The Day I Woke Up Blind: When a ‘Bored, Sexist and Lonely’ Catcaller Became My Good Samaritan (Exclusive)

I managed to brush my teeth — and we all know the struggle of a nearly empty toothpaste tube — so I figured I could do anything. I threw on yesterday’s white crop top and, hugging the banister, made my way down four flights of stairs and outside to the streets of East Harlem. In the daylight, I could make out some colors and moving shapes but was still very much swimming underwater. A railing lined a good portion of the block, but I’d have to start using my Manhattan know-​­how before long.

Ah, New York. The city of big apples, hand-​­tossed pizzas and the colloquial adverb deadass. A unique dichotomy of children who grow up too fast and adults who never grew up; where, if you get your ass kicked, no one steps in to help and if you’re the one doing the ass-​­kicking, no one butts in to stop it. I’d originally moved to New York nearly a decade prior, after a rejection letter from NYU dared me to pull up anyway.

By this time I’d lived on my Ninety-​­Ninth Street block long enough that we knew each other quite well. I made my way to the sidewalk and ran my hands down the bushes to my right, taking in the brushes‐on‐snare-​­drum rustle of foliage. The playground to my left brought the familiar cacophony of rowdy kids and young mothers. With this feedback, I was able to triangulate my position on the sidewalk. Eat your hearts out, bats.

As I made my way toward the corner, I entered the realm of the daily corner-​­side catcallers, and I caught the attention of one of them. You know this guy. He wakes up in the morning, showers, shaves, gets dressed, looks in the mirror, gives himself a wink and thinks, “You got this.” He eats breakfast, hugs his wife and kids, then heads to his spot in front of the local convenience store, where he spends the next eight hours whistling at and asking for the phone number of any woman who walks by. I have no idea how he earns a living.

These guys don’t even expect a response; they’re just bored, sexist and lonely. None of which would be my concern, except that on this particular midday, I was newly blind with no cane and needed a bored and lonely Good Samaritan. So I’m sure this particular catcalling charmer practically did a Simone Biles double twist when he dropped his usual “Hey girl, where you goin’?

Lemme walk you!” line on me and I responded, “Sure! Walk me to the bodega on the corner.”

Talk about the proverbial dog who caught up to the mail truck. The guy (who we’ll call Catcalls) just stood there, like, “Uh, wait, what?” I had him walk me across the street and down two-and-a-half blocks to the corner store right by the subway station.

As we walked, I made conversation, like, “So … what do you do?”

Of course, he laughed and said, “I really just hang on the one corner.” Employment mystery solved!

At the bodega I asked the store clerk for one of those chia seed kombuchas —​­ because today was the perfect day for a difficult snack —​­ and then proceeded to take what felt like a Lord of the Rings “Full Boxed Set with Director Commentary” amount of time to locate my debit card among the seemingly identical cards in my wallet.

After I finally managed to pay, Catcalls walked me out of the bodega and offered to help open my kombucha. “You need to shake it, then let it sit,” he said, even though everyone on God’s green earth knows you don’t shake a kombucha. You croon to it like it’s a newborn you’re trying to get back to sleep at 2:30 in the morning, then rock it back and forth, patting it gently till it burps.

But Catcalls went on to shake mine like an André 3000 Polaroid picture, right there at the top of the subway station staircase. He handed me the bottle, asked for my number and walked away content with the 10 random digits I spouted. Thank you, sketchy escort, for being my makeshift sighted guide.

I managed to feel my way down the stairwell to the subway station and through the turnstile and swiped my MetroCard — smaller and thinner than my other cards and so easier to identify by touch — and eventually made it to the platform. The train approached, the doors opened and I found myself a seat on the train bound for Lower Manhattan.

Part One of “Lachi’s Perilous Blind Journey” conquered!

Excerpted from I IDENTIFY AS BLIND: A BRAZEN CELEBRATION OF DISABILITY CULTURE, IDENTITY, AND POWER copyright © 2026 by Lachi. Used by permission of Tiny Reparations Books, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

I Identify As Blind is available now, wherever books are sold.