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'blind'에 해당되는 글 1건

  1. 2013.03.06 네살에 장님이 된 남자
2013.03.06 15:33 잭스피킹 호흡영어
1973년 10월, 지금으로부터 40년전 그 날이 아니었더라면 이 남자는 아름다운 외모를 가진 성인이 되어있을 것입니다. 그 아래 귀여운 어린아이의 사진은 사건 바로 1년전에 바캉스를 가서 찍은 사진인데 상상할 수 없는 일이네요. 이 남자가 4살적에 사건이 났습니다. 그날 집에 벨이 울리자 달려 가서 현관문을 열어 주었는데 옆집에 살던 남자가 와서 이 네살박이 어린아이의 얼굴에 액시드를 뿌린것입니다. 네살박이가 장님이 되어 지팡이 짚는 법을 배우면서 살아갔을 것을 생각하니 정말 기가막힐 일이네요. 장님이 되고 얼굴이 다 일그러졌는데 그의 가족과 이 남자가 얼마나 열정적으로 삶을 살고 있는지 가슴으로 읽어보세요. 호흡으로 영어공부하시는 분들은 꼭 한번 시간내서 읽어보세요. 우리말로 하는 연속극이나 뉴스에 얼마나 집중해서 듣고 보세요?  모르는 단어가 있어도 되도록 사전 찾아보지 말고 '무엇에 관한 내용일까?' 생각해보면서 그냥 한번 죽 훑어 내려가세요. 그 다음엔 글쓴이가 무엇을 말하려고 했는지 생각을 해보세요. 오늘도 도움이 되었길 바랍니다. 조금 어렵다고 생각이 들면 대충 훑어보고 시간이 나면 그때 와서 천천히 보세요. 천천히 보라는 것은 단어 일일히 찾으면서 보라는 말이 아니라 천천히 훑으면서 내려가라는 말입니다.

Joshua A. Miele, here in Berkeley, Calif., was 4 when a next-door neighbor came to the gate of his family’s home in Brooklyn and tossed sulfuric acid into his face, blinding him.


The Crime of His Childhood
 By WENDELL JAMIESON Published: March 2, 2013

On an October afternoon 40 years ago, on a beautiful block in Park Slope, Brooklyn, a crime occurred in a split second that was as permanent as it was cruel. Grown-ups tried to make sense of it, even use it as a cautionary tale for their children, but in the end, many just put it out of their minds. How could they not? It was just too awful, its lessons too hard to fathom.

The victim was named Josh Miele. He was 4. On that day, Oct. 5, 1973, he was playing in the backyard of his family’s house on President Street while his mother, Isabella, cooked in the kitchen. The doorbell rang, and Josh sprinted to get it.

Standing on the other side of the heavy iron gate beneath the stoop was Basilio Bousa, 24, who lived next door. Josh unlocked it. Then he slipped his two feet into the gate’s lowest rung and grabbed hold with his hands so his weight would pull it open. But Basilio just stood there. So Josh stepped out, into the open.

And then, he couldn’t see. He didn’t know why. He felt around with his hands, grasping for the walls. With great effort he forced his eyes open and glimpsed the wood paneling in the vestibule. It was the last thing he ever saw.

I was 7 years old and lived four blocks away, on St. Johns Place. My mother came into the kitchen that day or the next, her hands shaking. “Wendell,” she said, “Whenever you answer the door, never go out to the gate until you know who is there. Always look through the window of the inside door. Because you know what happened? This little boy on President Street answered the door, and this crazy man poured acid on his head.”

Josh on vacation in Florida in 1972.


She took me to our own front gate and made me practice. I thought: why would anyone do that to a kid? The newspaper provided no real clue, just a brief article: “Boy, 4, Is Hurt by Acid Thrower.”

For me, it was like a particularly chilling Grimms’ fairy tale, featuring at its heart the most terrifying of all villains, The Acid Thrower. Until the day my mother sold the house, when I was nearly 40, I followed her long-ago advice if I happened to be visiting: I hung back, just a little, when I answered the bell.

