I just finished reading Let the Story Do the Work by Esther K. Choy, and I found myself reflecting on my experiences, especially in response to one of the book’s prompts: “What do you do?”, referring to the work one does. What struck me wasn’t how I would answer this question—I'm good at that, but the realization that I’m almost never asked. This thought has crossed my mind many times.
Despite my extensive contributions over the years, I can’t recall a single instance where someone directly asked me, “What do you do?” Whether I’m with my husband, meeting new people socially, or even with my adult children's friends, the question always seems to be directed to my husband and those around me, never at me. I’ve sat in countless conversations where people are asked about their work, but I’m left wondering: Why aren’t they asking me?
This leads me to confront an uncomfortable truth: Is it because I’m blind? Are people making assumptions about my capabilities simply because I can’t see? Do they think that because I’m blind, I must not have a job—or worse, that I don’t do anything?
Though I’m retired from paid work, my life is far from idle. I’ve worked as a life coach and taught coaching courses. While I occasionally still coach, my main focus is the lay leadership work I do for a nonprofit whose mission I’m deeply committed to. I’ve been serving as a lay leader for over 35 years, currently chairing the board and development committee of a $12 million nonprofit supporting children and adults with disabilities. I’ve held leadership positions on 9 different not-for-profit boards and currently serve on several community and international disability-related committees, participate in panels, have received leadership awards, written two children’s books and play a role in significant decision-making processes. My work, though unpaid, is meaningful, demanding, and impactful. Yet, despite all this, people seem to assume I have nothing to contribute to conversations about work.
It’s hard not to believe that my blindness fuels these assumptions. Are people equating blindness with incapacity? Do they assume that because I can’t see, I must not be doing anything productive? Or do they think work only counts” if it comes with a paycheck? But that would presuppose they even know what I do—and they usually don’t.
If this is due to my blindness, the issue runs deeper than my personal experience. It reflects societal views on people with disabilities and how we define “work.” It raises uncomfortable questions about how we value different forms of labor and who is deemed worthy of being asked about their contributions. Too often, we attach worth to paid jobs while overlooking the significance of volunteer work. When people don’t ask me what I do, it feels like my work is rendered invisible, as if my contributions don’t exist because I’m not part of the conventional workforce. I actually think because they don’t even know that I do anything it’s more insidious than that; This lack of curiosity feels like an erasure of my identity and capabilities, as if people can’t imagine a blind woman having a meaningful role in the world.
Since 99% of the time, these people don’t know me or what I do, I have to assume the issue isn’t the value placed on unpaid work but the assumption that I don’t work because I’m blind. For me, the work I do is fulfilling and makes a tangible difference. Yet, likely due to my blindness, my story often goes untold, leaving me feeling invisible.
So, I’m left with questions: What assumptions are people making about my abilities and my life simply because I am blind?
For me, it’s not just about telling my story—it’s about challenging the narrative that certain people, because of their identity or circumstances, aren’t even worthy of being asked.
The next time I find myself in a situation where the question “What do you do?” is asked of people around me and not me, I may just say “let me tell you what I do”!.And p.s., because I read Esther Choy’s book I’m even better at telling my story!!
By Michelle Friedman
Michelle Friedman is the board chair of Keshet in Chicago, a member of Disability Lead and has been a disability advocate for 40 years. She has written two children’s books and is a frequent speaker for elementary and high school-age students.
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