Change Obscured by Time

There are significant differences between independence and directed living. Between expression and imitation. Between critical thinking and programmed answers. And in each case, when the latter is executed seamlessly, one can hardly differentiate between the two. A tiny shift, though, disrupts the patterns and can reveal significant deficits.

It took me several months to finally recognize these deficits, and then several more months to approach them with strategies for development. In the meantime, I have hardly been able to recognize change. Indeed, spending 10-12 hours a day observing and working with Mohammed, these gradual and minute progresses are seemingly invisible. Having them drawn out, day to day, over the course of a year surely obscures one's ability to identify change. It is as the sun in the sky. Between the sunrise and the sunset, one is hardly conscious of the path traversed throughout the day.

Before heading home for Christmas break, I was determined to record a conversation with Mohammed. We sat down, and ended up with something like a 5-minute exchange. I then put that video on my computer, and remembered to refer back to a video assessment from more than a year ago.

October 18, 2010. I hate this video. I only show the first minute to others, as beyond that, my visible frustration and impatience is embarrassing. I keep the video, though, to remind me of not only the many things I need to work on as a teacher, but also the moments with my student that have been lost along the way.

To contrast, I will simply provide a transcript of each conversation (as verbatim as possible considering the translation), to illustrate the disparity between then and now.

Oct. 18, 2010- Brent-"Hello. How are you?"
Mohammed- *hands rest on table momentarily* "Hello. How am I."
Brent- *disappointment and exasperation plastered across face* "What did you do at home, 2 days ago, on (one day) Friday?"
Mohammed- *a full 13 seconds pass before he starts signing* "Do at home. Yesterday. Finished. Day before. Finished." *starts to sign "Friday", but then goes back to replicate the preceding sign "one day" to fully mirror me, struggling with this* "Day. Day. Day. Day........Friday."

That is it. That was a conversation, 14 months ago. A spontaneous, unscripted conversation looked like this. Everything I said was repeated back to me. Communication, at an expressive level, was not remotely understood.

Dec. 22, 2011-  Brent- "Now, you and me are going to have a conversation. What do you want to talk about?"
Mohammed- "The topic. I don't know."
Brent- "You choose what you want to talk about. The topic."
Mohammed- "The topic... (pause) ...Home."
Brent- "Ok. The topic is home. Mohammed, what do you do at home?"
Mohammed- "At home, (starts to sign "help" (hinting at the later answer seen below) then..) I listen to music."
Brent- "At home, who do you listen to music with?"
Mohammed- "Mama."
Brent-"Cool....."

The conversation continues, talking about what else going on at the house. Mohammed says he will help mother clean. I ask if he does anything more, and he tells me he will help mama with the laundry. When I ask why we do laundry, he is confused. Sarcastically, I say, "Oh, my shirt and pants smell, and are dirty, and this is ok?" Mohammed says, "Dirty finished. Clean." He gets the idea.

I go on. ".....after vacation is finished, then what?"
Mohammed- "I return."
Brent- *prodding* "You return? What?"
Mohammed- "Monday. After a week. On Monday I return." (spot on, actually)
Brent- "Ahh. After a week, on Monday, you return....return WHERE?"
Mohammed- "I don't know. I am doing..."
Brent- "Returning. Returning. Returning. WHERE?"
Mohammed- *pause* "School."

Forget Helen Keller at the well, fingerspelling water. The ever idyllic story. That account, while touching and memorable, is defunct in my educational realm. Not a child with acquired deafblindness at 1 and a half years old, utilizing the communication skills developed during early infancy (the mental plasticity there is paramount), later learning words around age 7. No. Mohammed was born deafblind. And in that October video, he was 18, practically operating as a robot. 14 months later. He talks. He does not echo. He does not issue programmed responses. He talks.

Helen needed a door to be opened in her mind. It was a miracle. Mohammed needed the walls to be broken down. The barricades, that imprisoned his mind, had to be destroyed. It is a miracle. There are none like him in Jordan.