It was the crime of my childhood, of another, rougher Park Slope, and in the end it would destroy a family. We didn’t know the Mieles, but I always wanted to know what happened, and what happened afterward — how they had held it all together, or not. I wanted to know what happened to the “crazy man,” and who he was. But most of all, I wanted to know what had become of that little boy.

Jean Miele bought 851 President Street in 1965. The house is narrow and quite distinctive, with pilasters and spandrel panels and a keystone above the parlor floor window in the shape of a bearded man. The brownstones looked much as they do today, though their facades were worn, and many hid rooming houses within. The day the Mieles moved in, Mr. Miele first unpacked a shotgun that he left sitting on the stoop for all to see. He and Isabella had a son, also Jean, and a daughter, Julia. Josh was born in 1969.

Felipe and Clara Bousa moved into 849 President Street with their son Basilio in 1955. The family had come from Cuba. “The Bousas were lovely people,” Mr. Miele said when I spoke to him not too long ago in his house on Carroll Street. The Mieles and the Bousas went out to dinner together.

Carmen Bousa, their daughter, baby-sat. “When his mother brought Josh home from the hospital,” she said when I reached her by phone recently. “I thought he was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen.”

But there were problems with Basilio. He “was a space cadet,” said Ruben Torres, who used to hang out on the block. “We all looked at him as someone who had done too much LSD. He was toasted.”

Carmen said her mother had detected something amiss with Basilio when he was 1. She said they tried to get him help. He used drugs heavily, was thrown out of Brooklyn College and started working at the family bodega on Seventh Avenue. Then, for reasons clear to no one, he became fixated on the Mieles. He broke a window, and later tossed a flaming bottle into their backyard, prompting a call to the police and an arrest.

He was released. He joined the Army, but in October 1973, was absent without leave. This is when he went to the bodega and got ahold of a soda-acid fire extinguisher. He opened it up, poured the sulfuric acid into a container, walked over to 851 President Street and rang the bell.

Jean Miele had been on a business trip to Washington; by the time he got back to Brooklyn, Josh was already at Methodist Hospital. Mr. Miele was shocked at the sight of his son: “His face was a mask.” Josh’s skin had turned brown, his features altered. “I remember thinking, ‘I don’t know anything about what to do about this.’ ”

The Miele family brownstone in Park Slope, circa 1970.

Doctors crowded around the boy, trying to save his sight. Mr. Miele began to feel reassured until the next day, when an intern came up and whispered to him that if they didn’t get Josh to a military hospital, and soon, he was going to die. Only the military had the ability to deal with that kind of injury. There was a pay phone in the waiting room. Mr. Miele made it his.

He managed to get through to Park Slope’s congressman, Hugh L. Carey. After some misplaced jocularity — “I’ve had 14 kids and they’re always getting into trouble” — Mr. Carey got in touch with the Surgeon General’s Office. There was a conversation with Josh’s doctors. Then a call came to the pay phone from Col. Basil Pruitt, a doctor who was head of the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, the only military hospital at the time dedicated to treating burn victims.

Colonel Pruitt said he was sending a medical team and a C9 transport plane to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey to get Josh. All Mr. Miele had to do was get his son there. He worked that phone some more, shoveling in dimes, talking to the duty officer and a helicopter pilot at McGuire, and a desk sergeant in the 78th Precinct. He came up with a plan. They all went along after he explained what had happened to Josh.

And so it was, later that night, that the whoop-whoop-whoop of an Army chopper filled the air above Prospect Park, and five police cars with their lights on formed a star pattern on the Sheep Meadow, and the pilot saw it through the haze, and landed right in the middle, and then lifted Josh, his mother and father into the sky.

Colonel Pruitt ran the Brooke Army Medical Center from 1968 until 1995, and still practices today in Texas. He had thousands of patients in those years but remembers Josh and his family quite vividly. “For such a devastating injury, they were very realistic about what to expect,” he said. Josh was burned over 17 percent of his body, with 11 percent third-degree burns, mostly to his face. Colonel Pruitt said his chief goal was to save the boy’s sight. But he knew right away that this was hopeless.

