I’m just a person who happens to be blind.
Don’t think of me as just a blind person. I have as many other interests as you do. I’ll discuss blindness with you if you’re curious, but it’s an old story to me. I like to know whether the lights are on or off. If I’m your houseguest, show me the bathroom, closet, dresser, window–the light switch too. My sense of smell, taste, touch or hearing did not improve when I became blind, I rely on them more and, therefore, may get more information through those senses than you do–that’s all. I don’t want pity, but don’t talk about the “wonderful compensations” of blindness. Don’t avoid words like “see.” I use them too. At dinner I will not have trouble with ordinary table skills. The door to a room or cabinet or to a car that is left partially open is a hazard to me. Introduce me to the others including children, and tell me if there’s a cat or dog. I want to know who’s in the room with me. I’ll keep a half-step behind to anticipate curbs and steps. Let me decide, and please don’t grab my arm let me take yours. I may use a long white cane or a guide dog to walk independently or I may ask to take your arm. Don’t ask my spouse what I want–“Cream in the coffee?”–ask me. You don’t need to raise your voice or address me as if I were a child. It will help both of us if you remember these simple points of courtesy: “All right, folks,” I say. “Let’s talk about how every single horrifying event that happened in asylums was a direct result of the doctors and nurses committing medical malpractice rather than the patients themselves, shall we? We’ll start with Rosemary Kennedy. I whisk off my cloak to reveal a perfectly tailored suit. “Well,” I say, “you can hear someone’s screams.” Somebody asks if you can still hear the patients’ screams in the corridors. 
They’re confused but comply, feeling in the dark, finally reaching a table. They’ll follow, inch by inch, already trembling with adrenaline. I’ll beckon them with a single finger, wheeling backwards, letting the darkness consume me. They’ll be nudging each other, waiting to hear about the crazies. I’d sort of hunch over in my wheelchair, wrapped in a cloak, greeting the people. I want to become a tour guide of one of those haunted asylum tours.
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