Norman slowly limps into the restaurant, a pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes. He pulls out a long cane and feels his way to the table, muttering a half-hearted “thank you” to the waitress who so kindly helps him. His adopted family plays along, helping him read the menu as they exchange an all-knowing glance. After some time, Norman settles on fish tacos.

Norman isn't really blind. In fact, he has 20/20 vision, so why he feels the compulsion to pretend so has always been a mystery to me. He claims it is an “acting exercise,” although he has never once shown a hint of interest in the big screen.

Ironically, we often joke that Norman is destined to have his own reality TV show. When I was much younger, Norman would tell me far-fetched stories about things he did when he was my age. I grew up believing that Norman, at the tender age of 9, was a German U-Boat Commander who led his comrades to victory at the Battle of the Atlantic. Oddly enough, Norman isn't German.

However, no number of exuberant stories can conceal what really happened in Norman's life. As a child, Norman fought a war, and the evidence is plastered all across his face. Ragged white lines pollute his tanned skin, running up and down his forehead like lines on a map. Norman, after ordering his fish tacos, jokes that his scars provide a perfect plot of the major highways in Arizona. At the mention of his scars, the tension at the table becomes palpable, and my father changes the subject to something more "table-appropriate."

It must be said, though, that Norman has few qualms discussing his scars. He discusses said scars with such ease that I, like that poor waitress, often consider him blind to the hardships he has suffered.