The first hint of things to come upon entering the sold-out main ballroom at Foundation Fighting Blindness’s “Dining in the Dark,” held Thursday at the Plaza, was an elaborate system of stanchions connected with white cotton ropes: They were to help the blind waiters navigate the room.
This is the second year the foundation has hosted a dinner where the entrée is served in complete darkness. A concept that started in Germany, it has taken off here, and the foundation will host nine dinners this year, including benefits in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Dallas. (For the full list and schedule visit blindness.org.) Fascinated, I wrangled an invitation.
That night, I recognized MoMA president emerita Agnes Gund in the reception room, and I had seen lots of Gunds on the invitation and program, so I figured she could give me the skinny.
“You should really talk to my brother, he founded the organization,” she told me. “We all come to support him.” Gordon Gund, a former Navy man now running an eponymous investment firm in Princeton, New Jersey, started to go blind in 1970. He told the story to the room. “First it was my night vision that started to go. It went from the periphery first, becoming a tunnel. I was scared, and it was happening so fast. Within 18 months I was completely blind. My wife and I decided then to try and help others who had the same problem.”
At my table I was entertained by three attractive, vivacious sisters and their dates, who were laughing and teasing each other. I asked them if someone in their family was blind, was that why they were here? “We’re all legally blind,” Molly Peters, the oldest, told me. I was shocked and embarrassed and confused. Two seats away, in full lighting, she seemed to look me right in the eye, as they all did, betraying nothing. “How blind are you? Can I ask? Can you see my tie?”
“Is it striped?” she answered, only slightly hesitant. I didn’t press her on the colors.
Katie James, the middle child and the most involved in the foundation, explained the basics to me that night and via email the next day. They all suffer from Stargardt’s Disease, a juvenile macular degeneration that came on during their mid-teens and, fortunately, stopped in their 20s, leaving them with some sight. Brooke James is the baby, and had taken the most chances with her vision by joining the Peace Corps and serving for two years “on the edge of the Sahara desert,” in Cameroon. Apparently, bright light is bad for people with vision risks. “Didn’t you at least wear sunglasses?” I asked.
“When you’re in the Sahara with the Peace Corps, sometimes putting your hands on a pair of sunglasses isn’t so easy,” she explained, smiling.
After the appetizer, our blind server, Ricard Menzo, came over to introduce himself and explain the evening’s concept. He lives in a center for the blind on 23rd Street right near where I live when I’m in the city. I see blind people on the block all the time. Ricard was handsome and outgoing—he’s a part-time DJ. “I’d rather be blind than lose any of my other senses,” he told me. (I found this admirable, if hard to swallow.) He prepared us for what was going to happen. They first dim the lights for 30 seconds so that you get used to it. Ricard recommended that we feel around on the table and try to locate everything—the glasses, silverware, etc.
I should point out now that this was no stripped-down dinner table. In fact, it seemed extra crowded. Seven pieces of silverware, three glasses, and two plates per setting, plus two wine bottles, a bread tray, and salt and pepper shakers.
When the lights went out, I was shocked by how dark it got. Later I learned from the Plaza staff that they spent the better part of the afternoon checking for tiny leaks of light. Looked like they had succeeded.
As I started to touch the space in front of me, I realized I didn’t know where anything was, despite rehearsing with the lights on, letting my fingers do the walking, trying to remember at least where the wine glass was. But in the complete darkness, I stuck my hand too far out, knocking a glass and sticking my fingers in the pat of butter on the bread plate. I touched the hand of Molly’s husband, Andrew. Oops. I figured I would wait for the lights to come back on, then I would redouble my orientation efforts. But it turns out that when the lights are off, and you’re trying to get things done, time stands still.
Finally, the lights came back up, and the room, which had been quiet, erupted in nervous chatter. I wasn’t alone in my cluelessness.
Then the lights went off for the main course. At our table we all turned off our cell phones, but a number of others throughout the rooms used theirs to illuminate their tables. One phone made a huge impact on the whole room, eliminating the blackness, and whenever a cheater turned theirs on, the rest of the room booed heartily, keeping the blinks to a minimum.
Ricard announced as he put down each plate. We joked about whether we needed to wait until the whole table was served. (Who would know?) I poked myself in the cheek with a fork on the first bite. Then on my second I cut too big a piece of chicken and almost choked. Many at our table admitted having forgone the utensils altogether. The braver among us passed the wine and poured it. I didn’t feel like spilling. (“Everybody spills,” Mr. Gund had warned me earlier.) Truth be told, I gave up on eating too, after a while, eating mushrooms and mashed potatoes with my bare hands was just too, well, gross.
Although dining and imbibing were problematic, the conversation at our table thrived. I found myself paying more attention to what people were saying, not being distracted by what else was going on in the room. I also noticed that I could hear what people were saying more clearly. I asked Katie if she was worried about going completely blind.
“The disease we have makes it unlikely. But I worry. I worry that one day I’ll have a child and not be able to see if he swallows something.” One of the speakers talked about the effects of onset blindness: “Fear, frustration, shame, and anger all at once.”
Flashback 10 years or so: I was in Sea Island, Georgia, for my family’s annual Easter break. I noticed my grandmother, Mary Kay, then in her eighties, a healthy, active, and fiercely proud woman, was irritable all the time, complaining that everyone was too loud, and that the kids were running around, which is de rigeur for our family. She had been diagnosed recently with macular degeneration. She’d stopped driving, but other than that it didn’t seemed her lifestyle had been affected. On Easter Sunday, Mary Kay asked me to take her for a walk on the beach. As we approached the sandy path to the beach, she clutched my arm nervously. “It’s my first time walking to the beach, I don’t like the uneven ground.” She had been on the island for two weeks. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t been on the beach yet. Once out by the water, the hard, wide sand of Sea Island appealed to her, and she marched on. I put my hand on her arm. “I’m not an invalid,” she growled.
A few blocks down, an afternoon party was in full swing, and as we passed a woman cried out, “Mary Kay!” A few people gathered around, talking to her, asking her to stop and have a drink. She looked confused and kind of abruptly said, “We don’t want to crash your party.” Out of earshot, she said she couldn’t recognize the people; there were too many talking at once. “You should have been introducing yourself and asking names loudly. You were no help.” It turned out to be the last year she made the trip.
Later, when sitting next to her as her vision worsened, I learned to say things like “Here comes Gillian, she’s wearing a flowered vest” or “Meredith is passing cookies.” Then she’d say, “Oh Gillian, that vest with the flowers looks nice on you.” At restaurants, I’d try to turn the lights up, to the annoyance of other diners, but without her knowing. She was embarrassed.
I inherited a lot of her genes. We were both the tallest of our siblings. We both loved the water and swam well. So one day, it’s likely, I’ll be fumbling around in the dark. Now I know what to expect.
