Thunder Dog (11 page)

Just a couple of years ago, along came a game changer that enabled me to do something I never thought I’d be able to do— read my mail. Think about it. For a blind person to read mail, he has to ask a friend or hire an assistant to help read it. But now, thanks to the K-NFB Reader by Mobile Products, I can read any sort of print, whether menus, magazines, instructions, labels, recipes, or even junk mail. It works like this: using a cell phone, the user takes a photo of the print to be read and the character recognition software, in conjunction with high-quality text-to-speech, reads the contents of the document aloud.

The K-NFB Reader is the great-grandchild of the Kurzweil Reading Machine, the world’s very first omni-font optical character recognition system. This remarkable machine was invented by Raymond Kurzweil, a futurist and inventor who came up with a computer program capable of recognizing text written in any font. Before that time, scanners had only been able to read text written in a very few standardized fonts.

Kurzweil had known he wanted to be an inventor since the age of six. While a student at MIT, he became interested in using computers for pattern recognition. His ideas were innovative but needed a real-world application.

One day Kurzweil was on an airplane and struck up a conversation with a blind man sitting next to him. He asked what type of technology would be most helpful in addressing a blind person’s needs. He expected the answer to be related to mobility. Instead, the man said the technology that would be the most helpful would be a device that could read print.

After that chance conversation, Kurzweil decided that the best application of his scanning technology would be to create a reading machine that would allow blind people to understand written text by having a computer read it to them aloud.

My very first job out of college, in a remarkable stroke of luck, I got to work with Raymond “Ray” Kurzweil, now an internationally recognized inventor and futurist.

Ray first approached the National Federation of the Blind (NFB) with his idea for a reading machine back in 1974. They were skeptical at first, but after an eye-opening demonstration at the inventor’s laboratory on Rogers Road in Massachusetts where the reading machine read some of the materials the NFB brought, they began a working relationship. With Ray’s help, the NFB approached foundations for funding and purchased five machines, which were placed in various locations around the country for blind people to use. These were the prototypes and were about the size of an apartment-sized washing machine. The reading machine used a flatbed scanner and scanned just one line at a time. It took about thirty to forty-five seconds to scan an 81/2 x 11–inch page of text, then another minute or so to recognize the text and begin to read it out loud.

The first five machines were located at the Iowa Commission for the Blind; Blind Industries and Services of Maryland; the New York Public Library; the University of Colorado; and the Orientation Center for the Blind in Albany, California (later moved to the San Francisco Public Library).

These machines were just prototypes and needed the bugs worked out, so after graduation I was hired by the NFB to work with James Gashel, director of governmental affairs for the NFB, to test the machines out in the real world. It was my job to teach people how to use them and to write the training curriculum. I traveled from place to place, collecting data about how people were using the machines, and then incorporated that into recommendations for the production model of the machines. I was the day-to-day guy. I had a ball traveling around the country, teaching people how to use the machines and helping to make their experience a good one so they could use the machines and provide us with feedback. My findings helped refine the design and make it more user-friendly. I even helped come up with the concept of a “nominator” key, which directed the machine to read aloud the names and functions of the control keys. We also came up with a “Contrast” control to make light print appear darker to the camera, thus widening the amount of material those first machines could read.

In 1978, I began to work directly for Ray at Kurzweil Computer Products. I ended up doing the same thing I had done before, working on human-factor studies and coming up with ways to make the machine better and even more user-friendly. Later I ended up moving into the sales force and selling the commercial version of the product. I took a Dale Carnegie sales course and helped to move the reading machine into the corporate world, where it was a great product for companies who wanted to scan documents. Eventually Xerox purchased Kurzweil’s company in order to get at the scanner technology and brought in their own people. I was the last non-Xerox person to be laid off from the sales force.

During my time in Boston, I became friends with Aaron Kleiner, who had been Ray’s roommate at MIT and who worked closely with Ray. Once I talked Aaron into going with me to see the first Star Wars movie. It was a very big deal and lines were long. He couldn’t believe a blind guy wanted to go to the movies. He thought it was even more hilarious when I asked him to describe the visuals. “That was a challenge,” Aaron said. “I’ll never forget trying to describe the cantina scene. ‘Uh, there’s a guy with the head of a grasshopper and the body of a horse . . .’”

