A Deafblind writer and professor explores how the misrepresentation of disability in books, movies, and TV harms both the disabled community and everyone else. Part memoir, part cultural criticism, part history of the Deafblind experience, Being Seen explores how our cultural concept of disability is more myth than fact, and the damage it does to us all.
blind man bluff ebook 11
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A writer's humorous and often heartbreaking tale of losing his sight and how he hid it from the world. At age sixteen, James Tate Hill was diagnosed with Leber's hereditary optic neuropathy, a condition that left him legally blind. For fifteen years, Hill hid his blindness from friends, colleagues, and lovers, even convincing himself that if he stared long enough, things would come into focus. At thirty, faced with a stalled writing career, a crumbling marriage, and a growing fear of leaving his apartment, he began to wonder if there was a better way.
1. With a Young Child: The adult holds his or her hand upwards as if it's a shell. The child hits his or her forefinger repeatedly in the adult's hand to the rhythm of the song. At the end, the adult closes his or her fingers to imprison the child's finger (who should be quick enough in turn to avoid it).2. Older Kids: One child opens his or her hand and the others hit their forefingers to the beat on the 1st child's hand. At the end, the one whose forefinger is caught exchanges roles with the 1st child. If nobody's finger is caught, the game repeats with the same player.3. As a Choosing Song: Like above #2 but the one whose finger is caught is "It".4. Blind Man's Bluff: Children walk in a circle around a blindfolded child (previously chosen). At the end of the song, everyone stops, the child in the center tries to touch someone and guess their name.You can see the image on this page showing how to play.
Chester Himes was born in Jefferson City, Missouri, on July 29, 1909, to Joseph Sandy Himes and Estelle Bomar Himes; his father was a professor of industrial trades at a black college, and his mother, prior to getting married, was a teacher at Scotia Seminary.[2] Chester Himes grew up in a middle-class home in Missouri. When he was about 12 years old, his father took a teaching job in the Arkansas Delta at Branch Normal College (now University of Arkansas at Pine Bluff), and soon a tragedy took place that would profoundly shape Himes's view of race relations. He had misbehaved and his mother made him sit out a gunpowder demonstration that he and his brother, Joseph Jr., were supposed to conduct during a school assembly. Working alone, Joseph mixed the chemicals; they exploded in his face. Rushed to the nearest hospital, the blinded boy was refused treatment because of Jim Crow laws. "That one moment in my life hurt me as much as all the others put together", Himes wrote in The Quality of Hurt.
It was in Paris in the late 1950s that Chester met his second wife, Lesley Himes (née Packard), when she went to interview him. She was a journalist at the Herald Tribune, where she wrote a fashion column, "Monica". He described her as "Irish-English with blue-gray eyes and very good looking"; he also saw her courage and resilience, Chester said to Lesley: "You're the only true color-blind person I've ever met in my life."[9] After he suffered a stroke, in 1959, Lesley quit her job and nursed him back to health. She cared for him for the rest of his life, and worked with him as his informal editor, proofreader, confidante and, as the director Melvin Van Peebles dubbed her, "his watchdog". After a long engagement, they were married in 1978,[9] as Chester Himes was still legally married to his first wife, Jean, and only able to gain a divorce that year.[10]
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What could she do but leave it alone? So she left it alone. MissChatterley came sometimes, with her aristocratic thin face, andtriumphed, finding nothing altered. She would never forgive Conniefor ousting her from her union in consciousness with her brother.It was she, Emma, who should be bringing forth the stories, thesebooks, with him; the Chatterley stories, something new in theworld, that they, the Chatterleys, had put there. There wasno other standard. There was no organic connexion with the thoughtand expression that had gone before. Only something new in theworld: the Chatterley books, entirely personal.
Connie wondered a little over Clifford's blind, imperiousinstinct to become known: known, that is, to the vast amorphousworld he did not himself know, and of which he was uneasily afraid;known as a writer, as a first-class modern writer. Connie was awarefrom successful, old, hearty, bluffing Sir Malcolm, that artistsdid advertise themselves, and exert themselves to put their goodsover. But her father used channels ready-made, used by all theother R. A.s who sold their pictures. Whereas Clifford discoverednew channels of publicity, all kinds. He had all kinds of people atWragby, without exactly lowering himself. But, determined to buildhimself a monument of a reputation quickly, he used any handyrubble in the making.
Connie had a sitting-room on the third floor, the top floor ofthe central portion of the house. Clifford's rooms were on theground floor, of course. Michaelis was flattered by being asked upto Lady Chatterley's own parlour. He followed blindly after theservant...he never noticed things, or had contact with hissurroundings. In her room he did glance vaguely round at the fineGerman reproductions of Renoir and Cezanne.
She was terrifically cheerful at Wragby. And she used all heraroused cheerfulness and satisfaction to stimulate Clifford, sothat he wrote his best at this time, and was almost happy in hisstrange blind way. He really reaped the fruits of the sensualsatisfaction she got out of Michaelis' male passivity erect insideher. But of course he never knew it, and if he had, he wouldn'thave said thank you!
Connie went slowly home to Wragby. 'Home!'...it was a warm wordto use for that great, weary warren. But then it was a word thathad had its day. It was somehow cancelled. All the great words, itseemed to Connie, were cancelled for her generation: love, joy,happiness, home, mother, father, husband, all these great, dynamicwords were half dead now, and dying from day to day. Home was aplace you lived in, love was a thing you didn't fool yourselfabout, joy was a word you applied to a good Charleston, happinesswas a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a father was anindividual who enjoyed his own existence, a husband was a man youlived with and kept going in spirits. As for sex, the last of thegreat words, it was just a cocktail term for an excitement thatbucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy than ever.Frayed! It was as if the very material you were made of was cheapstuff, and was fraying out to nothing.
To Connie, Clifford seemed to be coming out in his true colours:a little vulgar, a little common, and uninspired; rather fat. IvyBolton's tricks and humble bossiness were also only tootransparent. But Connie did wonder at the genuine thrill which thewoman got out of Clifford. To say she was in love with him would beputting it wrongly. She was thrilled by her contact with a man ofthe upper class, this titled gentleman, this author who could writebooks and poems, and whose photograph appeared in the illustratednewspapers. She was thrilled to a weird passion. And his'educating' her roused in her a passion of excitement and responsemuch deeper than any love affair could have done. In truth, thevery fact that there could be no love affair left her freeto thrill to her very marrow with this other passion, the peculiarpassion of knowing, knowing as he knew.
He turned again to look at her. She was kneeling and holding hertwo hands slowly forward, blindly, so that the chicken should runin to the mother-hen again. And there was something so mute andforlorn in her, compassion flamed in his bowels for her. 2ff7e9595c
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