When my turn came, I dropped into the boat, ready for my dialogue with the dark to be over. But I was also aware of how blindness had split the distance between me and all these other people. Touching was inevitable; apologies were redundant. We were not embarrassed to be dependent on each other. Since none of us could be sure who was black or white, young or old, our exchanges were free of any ideas we had about those identity markers. Maybe someone should start an Opaque Church, where we could learn to give up one kind of vision in hope of another. Instead of wearing name tags, we would
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