time at all. Imagine if Iâd grown, while cuddling the pavement on Lougheed Highway, an eyeball on each earlobe. Profound adaptations can happen in haste. In the blink of an eye, even a white cane can fuse itself to your hand.
Seeing, not to understate the point, transformed the world. For one thing, when the first âeyesâ appeared, the oceans of protein blobs and cells and whatnot had to adapt to a new survival pressure. For the first time in history, they were the objects of sight. They were seen but not necessarily able to stare back. Most of the seeing was done by predators who, with this new sense, enjoyed a super-Darwinian advantage. Prey had some major evolving of their own to do, pronto. Developing meaningful and defensive shapes and colours was a start. Another way to put it is this: when sight began in the world, so did the visual meaning of form. To that end, prey might quickly evolve spiky skeletons so predators wouldnât want to take a bite, or prey might suggest toxicity with bright
colours. According to Parkerâs theory, even those that didnât evolve an eye had to adapt to being seen. Sight was inescapable, whether you had it or not. Parker calls this the âLight Switch Theory.â The degrees, varieties, and speed of evolutionary change in that period remain unparalleled.
I like to think Iâve had a taste of it, too. On Lougheed Highway, my own light-switch era began. I had to evolve to meet the pressures of a sighted world, and a cane was, and still is, the best adaptation my body knows. Strictly speaking, itâs not evolution, but a cane is as close to sight as technology gets. Like the world 543 million years ago, my switch was also about being seen, not just making up for blindness. If others couldnât see me not seeing them, I needed whatever competitive edge technology could offer. Some call my cane, that extraordinary innovation, by its more common name: stick. Weâve shuttled greetings beyond our solar system, decoded the human genome, and harvested frozen methane. I have a stick.
Within a week I contacted the Canadian National Institute for the Blind, outed my difficulties, and made an appointment with a mobility instructor. I would be given a white cane and taught how to use it. Funny to think that a person needs to be schooled in the ways of banging a stick, but itâs true. Thereâs an art to it. Nobody said itâs a dedicated or varied art, but a little technique is involved. How much, I couldnât say at the time.
Iâd never been to a CNIB office in all my years on the planet. Iâd pretty much steered clear of them and any help they might offer. Now I was on their doorstep and in real
need. At the time, mobility training took place in the cellar of a large brown building, one that looked more like military barracks than a nonprofit haven for the squinty. Somehow the buildingâs look reassured me, though, and made me believe this was both an essential and courageous step. This was war, and this was my sideâs bunker. This was about survival of the fittest in a sighted world, and, dammit, I needed some gadgetry and technique before natural selection sent me the way of the dodo.
Inside the bunker, I waited in the lobby for my instructor. Today, for my first lesson, heâd scheduled some one-on-one training.
Iâd read and heard about the intensive instruction people received with guide dogs. For me, a dog was out of the question. Itâs one thing to commit to a stick, and another to cling to a muddy sidekick named Wally. A dog even eliminates one liberty. To a degree, you can hide blindness, selectively show and conceal your white cane, but you canât hide a golden retriever. As well, I recognized I was still too selfish and immature to be responsible for another living being. The guilt didnât appeal. I would regret sitting at a desk and writing or reading for hours on end while my guide dog sat bored
Seeing, not to understate the point, transformed the world. For one thing, when the first âeyesâ appeared, the oceans of protein blobs and cells and whatnot had to adapt to a new survival pressure. For the first time in history, they were the objects of sight. They were seen but not necessarily able to stare back. Most of the seeing was done by predators who, with this new sense, enjoyed a super-Darwinian advantage. Prey had some major evolving of their own to do, pronto. Developing meaningful and defensive shapes and colours was a start. Another way to put it is this: when sight began in the world, so did the visual meaning of form. To that end, prey might quickly evolve spiky skeletons so predators wouldnât want to take a bite, or prey might suggest toxicity with bright
colours. According to Parkerâs theory, even those that didnât evolve an eye had to adapt to being seen. Sight was inescapable, whether you had it or not. Parker calls this the âLight Switch Theory.â The degrees, varieties, and speed of evolutionary change in that period remain unparalleled.
I like to think Iâve had a taste of it, too. On Lougheed Highway, my own light-switch era began. I had to evolve to meet the pressures of a sighted world, and a cane was, and still is, the best adaptation my body knows. Strictly speaking, itâs not evolution, but a cane is as close to sight as technology gets. Like the world 543 million years ago, my switch was also about being seen, not just making up for blindness. If others couldnât see me not seeing them, I needed whatever competitive edge technology could offer. Some call my cane, that extraordinary innovation, by its more common name: stick. Weâve shuttled greetings beyond our solar system, decoded the human genome, and harvested frozen methane. I have a stick.
Within a week I contacted the Canadian National Institute for the Blind, outed my difficulties, and made an appointment with a mobility instructor. I would be given a white cane and taught how to use it. Funny to think that a person needs to be schooled in the ways of banging a stick, but itâs true. Thereâs an art to it. Nobody said itâs a dedicated or varied art, but a little technique is involved. How much, I couldnât say at the time.
Iâd never been to a CNIB office in all my years on the planet. Iâd pretty much steered clear of them and any help they might offer. Now I was on their doorstep and in real
need. At the time, mobility training took place in the cellar of a large brown building, one that looked more like military barracks than a nonprofit haven for the squinty. Somehow the buildingâs look reassured me, though, and made me believe this was both an essential and courageous step. This was war, and this was my sideâs bunker. This was about survival of the fittest in a sighted world, and, dammit, I needed some gadgetry and technique before natural selection sent me the way of the dodo.
Inside the bunker, I waited in the lobby for my instructor. Today, for my first lesson, heâd scheduled some one-on-one training.
Iâd read and heard about the intensive instruction people received with guide dogs. For me, a dog was out of the question. Itâs one thing to commit to a stick, and another to cling to a muddy sidekick named Wally. A dog even eliminates one liberty. To a degree, you can hide blindness, selectively show and conceal your white cane, but you canât hide a golden retriever. As well, I recognized I was still too selfish and immature to be responsible for another living being. The guilt didnât appeal. I would regret sitting at a desk and writing or reading for hours on end while my guide dog sat bored
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