The Black Jar

If we were blind and had no choice

Difference hid

Would we hate each other by the tone of our voice?

—Anthrax, “Schism”

Part I

To explain the colour black: like my mother’s hair; like my shadow; like the narrowest keys of a piano; like the ink trapped in the crescents of my fingernails. My father’s pupils when he doesn’t look at me. My world is black.

And what is white? White is a page without words; a sky with only stars; a glass of cold milk. White is plain, blank, uninteresting. My world is white.

--

I once asked my mother, “What’s that great big ball in the sky? It’s high, high above us, and it makes my eyes hurt sometimes. Last night it went away just after I heard the five o’clock bells. And then… and then it was there again when I was waked up.” Being just six-years-old, I expected my mother to laugh at me the way she did—but she did so in an uncertain way, like I had asked her something too secret.

“The sun, Naida? Do you mean the sun? Did someone describe it to you?” she said after a pause, patting my hair.

“If that’s what the sun is, then I think that’s what I mean,” I said smartly. “There is a smaller ball at bedtime, too, but it doesn’t hurt my eyes as much. It’s… it’s…” I had no proper word to describe it. “And no one explained it to me, mommy.” I squeezed her hand eagerly. “Who puts them there all the time? What is it called?”

“I don’t remember, Naida. I’ve put your clothes on your bed. Hurry and dress for school. Mrs. Keller is teaching you about shapes today.” She touched my back and gently prodded me in the direction of my bed.

It would be eight years before I would learn the word ‘light’.

--

I liked the library best. The rows and rows of books on each shelf were like the walls of my house: taller than me, wider than me. My house was a perfect square, with everything inside arranged into sections, and mostly against the walls. We memorized where everything was, but I memorized things differently than anyone else. No one ever moved anything. No one ever bothered with walls—four was enough. But I easily navigated between these new walls, brushing each book’s spine with my fingers. I discerned classmates doing the same, though they paused a little longer to examine the titles. Finding myself behind another shelf of books, I felt more alone and free because I couldn’t find their eyes with mine—even though I knew they never could find mine with theirs.

I went into the room that made me the clumsiest, the one that was hardest to find my way in. It was the room that no one else ever went into because it held all the books without words—without Braille words like I was accustomed to reading without fingers. I chose to enter this room quietly, tiptoeing to the nearest shelf and slowly reaching for a book.

“No, don’t try that one first,” a man’s voice sounded, and I didn’t notice a speaker anywhere. “Charles Dickens… you might have heard of him? But no, no, don’t pick that one now; pick something else. Please.”

“Did you hear me come in here?” I asked incredulously, shifting my weight onto my heels momentarily. “Who is it?”

“Will,” the speaker replied, and I noticed him finally. “You?”

“Naida.”

“Naida,” he repeated without sound.

“Yes.” I heaved the book back onto the shelf, pushing it between two others with my palm. “Naida Kendall. I… I never come in here, so I don’t know about the books… which one is best and all that. What do you think?” His eyes moved towards the shelves when I said that. No one else had eyes like his.

“You should start with the smaller ones first,” he told me. “The ones over on the little shelf—see?” He hastily went over to it and plucked a book from it. “Robert Munsch,” he said, handing the book to me.

“The author? How can you tell? His name isn’t on the cover.”

“It is,” he insisted calmly, as if he were teaching a little child something, “but forget about that. Sit here at the table… please?” he implored softly. The anxious quavering of his voice would have irritated me if it weren’t for his eyes: curious and alive. He pointed to the small stool in the corner and urged me with his trembling gestures to sit on it. Then he went to retrieve more books, his chin bobbing up and down in a most gleeful way.

“Should I take them out, then?” I asked, waiting uncertainly. “I mean… I’ve forgotten my library card at home, you know.”

“If you want,” he said distractedly. He placed the books on the floor in front of me. “There,” he said in a satisfied way. “My favorite is the one by Audrey Wood. The one with the mother and her seven children named after each day of the week… Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—like that. About the mother who pretends to cut off her legs… um… you won’t know what I’m talking about unless you see for yourself.”

“See? I don’t know that word. I’m sorry…”

“Oh… um—yes. To see, um, to see is different… you see the letters. There.”

“Letters?”

“Oh,” he repeated. He heaved a loud sigh. “Of course, of course… you won’t know what they mean! No…” Will shook his head furiously. “Ah, here we go,” he said. Before I could assure him of my knowledge of the alphabet, he held up one of the books: a book with a caterpillar on the cover. “Seeing is… seeing is touching something with your eyes. I see you… and you see me…” He hesitated. “Do you understand? It’s touching something without hands… like hearing a sound that’s coming from far away, or smelling a smell that’s from far away.”

“I see the book, then,” I said with bubbling excitement. “And you see it?” I laughed when he nodded. “Of course you do!”

“And in this book there are pictures.”

Pictures: another new word for my tongue to have. “A caterpillar?” I wasn’t sure if that was what he meant. “Someone told me about caterpillars once. They turn into butterflies.”

“Good.” Will smoothed back his hair and licked his lips. He pointed to another book. “This one was a favorite, too—the one with the big dog on the cover. There are lots of these ones on the shelf. But… but let me show you why, um, why I’m… showing these to you.” He opened one of the books. “Oh, my… I can barely see the letters with my old eyes. Not here in the dark, anyway.”

“Does dark always make it hard to see things?” I asked, seeing everything else in the musty room around me.

“Of course. It’s what you see at night... darkness. Until the sun comes out again—the sun gives us light.” He urged me to take the book. “You don’t read, then?”

“Yes,” I replied quickly, shocked that he should think otherwise. I opened the book hurriedly, wishing to prove him wrong. “These words are flat,” I remarked, frowning. “I don’t know these words.” I pressed the pads of my fingers against the page. “It’s another language, or a code.”

“You only read Braille.”

“Not the way my sisters do…”

Will tugged at his ear, at the short stubble of grey on his chin. “Clifford the Big Red Dog,” he said, closing the flimsy covers with the finality of a teacher ending a day’s lesson. He would teach me colours another day.