There’s something about places where you can just be, where joy doesn’t ask for permission, and you’re not “the blind person,” you’re just a person who happens to be blind.
A couple of weeks ago, I visited MovieTowne in Port-of-Spain. They had a petting zoo and a brand-new ride I’d been itching to try. The air was alive with the sounds of laughter, chatter and the kind of energy that makes you forget that the world isn’t always built with you in mind.
There’s something magical about animals you don’t have to “see” to love. The soft brush of feathers, the low hum of a purr, the weight of a creature trusting your hands, it’s its own kind of beauty.
With Universal Children’s Day, a day meant to celebrate every child’s right to learn, play, and participate, I can’t help but think about how often those rights still depend on who the child is and what the world was built to exclude.
Case in point, I play goalball, and my coach actually works at MovieTowne. So, when I got to talking to his manager, I realised something. Although MovieTowne is a large entertainment hub, none of the cinemas there offer audio description accessibility. Not one.
That hit me hard.
In a world where kids could pet snakes and kindness still exists, like the handler who allowed my friends and me to touch the birds of prey that day, even though he wasn’t really supposed to, we still live in a world where many of us who are blind or visually impaired are still shut out from something as simple as a movie.
As someone who’s blind, I’ve spent my whole life learning how to see differently. I don’t need visuals to enjoy a story. I can hear it, feel it, and imagine it vividly. But in a cinema without audio description, I’m left sitting there in silence whenever the dialogue stops. Everyone else laughs, gasps, reacts—and I’m outside the moment, piecing things together from sound alone.
That’s not accessibility. That’s exclusion wrapped in surround sound.
A few days later, I went to the C3 Centre and wandered near the arcade. The noise was electric—laughter, machines, bells, digital beeps. It sounded like pure joy. But as I stood there, I realised: not one part of that arcade was accessible to someone like me.
Everything was visual. Flashing lights, screens, buttons that give no feedback, and games that depend on sight alone. It was like being invited to a party but told to stand outside and listen to the music.
For sighted kids, arcades are full of wonder and excitement. For blind kids, they can be reminders of separation. And that’s not fair, because play, in all its forms, belongs to all of us.
When we talk about accessibility, people often think it’s just about ramps or braille signs. But true accessibility means more than physical entry. It means participation, joy, and belonging.
If the world were designed to include us from the start, we wouldn’t have to keep “realising” what’s missing. Every cinema would have audio description. Every arcade would have tactile games or sound-based challenges. Every playground would be built for every child, regardless of ability.
Because accessibility isn’t charity. It’s equality. It’s dignity. It’s right. That’s what Universal Children’s Day is supposed to remind us about: that equality isn’t optional; it’s a right every child is born with.
Universal Children’s Day is meant to celebrate the rights of every child. The right to learn, to play, to explore, to be part of something bigger. But for children who are blind or visually impaired, those rights still come with asterisks, fine print, or invisible doors.
I think about the little girl I once was, the one who didn’t need to see to know that laughter meant belonging. She deserved a world that made space for her. All children do.
And the truth is, sometimes the world did make space. I remember teachers who took time to describe the chalkboard aloud; summer camps where we did ordinary things like visiting an animal farm in Santa Cruz, everything wonderfully hands-on; and that time we toured a radio station and everyone was so eager to help. In adaptive sports like goalball, everyone competes on a truly level playing field. Because, regardless of vision, we all wear blindfolds and navigate a tactile court.
Those moments are proof. Inclusion isn’t rare. It just needs intention.
As we celebrate Universal Children’s Day, I hope we remember that accessibility is not a special request.
It’s part of the promise we make to every child. I hope that one day, a blind child walks into a cinema and hears a voice describing the scene just as naturally as the soundtrack plays. I hope they step into an arcade where sound and vibration guide their hands through a game made for them. I hope no one ever has to stand on the sidelines of joy again.
The truth is, joy, like play, like love, like laughter, was never meant to be a privilege. It’s a right.
This column is supplied in conjunction with the T&T Blind Welfare Association.
Headquarters: 118 Duke Street, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad
Email: ttbwa1914@gmail.com
Phone: (868) 624-4675
WhatsApp: (868) 395-3086
