her long nose pokes my arm through the comforter. I ignore it. Then her two front legs claw me. “Ow! Down!” She continues standing, her head on my bed. I jump out of bed and kneel next to hers. “Sit.” She obeys. “Good girl! Good, Maxine!” As I scratch her ears, she leans into my hands. I massage her neck, her shoulders, her back. “Down.” She lies down on her bed, and I continue petting her. “Good girl, Maxine. Brava, Maxine. Goodnight, Maxine.” I stand up, and she leaps to her feet. “That’s enough.” I walk around the bed and get in on the opposite side.

  Exhausted, I fall asleep. Sleep takes me to a world where imagination reigns. The typical five senses become irrelevant—my sight and hearing mirror my waking world. I’m Deafblind, but information reaches me without the usual struggle. I effortlessly identify people, receive messages, and experience phenomena. The knowledge just emerges from within, as if it were there all along. I dream about being home in California. My sister and I sit in our living room, sipping Saba’s cinnamon tea. Then our house starts shaking. Earthquake!

  I bolt up in bed. My heart pounds in my chest. That earthquake felt real. Are there earthquakes in New Jersey?

  Just then, the bed starts shaking.

  Earthquake!

  The tremors feel stronger on my right side. I push off the comforter and crawl to the right. Then I stop. Maxine’s front half is on the bed. Confused, I stay just outside her reach, waiting. She watches me, too. Then she scratches the mattress with lightning speed, like a dog digging a hole. The whole bed shakes.

  “You’re a little earthquake, Maxine.” Laughing, I start petting her. She leans her head into my hand. Climbing out of bed, I kneel beside her. She jumps off the bed and nudges me with her nose. “The Seeing Eye says no dogs on the bed. Sorry.” As I run my hands over her to check if anything is wrong, she continues to poke and paw me. “You’re fine, baby girl. Down.” She drops down and rolls over. I rub her belly. “Good girl, Maxine. Goodnight, Maxine.” When I stand up, she stands up, too. I crawl back into bed and pull the comforter over me. The bed begins to shake. I tune it out and slip back to sleep.

  Over the next week, Maxine and I go through many hours of training. George watches as we navigate sidewalks, cross streets, and maneuver through stores. When Maxine walks me into something, I correct her. When she does something well, I praise her. She receives a lot of praise, especially during the traffic checks. While Maxine and I cross streets, she guides us out of the way as instructors pretend to run us down with their cars.

  When I’m not training with Maxine, I’m studying for the Law School Admission Test (LSAT). I brought practice braille tests, and I keep a digital copy of the practice materials on my laptop, which I access using screenreader software.

  I’m sitting at my desk typing a response to an essay prompt when Maxine paws my leg. I drop my hands from the keyboard and start petting her. “Down.” I continue petting her as she lies down. “Good girl! Now rest.”

  My hands back on the keyboard, I begin typing. The first time I tried responding to a practice LSAT prompt, my brain froze. The correct answer felt a million miles away. I’m doing this, I told myself. Right or wrong, I needed to start. So I made myself type that first sentence. Feedback from the first essay I wrote has helped make each new one easier to write. I don’t even have to think to know what I want to write for this one. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I type out another sentence.

  Maxine paws my leg. I keep typing. She paws my leg again. My hands stay on the keyboard. Maxine shoves her long nose against my left wrist, launching my hand into the air.

  I laugh. “You’re so persistent!” She leans into my hands as I pet her. “I need to study or I’ll never get into law school. Down. Good girl! Rest.”

  Sitting back up in my chair, I continue typing. A few seconds later, Maxine pushes my arm off the keyboard with her nose. Regaining control of my left arm, I put it back down on the keyboard. The muscles clench, preparing for another assault. The nose pushes my arm again, but this time my arm stays put. She shoves harder, lifting my arm two inches off the keys.

  “No,” I gently admonish. “Boundaries. I need you to respect my work time. We’ll play later.” With that, I turn back to my computer.

  She tries the nose launch two more times. After not getting a response, she stretches out on the floor. I continue studying.

  The next interruption comes through the PA system. Lunchtime!

  Maxine and I step out into the hall. My left hand has her leash and harness. “Forward!” She starts walking down the hall, past other dorm rooms. I encourage her to go faster, “Hup up.” She launches herself forward, doubling her speed. “Good girl!” We dash down the hall, curve left through a little lobby, and skid to a stop. “Good girl!” Reaching with one foot, I tap the top of the staircase. “Forward.” We bound down the stairs together. “Good girl! Forward.” She starts walking down the hall. “Hup up,” I urge. Down the hall we fly, Maxine and I. We whiz past another student.
“Good girl! Go, Maxine!”

  “Haben!”

  I stop, and Maxine stops, too.

  George walks over. “You need to slow down.”

  “Why?”

  “Maxine has less time to think when she’s going that fast. Besides, we have other students here. Two blind people walking that fast, kaboom!”

  I grin. “Okay, we’ll slow down in busy areas.” I wave my hand toward the dining room. “Maxine, forward.”

  She walks a few feet, and then stops. Just like she did the other day, Maxine drops to a sitting position with her head bent forward and her tail straight out.

  I stomp my foot. She keeps peeing. I channel my fury into one word, “Pfui!” Maxine stands up. I immediately walk us back to George. “She just peed! Last week she peed in the downtown training center. Why is she doing this? She’s supposed to be house-trained.”

  “Have you taken her outside this morning?”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “She didn’t do this when I was training her.”

  I give him an incredulous look. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s housebroken. Just give her time. You two are doing really well together. Don’t worry—I’ll clean this up. You guys go on to lunch.”

  Maxine and I enter the dining room. Students sit around long tables, and dogs lie underneath. I direct Maxine to the end of a table near a wall where it’s a little quieter. A woman with shoulder length black hair has the end seat; a black Lab lies at her feet.