As I wrote last week, part of my Mobility & Orientation training in school was learning how to properly use a cane. It wasn’t so much that I needed (or still need) to use one — my vision is such that I can get around okay without it — but rather I have it for identification purposes. In other words, carrying it with me, visibly, everywhere I go so as to signal to people that I’m visually impaired. The signal is especially important when crossing streets — something I do, obviously, all the time.

But for as much as I know carrying my cane is helpful, the truth is I just don’t want to. More accurately, I don’t think I need to. As I said, I get around just fine without one, and I don’t want to be hassled with having one more thing to tote with me. Moreover, in regards to identification, the irony is I don’t like being “labelled” as disabled, which the cane would effectively do. In that context, then, I don’t want to be identified a certain way; I just want me be me, disabilities notwithstanding. I realize this insecurity is purely psychological, because a carrying a cane isn’t bad or a beacon of blindness, but I’d just rather do without it. My old O&M teacher still gives me a bad time over my refusal to carry mine, but I refuse to cave. A cane is great for those who truly need and benefit from one, but it isn’t for me. I don’t need it, I don’t want it. Actually, I can’t even find mine, which is probably one reason I don’t use the thing. It’s buried somewhere in the depths of my bedroom, and I’m not motivated enough by it to go searching for it. I’m reminded of it every time I’m out and see a person with a cane, like Oh yeah. My cane’s around somewhere.

Somewhere where I can’t (and won’t) use it.