Aaron and I had an even more interesting experience at a ritzy restaurant in Boston’s Back Bay. There were three of us: Aaron, his wife, and me. The minute we walked in the front door, the
d’ took one look at my guide dog, Holland, and said, “We’re sorry. We don’t allow dogs. You can’t come in here.” I wasn’t too upset; since I’d dealt with this before.

“This is wrong,” I said. “They don’t know the law.”

We left and had dinner at a different restaurant, but Aaron’s wife was shaking, she was so angry. I told her, “Don’t worry. I know what to do.”

The next day, I printed out a copy of the guide dog law and contacted the local chapter of the National Federation of the Blind. I rounded up six or seven other blind people with guide dogs, and we showed up for dinner back at the restaurant with the snooty
d’. We opened the door and surged in, a pack of blind warriors with our trusty dogs.

The
d’ stopped. Looked at us. Blinked. Considered his options. Caved.

“Welcome,” he said.

We had a wonderful dinner and were treated well. The restaurant staff was solicitous, even offering food to the guide dogs.

Blind power
.

The Kurzweil Reading Machine was revolutionary. On January 13, 1976, the finished product was rolled out by Raymond Kurzweil and NFB during a news conference. It gained him national recognition. On the day of the machine’s unveiling, Walter Cronkite used the machine to give his signature send-off, “And that’s the way it is, January 13, 1976.” While listening to the
Today
show, musician Stevie Wonder heard a demonstration of the device and purchased the first production version of the Kurzweil Reading Machine, beginning a lifelong friendship with Ray. Ray was later inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame for this invention. He was also awarded the National Medal of Technology by President Bill Clinton for pioneering new technologies.

Ray was always interested in music and went on to start a company that developed the most state-of-the-art music synthesizer in the industry. He ended up selling that company to Yamaha. Later he started working on voice recognition, and the most successful programs currently on the market are based on algorithms he created.

That washing machine–sized reading machine that originally cost fifty thousand dollars is now under two thousand bucks, and I carry the software on my cell phone so I can use it to read anything, anywhere, anytime.

Oh, and one last tool. This is the one that allowed me to fly a plane. Not long ago I purchased a GPS system that integrated with my Braille Notetaker. This system was developed by another blind man, Mike May, and his company, the Sendero Group. I had to fly to a speaking engagement in Idaho. My brother-in-law Gary Ashurst had arranged for me to deliver a speech in Hailey, Idaho, and he also arranged for a friend to come to Boise to fetch me in his private plane.

It was a clear and beautiful autumn day. While we were walking to his four-seater Cessna, the pilot noticed my BrailleNote hanging over my shoulder. He also examined my new GPS receiver and started asking questions. Before we took off, I showed him how it worked and told him I was going to use it to track our flight.

I got Roselle settled in, I buckled up, and we took off.

Just after we lifted off the runway, the pilot asked me a question I never thought I would hear. “How would you like to fly the plane to Hailey?”

I didn’t need a second invitation. After all, if I could learn to hear a coffee table, ride my bike around Palmdale, hop on a horse, play golf, and drive a car around the UC Irvine campus, then I could certainly fly a plane.

Since I was sitting in the right-hand seat, which also contained full access to the equipment necessary to fly the plane, I took the controls. I got some instructions on how to use the stick and other relevant controls, and then the pilot released the operations to me. My trusty GPS talked me through the skies above Idaho and guided me to the Hailey airport in about an hour. Roselle snored through the whole thing.

I was able to land the plane with a few instructions. In the process, we noticed the altimeter on the GPS was not quite accurate. In fact, it was one hundred feet off, showing that we were lower than we actually were. It didn’t ruffle me much; I’d rather err on the low side than think the plane was higher than it really was.

For blind people, emerging technology is changing the rules of the game, and the sky’s the limit.

“Prejudice comes from being in the
dark; sunlight disinfects it.”
MUHAMMAD ALI

F
irefighters continue to stream up the stairs. Almost every single one stops to look at me, Roselle, and David. Over and over the same few words. “Are you okay?”

“I’m just fine. Thank you,” I say.

“Are you with him?” they ask David.

“Yes, I’m with him. We’re fine. Thanks.”

As the firefighters pass, sometimes spontaneous clapping breaks out. I hear people thanking them and patting their shoulders. They’re breathing heavily.

Progress is slow now. The closer we get to the bottom, the faster, not slower, I want to go.

