Empowerment. Engagement. Authenticity.
Creative Nonfiction - Bid for Independence
“This time last weekend, I was on a Greyhound bus
to Ottawa. I told my parents I was going out with my boyfriend. I didn’t
say that we were going to a city five hours’ away from home. And we had
no idea where we’d be staying. One day,” I beamed at my audience, “your
kid will be me.”
Uneasy laughter rippled from the parents in the crowd.
“Weren’t you scared?”
Using the narrow central field of vision in my right eye – I have no
usable vision in my left – I turned to the grey-haired man who had
called out the question.
“All that mattered to us,” I grinned, “is that we’re in love and wanted
to get away for a couple days.”
“Is your boyfriend sighted?” the same man asked.
“Nope. And before you say that two blind people taking off to a strange
city on their own is irresponsible,” I said, anticipating the same
lecture I’d received from my parents upon my return to Toronto, “here’s
my point – disability doesn’t mean we’re not reckless young people. We
want to do the same things and go to the same places as our sighted
friends. That’s where services like orientation and mobility training
come in handy. Donors like you pave the road to our independence.”
“Tell us more about your trip!”
This time, I tracked a young voice to a teen in a leather jacket. I
thought the dark brown leather suited his olive complexion nicely.
Couldn’t quite make out the logo on the front pocket, though.
I didn’t miss a beat. “So we’re on the Greyhound,” I continued, “and
Brogan – my boyfriend – phones a friend to score us accommodation. We
get a room smack dab in the middle of all the tourist attractions.
Everything within walking distance.”
“Challenges?” This from a woman who I could see was clutching her young
daughter’s hand as if the girl would bolt off on an adventure any
second.
“Time management!” I laughed. “When we left Toronto, I had to abandon a
very tasty Cajun shrimp fusilli in our mad dash to the bus terminal.
Slow customer service, I say. But then, a day later, I checked my watch
halfway through the Parliament tour and realized we’d miss our return
bus if we didn’t run.”
“What did you learn from your experience?” The executive director of the
blindness charity, who had recruited me to speak at this fundraiser,
steered me toward the bullseye.
“I don’t think I can put my sense of accomplishment into words,” I said
honestly. “Brogan, well, he’s used to taking off where and when he
wants. I never thought that was an option for me, even though I’m
twenty-one. But here I am. And, see Mom and Dad?” I smiled at my parents
in the front row. “I survived.”
Creative Nonfiction
Many of the stories I write are classified as
"creative nonfiction." That is, they are true stories about my life but
they are written as if they are fictional stories - with dialogue,
characters and a plot.