“He had these terrible injuries to his eyes,” he said. “The globes had been irreparably injured. They were totally collapsed.”

Josh underwent endless operations. Skin was taken from his leg and grafted to his face. Dead tissue was cut away, a hugely painful process, again and again.

Isabella Miele, then and now an artist, would explore San Antonio when she had a few moments away from the hospital. She walked along the river that crosses the city, and found a food market on a dusty plaza. But it was hard to escape what brought her there: “I’m looking at the sky and here are these clouds, and I’m crying in the middle of the street, thinking, Josh is never going to see clouds.”

When Josh’s brother, Jean, saw him for the first time, back in New York about six weeks after he’d been burned, he worried his legs would go out. Josh sounded the same, had the voice of the same little boy who missed his big brother, but his appearance had been so radically altered, and the injuries were so fresh. Many of his features were gone, and what was left was roughly scarred. Julia was shy around Josh. He’d barely been out of toddlerhood, had yet to come into focus for her as an individual, and now he looked different from anyone she’d ever seen before. “My parents were quite normal about it, but in my own memory I was timid,” she said.

Josh learned to use a cane and situated himself at the Industrial Home for the Blind in Brooklyn Heights. His father built a bunk bed that was part jungle gym, with all kinds of bars and levels, so Josh could climb and stretch his scarred underarms.

His mother had her own approach. “There were many times where I put him in less-than-acceptable situations,” she said. “I would let him touch things in museums. I would let him climb on things that people don’t ordinarily climb on. He would say, ‘Mom, is this really all right?’ and I’d say: ‘It’s O.K. Do it.’ ”


Jean Miele with his son Jean, Joshua's older brother, at the father's Brooklyn home. The elder Miele and his wife divorced after the attack.


Jean and Isabella Miele separated. There are differing opinions about whether the attack made the break come sooner or later, but everyone in the family believes that a divorce would have been on the way even if Basilio Bousa had never rung that doorbell.

Julia and Josh found themselves alone a lot. They listened to talking books for hours on that jungle-gym bunk bed. They fought and argued as any siblings. They played outside with friends from across the street.

She makes it sound like a fun time. But it wasn’t always. The two of them would range around Park Slope, two little children, 9 and 5, running errands, shopping — and more often than not someone would comment loudly on Josh’s appearance. Or ask Julia, within his earshot, what had happened to him. Or a child would scream: “Mommy, mommy! A monster! A monster!”

Julia grew angry. Once, after Josh had an operation to restore his upper lip, he had to wear a gauze bandage for weeks, and his mother drew a mustache on it. The next time someone on Seventh Avenue asked what had happened to Josh, Julia snapped, “He had a mustache transplant.”

Josh’s brother, Jean, had a different way of dealing with the looks and questions: he got into fistfight after fistfight.

Josh was mainstreamed at Public School 102 in Bay Ridge, where he learned to read Braille. And then his mother moved with a new companion to Rockland County, taking him and Julia with her. The operations continued, including a failed cornea transplant, but when Josh was either 11 or 12, a big one loomed: there was a plan to stitch his arm to his burned nose, with the hope that the live tissue in his arm would cause blood vessels and tissue in the nose to restore themselves.

Josh put a stop to it. He had had enough. He told his family he was always going to look different — why go through all this pain just to look a little less different? This is how it was, and it was time to start accepting his blindness and his face, and for him to start living his life.

Mr. Miele has a degree in physics and a Ph.D. in psychoacoustics from the University of California at Berkeley.


Josh has a degree in physics and a Ph.D. in psychoacoustics from the University of California at Berkeley. He took several breaks, years long, while getting his undergraduate degree, and worked full time for the technology company Berkeley Systems on software to help blind people navigate graphics-based computer programs.

