Trust and Courage

Blind University of Montana student finds her way in the seeing world

Story by Joe Pavlish

Kiira DeVries confidently follows the line of her white cane, Henry, as she strides directly into her biggest fear: the night, “a strange, dark place where I don’t feel comfortable.”

Henry’s half-inch head is rounded at the tip, and DeVries, 23, softly grips the smooth but sticky worn rubber. The other end of the cane swims through the dense, rainy Missoula air. She follows some three feet behind with small, cautious steps, using the cane to feel every crack and pebble.

DeVries says she can see color, light and shadows, but she has no perception, no “awareness of the elements of environment through physical sensation,” as Webster’s Dictionary defines it.

Her mind is different. She can’t fathom seeing things because she’s never done it. She was born blind. Instead, she experiences textures, sounds and tastes.

“My mind doesn’t know how to see,” she said. “It’s never looked at an apple and been able to say, ‘That’s an apple.’ My mind has felt an apple. If I saw an apple, I wouldn’t even know what it was; I’d have to touch it.”

The doctor has told her she’s 5 feet tall and her friends say she has an Asian face, more of a flat look, she says. She constantly sweeps her curly black hair out of her struggling, squinted eyes.

DeVries was born in Korea, but her mother put her up for adoption, she said, because America has better opportunities for the blind. She has never talked to her birth parents. She met her adopters at the Omaha Airport in Nebraska when she was 7 months old.

Dad is more than 6 feet tall with weathered hands. They’ve been through a lot, she said, he’s a hard worker. Mom looks kind of like him, except that she also has a soft, feminine side.

DeVries has come to the conclusion that they adopted her because they were getting older and thought they weren’t going to have any more kids by themselves. 

“It just kind of happened that way,” she said, calling her relationship with them “distant.”

She lived with her adoptive parents until she was 16, when she moved to Great Falls, Montana, because she was tired of being homeschooled. She wanted to live with other blind strangers in a new city. She later moved to Missoula for college, to major in music education.

In the daytime, DeVries is accompanied by Flame, her yellow lab. In fact, she’s well known on the University of Montana campus as “the blind girl with the dog.” But tonight, Flame is resting at home, listening to music after a long day.

DeVries’ friends tell her that Flame looks at them when they talk to her. The people who gave her the dog said Flame looks like she’s wearing eyeliner and someone told her that Flame’s head is too big for her body.

DeVries says that Flame carries her eyes. “It’s a good relationship,” she said. “I depend on her, but she depends on me.”

Outside, the weather kicks in. It’s a wet and cold spring night in Missoula. Following the voice of her ride, DeVries trudges toward the car. She said the wind feels like someone blowing on her face, but colder, and the sky brings a gentle shower, getting fiercer. Her mind is racing. The chill, the wet air and the slippery ground all come together to drown her senses, one by one.

Her ride, Kristen Iverson, is also her best friend.

“She’s not much taller than me, brown hair, I think, a heart-shaped face,” DeVries says. She’s created Iverson in her mind, and her image fits the subject pretty well.

Iverson starts out saying that being with DeVries is just like being with any other friend. Except that she does look over in some situations to make sure the blind woman doesn’t need help with anything.

“There are times when you kind of watch, I mean I don’t feel like I’m constantly watching her,” Iverson said. “I help her because she can’t do it herself.”

Iverson also said that DeVries’ needs are what make her so loyal.

“She appreciates people way more,” Iverson said. “Sometimes it’s harder (being friends) with people who have sight because they don’t depend on you for anything.”

In the car, the seat vibrates, and DeVries can just feel herself moving. Shadows — maybe houses, maybe cars or trees — fly by the window. She knows she is moving, but she doesn’t know how fast she’s going or in which direction. She says it doesn’t scare her. She figures she’s just used to it and trusts people around her.

“Trust is huge,” she said. “I’ve never really had a problem trusting people.” In her opinion, trust is what makes her graceful, what makes her almost fit in.

For the first 16 years of her life, DeVries’ trust was pushed to the limit. After a painful childhood she turned to God rather than blaming the people around her.

“I had things done to me in the past, but I haven’t let it dictate who I am,” she said. “I have no explanation (for how I got past my issues) other than God, he’s been there through everything.”

Psalms like “The Lord is my light and my salvation — whom shall I fear?” hit a deeper cord in her than in most people: She actually lives them.

When DeVries gets to the Skaggs Building on the University of Montana campus, the music leads the way. Chi Alpha, a UM Christian organization, is having its weekly meeting, and the worship leaders are practicing. DeVries also has a job to do. As soon as a computerized woman’s voice calls out 7:10 p.m. from the loudspeaker of her cell phone, she knows it’s time to open the doors and let people in.

Her eyelids stop struggling and allow the dark during worship. She sways and sings. Her arms — normally hovering about six inches off her waist, palms down — flip around, palms up, and climb above her head. No matter who else comes and goes, she will always be able to reach there, perfect trust.

The sermon is titled, “Open eyes, rabbit holes and the truth of God.” DeVries usually thinks of the speaker with his guitar in his arms, beside the fact that “he gives the best hugs.” The talk is “visual,” or what DeVries explains as structured like an outline. For example, during the talk, she saw dots 3, 4, 5 and 6, representing the pound sign, and dot 2, for the number 1 — she pictured herself touching a Braille page.

Looking straight ahead, past the speaker, she made ear contact with him. It wasn’t easy. A pen clicking constantly in the back and a janitor rolling a mop by the door distracted her from the hour-long talk. But at least she didn’t notice how the sound of the sermon’s accompanying video didn’t match the picture, or the math problems on the whiteboard background.

She can’t see these distractions, but she also can’t see anything wonderful. She said that the bad sights are nothing compared to everything she wants to see.

“I want to look into someone’s eyes, I want to see what someone looks like when they’re touched by something, I want to see a person’s reaction when they’re surprised, I want to know what it looks like when a guy looks at a girl — when they’re in love — I want to know what that looks like,” she said.

She can’t. She stands around in the social circles following the service, talking, joking and laughing, unafraid of what people may think when they see her. In her mind, she’s just another soul — nobody can see those.