It's not what you're expecting. It's not a post about why alt text is important. It's not a post about how to write it well.
It's a post about access, and how access is seen by the people who feel they're providing access as a service, and whether or not that service is helpful or even welcome.
This post isn't meant to tell you whether you should use alt text. You should. Anything you write is better than having a screen reader say "image". "My cat" is more useful than image. Not leaving the box blank is always the right thing to do.
But I see a lot of discussions about accessibility that don't think about the broader subject, and this piece is vital to me to understanding that, as someone who is largely able bodied (I had only temporary visual impairments, so I've had screen reader experience but only in a temporary and basis), whose only real mental disability is ADHD which is nothing even coming close to something like being blind or deaf when interacting with the world.
I think it's important to get this person's message. For example when I see people fret over how to put alt text on their visual art, I keep thinking about the bit in this article about braille transcribed films, and how little this really means to the author and how little they care or are interested in this sad replacement for the experience of a film.
This isn't about alt text at the end of the day. But if we're going to have a big debate about alt text, like any other accessibility debate, I think the perspective here is so important. It absolutely will change the way you approach all accessibility. And it doesn't mean you will simply think it's no longer important, it absolutely is. But it will reframe how you approach it.
Sighted and hearing people have always had a hard time accepting that we are happy for them. Why have they never been happy for us? They wish only to be happy for themselves through us. Part of the fear many of them feel when encountering DeafBlind people comes from the way we naturally decline so much of what they cherish. They seek relief from this anxiety by insisting that we take in their world. Then they ask us a rhetorical question: “It’s great, isn’t it, this world of ours?” This is the awful function of access: to make others happy at our expense. Until Protactile plunged us into the churning currents of being, we didn’t know what we were giving up by consuming access. And the sighted and hearing didn’t know what they were missing out on by not entering our world.
this was a great article and it gave me much to think about, thank you for linking it