He worked for NASA on software for the Mars Observer. He is the president of the board of directors of the San Francisco LightHouse for the Blind. He plays bass in a band. And he works as an associate scientist at the Smith-Kettlewell Eye Research Institute, a nonprofit research center. “It’s not that I don’t want to be written about,” he said. “I’d like to be as famous as the next person would, but I want to be famous for the right reasons, for the work I’ve done, and not for some stupid thing that happened to me 40 years ago.”

He has helped develop tactile-Braille maps of every station of the Bay Area Rapid Transit system, exquisite things with raised lines of plastic and Braille labels. They elegantly lay out information that can be heard by using an audio smart pen.

His enthusiasm for the Braille maps is infectious, but it’s nothing like the way his voice goes up when he describes his latest project, a cloud-based software program, the Descriptive Video Exchange, that in theory will let anyone narrate any video or movie to describe what they see for those who can’t. It’s a kind of crowd-sourced service that would allow, for example, a Trekkie to describe a “Star Trek” episode in a way that other devotees would appreciate. The first version, out this month, will work for any video on YouTube.

Josh remembers the day he was burned with precise detail — the little ride on the gate, that last glimpse of wood paneling, his mother crying and saying, “My baby, my baby” as they raced to the hospital. He remembers the ride in the helicopter — “It was so loud and jiggly” — and making the nurses at McGuire laugh with elephant jokes. (“How can you tell there’s an elephant in the closet with you? You can smell the peanuts on his breath.”)

He remembers his time at Brooke as a horror show: he never knew when a new soldier would be moved into the cot next to him because the last one had died. And he remembers those days when it was just him and Julia ranging around Park Slope, a little amazed, as she was, that they had so much freedom.

His perception of himself as being blind shifted over the years, from not identifying with those who had no sight to becoming aggressively proud of his blindness. He tried to bring his family on this journey, with mixed success. “In those early days of being overly cool with being blind, I said to my father: ‘Dad, c’mon, when are you going to get over it? I am who I am.’ He was surprised, and he said, ‘You know, I’m never going to get over it.’ ”

It was only when he had his own children that he realized what this experience must have been like for his parents. He better appreciates his father’s never-wavering optimism, his sister and brother’s protectiveness, and how his mother told him again and again how he could do anything a sighted person could, even some things that they couldn’t, like touching priceless art in museums.

“I never doubted that it was all going to work out,” he said. “It was a foregone conclusion that it was going to be O.K.”

That’s not how it was for the Bousas.

Basilio was arrested and charged with first-degree assault. He said that he heard voices, that people were following him and that, somehow, the Mieles were bothering him. He was given a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. At one point, out on bail, he returned home, prompting fierce protests from the Mieles and a court hearing.

He was treated at a psychiatric hospital until he was deemed ready to stand trial. Josh, then 7, testified. But in the end, Basilio was found not guilty by reason of insanity, and ordered to undergo more treatment. Eventually, the Bousas moved to Florida. The bodega closed. Basilio died in 1992, after getting emphysema. His sister, Carmen, said he smoked continually and obsessively in his last years, and in moments of lucidity was horrified by what he had done. His parents died around the same time.

“Nothing was ever the same after that day,” she said. “This thing destroyed my family. We were so sorry.”

When we first met for coffee, Josh — or, to give his full name, Joshua A. Miele, or Dr. Miele — was in New York to lead a panel discussion at the Metropolitan Museum of Art about improving the museum experience for blind people. His dad still lives in Park Slope, as do Julia — now Julia Miele Rodas and a professor at Bronx Community College who teaches and writes about disability in literature — and his brother, Jean.

He worried that Carmen Bousa still suffers so, and wondered about calling her. He said he had tried to visit 851 President Street, but whoever lived there now had not responded to notes he left; maybe they know what had happened inside that gate, maybe not. And he was surprised when I told him about my mother’s lecture.

But he said hers were wasted words.

“That’s so fascinating,” he said, “but you know, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I was a cautious kid. I knew who was outside the gate. I knew Bassy. You would have opened it, too.”


