Norris Hull- The Voice of Walmart

This is a video clip of my cousin Norris "dre" Hull. He is legally blind, but has accomplished alot. He never uses his disability as an excuse not to do anything in life. And doesn't like anyone to feel sorry for him. He dislikes pity parties, he is just as normal as the next person He is loving, and a big inspirations to every one around him. I love him dearly.
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(THIS IS THE ARTICLE THEY DID ON HIM FROM THE DETROIT NEWS)

It's a big store and Norris Hull is pretty much in the center of it, so it's only natural for his assistant manager to ask: "Norris, have you seen so-and-so?"

Then DeEtta Whigham-Johnson will cringe, because Norris Hull has never really seen anything.

Of course, that also means he can't see her smack herself in the forehead, which is good. Besides, as Hull points out, "it's just a figure of speech."

"No," he'll tell her, "but I'll let you know." And chances are that before long, he'll have an answer.

Every weekday from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. at the Wal-Mart in Livonia, you can see Hull handle the switchboard, ride herd on managers, make announcements and show customers to the dressing rooms, counting by touch to make sure how many items they're taking in.

As we've already established, he will not see you. Between chronic cataracts and glaucoma, he's been sightless since birth. But this is not a hey-look-what-the-blind-guy-can-do story.

We're past that. When the governor of New York is legally blind, it's hardly surprising that a 39-year-old junior college graduate can excel in retail.

What raises eyebrows is how he affects the people around him -- the co-workers who watch out for him when he's walking the aisles, the customers who call him by name, the managers such as Whigham-Johnson, who tells him, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The day he started work -- it was March 28, 2001, and he remembers the date the way he remembers most everything else -- he promised his new employer that "I will try to be the best phone operator possible."

From the look of it, he is.

He's got the touch

The nerve center of the mammoth store is a surprisingly tiny phone console, the same one you'd expect to find at your dentist's office. One handset, a few lines, some blinking green lights, separate buttons for holds and transfers.

Hull can tell by touch which function is which and by memory which lines want attention. Useful phone numbers are typed in Braille on some sheets of white paper he hasn't needed for years.

"Good morning," he says, "and thank you for choosing your Livonia Wal-Mart Supercenter. How may I best direct your call?"

He inserted that "best" himself, just to reinforce the idea that someone is going the extra mile. When people call for the pharmacy, he'll ask whether they need a prescription or something on a shelf, and then he'll give tips on how to accelerate the process.

The manager who hired him, back at the old store a few blocks north on Middle Belt Road, told him he had a great voice. "We'll put you on the phones," he said.

Now when Hull takes a vacation, the other employees threaten to transfer all the calls to his house.
God-given baritone

He does, in fact, have a great voice, a smooth baritone he slips into when he's sending an associate to the bicycle department or chasing down a manager. Customers will hear it and look up at the ceiling, maybe wondering if an out-of-work radio host hijacked the P.A. system.

"It's just a God-given talent," Hull says. The Lord giveth, and then sometimes you're born with only the faintest ability to make out colors. Before long even that goes away, but you look on the bright side: You can still remember most of them.

Hull grew up in Detroit and lives on the west side with his mom and a niece, close to the store. A subsidized ride service gets him to work and back for $5.

Off duty, he likes to play video games; he can tell from the voices who has the ball in NBA Live. He'll go out to eat, ideally at chains that have Braille menus so he can choose his own meal.

"I like to laugh. I like living," he says. Sometimes he'll dream that he can drive a car, but when he wakes up he hops back on the MetroLift bus, and that's fine.

"I'm not injury-prone," he says, running down his list of blessings. He's a good hand with a white cane. He has friends at work who will push shopping carts out of his way or guide him to where he's headed.

He's not out to be anybody's inspiration, he says; he's simply carrying on the best way he can. When duty calls, you answer.

He excuses himself to pick up the receiver. "Fantastic," he says. "How are you?"