In the fall term of 1968, at Montgomery College, Rockville, MD, John Wilkinson walked into my life.
John had just graduated from high school as the first totally blind student to attend successfully all 12 years in a public school system in Maryland.
Born without optic nerves, John had never seen a visual image of any kind. He brought a delightful smile, an effervescent personality and an extraordinary mind into the classroom.
John soon established himself with his classmates as a gifted verbal individual and an extraordinarily perceptive intellect. A fellow student said to John after class one day, “John, you are teaching us more that we are teaching you!”
John’s experience in that first class was so enriching he chose to take all four required English classes with me – and we became dear friends. A gifted braille student, John would bring his braille manuscript into class on the days he was reading parts of plays and spread them out over two desks and participate in platform reading of dramas in the class.
One day after class, he came to me with a question that few teachers have ever been asked: “Prof, what does the word ‘red’ mean?” Never having seen, John had no concept of color, and it was my pleasure to explain to him the concept of color and, particularly, of red.
John wrote a research paper for me, “Socialization of Blindness” in which he analyzed the social issues between sighted and blind persons. It was, as all of his writing tended to be, a beautiful and perceptive essay on the subject.
Upon graduation from Montgomery College, John, a gifted musician, went to American University, where he majored in music and took a degree in music education.
Recognizing his advanced skills in braille, the Library of Congress soon hired John and he spent his entire professional career as a braille specialist at the library.
I followed his distinguished career from a distance and saw him only occasionally. A year ago, I decided to establish contact again and called the Library of Congress to see if I could reach him. I was told he had retired but the staff would give him my number to have him call me. Within a week his happy baritone said on the phone to me, “Hi Professor Cotner!”
“It’s ‘Bob’ now. Five years ago, glaucoma took my optic nerves, and I now face life daily as you have faced it from birth. Blindness has given us equality.”
I explained to him how I now depend on audio books for my reading, which usually includes a book a week. I also am delighted to be back writing again. We have arranged a dictation system into my computer, and my wife, Norma, serves as my editor and agent. We send John copies of my current essays, which his volunteer reads to him “with great pleasure,” he says.
We bid each other fond farewells, arranging for weekly calls in the future.
Robert Cotner lives in Seneca and has a passion for writing. He is engaged in social and church activities and a heavy schedule of reading. He is a former English teacher and founder of a monthly literary journal, among other endeavors.