참고: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/03/nyregion/40-years-after-an-acid-attack-a-life-well-lived.html?_r=0


누가 장님이 보는 책을 만들까요? 바로 장님입니다. 동병상련(同病相憐)이라고 같은 어려움을 갖고 있는 사람만이 다른 사람의 어려움을 찾아볼 수가 있습니다. 눈이 보여서 여기 이런 글을 읽을 수 있는 우리는 장님이 보는 점자책에는 관심이 없습니다.

점자(點字) : 시각(視覺) 장애자(障礙者)가 손가락으로 더듬어 읽게 만든 부호(符號) 글자. 두꺼운 종이에 도드라진 점(點)을 일정(一定)한 방식(方式)으로 맞추어 손가락으로 만져서 알게 했음. 세계(世界)에서 가장 보편적(普遍的)인 삼점 이행식(三點二行式) 점자는 1829년에 프랑스의 소경 브라유가 고안(考案)한 것임

psychoacoustics :
the branch of psychology concerned with the perception of sound and its physiological effects.

눈이 보이지 않는 시각장애자(장님)를 영어로는 blind라고 하는데 유리창에 빛을 차단하기 위해 커튼 대신 다는것도 blind라고 합니다. 아마 "블라인드"를 유리창에 달면 외부의 빛이 들어오지 않아서 실내가 장님처럼 깜깜하게 되는가 봅니다.

갑자기 글내용과는 동떨어진 "블라인드 데이트" 생각이 나네요. 미국에서는 우리문화에서 두드러지게 나타나는 "블라인드 데이트" 가 흔하지 않습니다. 블라인드 데이트란 제 3자의 소개에 의해 남녀가 만나는 데이트로 "소개팅"이나 "미팅" 혹은 "중매" 같은 경우를 말합니다.

blind date
When you go on a date with someone you don't know, or when someone sets you up with someone you don't know.

Braille

Braille /ˈbreɪl/[a] is a tactile writing system used by the blind and the visually impaired, and found in books, on menus, signs, elevator buttons, and currency. Braille-users can read computer screens and other electronic supports thanks to refreshable braille displays. They can write braille with a slate and stylus or type it on a braille writer, such as a portable braille note-taker, or on a computer that prints with a braille embosser.  Braille is named after its creator, Frenchman Louis Braille, who went blind following a childhood accident. At the age of 15, Braille developed his code for the French alphabet in 1824 as an improvement on night writing. He published his system, which subsequently included musical notation, in 1829.[2] The second revision, published in 1837, was the first digital (binary) form of writing.  Braille characters are small rectangular blocks called cells that contain tiny palpable bumps called raised dots. The number and arrangement of these dots distinguish one character from another. Since the various braille alphabets originated as transcription codes of printed writing systems, the mappings (sets of character designations) vary from language to language. Furthermore, in English Braille there are three levels of encoding: Grade 1, a letter-by-letter transcription used for basic literacy; Grade 2, an addition of abbreviations and contractions; and Grade 3, various non-standardized personal shorthands.  In the face of screen-reader software, braille usage has declined. Braille education remains important for developing reading skills among blind and visually impaired children as braille literacy correlates with higher employment rates.


tactile-Braille maps




TACTILE TECHNOLOGY: An ASU student runs his fingers across a Braille map of the ASU Tempe campus located in the Disability Resource Center. Baoxin Li, assistant professor in the School of Computing and Informatics, is in the process of developing a method that would enable the visually impaired to "see" the faces of people on computer screens by producing tactile images. (Photo by Aaron Lavinsky)


참고 : http://www.statepress.com/2011/02/24/researchers-help-blind-%E2%80%98see%E2%80%99-facebook-photos/





영어로 된 글 다 이해 못했어도~

글을 읽고~ 그림을~ 사물을~ 볼수 있는것에~ 감사합시다.




posted by 써니의 뉴욕노트 & 잭스피킹 호흡영어


posted by Sunny in New York

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