People are always surprised at how fast I walk. It’s different, of course, when I’m exploring a place for the first time. I usually leave my guide dog at home and use my white cane as an extension of my hands, and as it swings back and forth, tapping the ground, walls, and any objects in my path, I use it almost like a surveying device. It becomes a probe, and I use the information it conveys to map out a graphic, three-dimensional, detailed representation of the new location. I did this with the World Trade Center when I first started working there, exploring top to bottom until I knew it as well as I knew the cracks in the sidewalk in Palmdale.

Most people think the cane is just a tool to use to detect obstacles in your walking path, but it’s much more. Tapping the cane creates sounds unique to the terrain. Dirt, stone, cement, asphalt, tile, wood, and rubber each create a unique sound that an experienced cane traveler learns to detect and identify. But the cane taps also generate an echo that good cane travelers learn to decode for information on the geography of the surrounding space just as I did years ago by listening to my bicycle tires as I rode around my neighborhood in Palmdale. For example, if I’m walking in a parking lot, the sound of the tap changes if there is a parked car in front of me before I ever get close enough to actually contact the car with my cane. As I walk through the cars, the tap sounds change again as I near the curb, the sound waves bouncing off the six inches of cement to create a unique echo. Over time I’ve learned to gather extensive information about my environment from the taps.

Human echolocation, as it is sometimes called, also works with finger snaps, light foot stomps, or clicking noises made with the mouth. While it’s similar to the sonar and echolocation used by animals, humans make sounds with much lower frequencies and slower rates than bats and dolphins, so echolocation works for us mainly on larger objects. In other words, I can’t locate and dispatch a pesky mosquito via mouth clicks or cane taps. I’ll have to leave that to the bats. But human echolocation works well enough for a blind man named Daniel Kish to train people how to use the skill for activities such as mountain biking. Another man named Ben Underwood has used echolocation for running, Rollerblading, basketball, and skateboarding.

Since I’ve been using a cane since my teens, I walk pretty quickly. I like to use a long cane so I can extend it out about three feet in front of me.

With Roselle I can move just as fast except that she handles the job of avoiding objects, helping me travel more efficiently because she makes the choices of how to best avoid obstacles. Roselle studies me constantly, matching my speed. More than once I’ve jogged down an airport concourse to catch a plane, probably turning a few heads. Roselle can usually keep up.

The slow pace on the stairs is frustrating, although understandable. Between the firefighters now taking up the left side of the stairs as they climb up, and the increasing size of the crowd in the stairwell, we are creeping along now. “Twenty-eight . . . twenty-five . . . twenty-two . . .,” David says.

On the 20th floor now, the floor feels slippery.
Why? What is it from? Spilled water? Sprinklers? Sweat?
No one says anything, so it must be some sort of clear liquid. I’m guessing water. But whatever the liquid is, it makes my job harder. I focus, gripping the stair railing a little tighter. I’m even more careful with my feet. Roselle’s movements and pace aren’t changing; she doesn’t seem to notice the slippery stairs. But I need to be aware of her every move in case she slips, or in case I need to move quickly, increasing my chance of slipping.

“Eighteen . . . fifteen . . . thirteen . . .” I try to control my breathing. Roselle’s breaths are coming fast.
Will we pass out from inhaling the fumes
?

I check my watch. It’s 9:35 a.m. It took us just twenty minutes to travel from the 78th floor down to the 30th. But after we met the firefighters, progress was slower, and now we are down to a crawl. But we’re getting close.

“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .” Now I want out of the stairwell. I’m tired of counting. My legs are starting to feel wobbly. I want fresh air. I want to call Karen.

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .” We are so close. If I weren’t hemmed in by people, I’d run.

“First floor,” David calls back. “The sprinklers are on, and we’re going to have to run through a waterfall at the bottom of the stairs.”

He’s not joking. Seconds later, when we reach the 1st floor and leave the stairs, I hear the sprinklers vibrating and water gushing onto the tile floor of the lobby. Roselle pulls down and dips her head to drink water off the floor. I know she’s parched.

Wait! What’s in that water
? With the smell of the jet fuel still strong in my nose and throat, I’m afraid the water might be contaminated. I hate to do it, but I pull firmly up on Roselle’s harness to stop her.

“Hop up!” She responds, gracious as always, and looks up at me. I pause for a split second, the waterfall directly ahead. Then I take a big gulp of air. It’s time to run.

“Forward!”

A torrent of water floods over me. It is colder and more powerful than any shower I’ve ever known. After the heat and the fumes of the stairwell, it feels like a baptism, a cool and revitalizing initiation back into the land of the living.

We made it. We’re out
.

I almost can’t believe it.

“Good girl, Roselle. You did a great job.” We’re in the lobby of Tower 1 now, and I take a few moments to rub Roselle’s head and stroke the back of her neck. She rubs her cheeks against my hand then pulls away and shakes, starting with her head. I drop the harness, keeping the leash in my left hand.

“Good girl,” I say again. “Shake it off.” I know what’s coming next. I hear her ears flap back and forth; then, as any good canine shake does, it proceeds down her spine and ripples out her tailbone as she shakes off the water. Fine droplets spray my hands.

“Great job, Roselle. Good dog. Good girl.” I pick up her harness. It’s time to go home.

David approaches. “Let’s go,” he says. The lobby is in chaos, with people everywhere walking and running across the wet tile floor. It’s a war zone. Ankle-deep water is full of debris, including ceiling tiles, building materials, and paper. Emergency workers are shouting, directing people towards the doors. Voices are anxious, strained, tight. A man approaches and identifies himself as FBI.

“Come this way,” he orders.

“Where do you want us to go?”

He directs us toward the revolving doors to the underground central shopping arcade.

“Thank you,” I call back as we walk away. “I appreciate your help.” In the middle of a little piece of hell on earth, when all of his instincts must be screaming at him to leave, get out, run away and don’t dare look back, this man stays put and offers his help. He is but one of many.

When I escaped Tower 1 that day, I had no idea it would be the last time I ever set foot inside the building. It’s funny; when I talk about my 9/11 experiences today, people sometimes assume that I was there visiting, perhaps as a tourist. “What were you doing up on the 78th floor?” they ask. I can detect a faint sense of surprise when they begin to understand I was at work that day, just like thousands of other people.

But sometimes, when I think about it, I am surprised too. The unemployment rate for blind people is staggering, somewhere near 70 percent of employable blind people, according to the Social Security Administration. The reason that many of the blind unemployed cannot find jobs is that they have faced outright rejection because they are blind or because they have been discouraged by the fruitlessness of their attempts to find a job.

I understand. I once had a job interview scheduled in San Jose, California, for a company that was producing new voice technology products. The night before I was to fly upstate, the headhunter doing the coordination called. “I notice that you’ve worked with several blindness-oriented organizations like the National Federation of the Blind,” he said.

“Yes, that’s correct.” I knew where this was leading.

“Is someone in your family blind?”

“No. I am blind.”

Early the next morning, the interview was canceled.

My friend Dr. James Nyman, a former director of Nebraska Services for the Blind, faced a similar scenario when he first started out in the job market, seeking employment as a college teacher. He recalled “at least two rejection letters that flatly stated that a blind person could not manage the responsibilities of a faculty member.” He believes attitudes have improved over the years, but the prejudice is still there, just under cover. “We are not likely to encounter such open declarations in today’s atmosphere of social consciousness, but the more subtle forms are probably more difficult to combat,” he said.
¹

Blind people face unnecessary barriers, and we can do far more than people think. But I have also learned that instead of thinking of blindness as a disability or a limitation, I can view it as a help. In fact, in my sales career my blindness became one heck of an asset.

First, I don’t think of myself as “blind Michael Hingson.” There are other descriptors that rank much higher. I am also a husband, friend, son, brother, cousin, dog owner, sales manager, physics grad, vintage radio show enthusiast, writer, speaker, net-worker, barbecue chef, ice cream maker, humorist, book lover, horseback rider, man of prayer, technology geek, pianist, world traveler, and dancer. And that’s just for starters. Blind man is in there somewhere, but far down the list. One of the greatest compliments I get is when someone says, “I forgot you are blind.” Then I know for sure that individual is relating to me as a multifaceted person, not through the lens of my blindness.

My brother, Ellery, reminded me recently of my very first meeting with his wife, Gloria. The two of them rode the train to meet me in Boston. Being a typical guy, Ellery didn’t think to tell her much about me. I was just his brother, Mike. I was single at the time, and I met Ellery and Gloria at the train station and led them to a cab. It was about four thirty in the afternoon, and traffic was slow. I directed the cabbie to take some shortcuts back to my apartment, and we skirted some of the congestion. At my apartment after we chatted a bit, I made a lobster dinner for the three of us. It was delicious. We made it almost the whole evening before Gloria noticed I was blind. That was delicious, too—just three people having a wonderful dinner and enjoying each other’s company.