For this reason, there are rumors of a young American that occasionally comes out at night. With the moonlight shining off his bald head, he blasts hip-hop music and dances in circles around the school courtyard, pounding his chest. He mumbles that this is what he was meant to do, but he does not Tebow. He thanks God that somehow, his path collided with this opportunity. That is the rumor, at least.

I'm not Anne Sullivan, and I'm not a miracle worker. But this has been a miracle. This is what I'm meant to do. Lord, let my work be a living act of praise, and the miracles are yours. Peace.

This Street Has Changed

My eyelids seem to be pulling me towards home, as a Thursday evening comes to a close. There is nothing unfamiliar about this weariness. In the dark, as I step along the tiled path in the school courtyard, the calm of the night is a soothing recompense for this week's events. I take a long, drawn-out breath and smile.

On this Thursday, Mohammed was barred from going home. On a previous day, he was under the impression that I had gone home, while I monitored him. After several hours of witnessing confounding and impetuous behavior, I intervened. It was rather disappointing to see my student deliberately act so disgracefully, but somewhat redeeming in his display of shame when he realized he had been caught. After several conversations about how to behave, it was decided that if vacation is equated with laziness and a lack of propriety, Mohammed would not be allowed to go home. Both parties were opposed to this option. Mohammed protested, as he talked of "3 days at home", "kissing mother and father", "if I'm good, then I will go home, yes?" and "not staying at school". I despaired, as an already emotionally overwhelming week had left me exhausted, and Mohammed staying would eliminate my precious Friday morning sleep session. I needed rest. I convinced myself, though, that Mohammed needed to have a paradigm shift. My work with Mohammed is once again occupying my mind as I walk.

Among the many stresses, unattained goals, and myriad failures, there is overflowing satisfaction for the progresses, the successes, and the relationship I have with M. This usually resonates within my mind as I exit the campus and walk along the empty street. It is on this street that I stop to buy the most awful assortment of junk food when going to bed just doesn't seem sufficient. It is on this street that I casually stroll along, looking up at the stars as I think about many blessings. It is on this street that I put on my headphones and just tune out the noise in my head and my life. It is on this street that I reflect on my day. This street is my catharsis. This street was my catharsis. This street has changed.

This past Sunday, I was heading home rather early. With my backpack on and a Perkins Brailler in hand, I am stoked to do a different kind of work. This particular Brailler had been newly broken (by Mohammed after a fall on the staircase), and I am somewhat excited to heroically repair the now defunct machine. It makes me feel rather professional to fix something that most people will never use in their life. Before I reached the gate, this eagerness to leave the campus was erased.

Asma (a colleague in the deafblind unit) comes running towards me, tears streaming down her face. I ask what is wrong, already knowing the answer. Bashar, a young boy from the deafblind unit, had gone to the hospital in the morning and the initial assessment was not promising. Not concealing her desperation, Asma grabs my arm while signing, "Bashar may be dead soon. I'm going to the hospital. Come with me, please." The immediacy and intensity of that moment left me frozen. I often find myself imagining up horrific circumstances and wondering how I would respond if they came to be. This was not a circumstance I had ever dared to imagine.

Helpless. I just stood there. Helpless. Asma continued to the street. Helpless. Thoughts flash in my mind, but they are a dense fog as I fumble to move. To respond. To acknowledge that everything, in that moment, had fundamentally changed. In the midst of that change, I was still standing. Paralyzed. Helpless.

A teacher comes out of the chapel, slicing through the infinity of a moment, and the reverberations bring me back to consciousness. I explain very little, give him the Brailler, and as my heart pounds feverishly, I sprint to the gate. Onto the street. This street has changed. I catch up to Asma, and as she realizes I am with her, she takes off running. I follow, as liquid emotions course through me. Rational processing has been replaced with panic. Hope with uncertainty.

I stand in disbelief. Sullen faces surround me. The air is thick and suffocating. Asma hugs the small body of Bashar, lying in the hospital bed. God, please, don't let my eyes settle upon him. As unrelenting shock consumes me, my colleague is equally consumed by grief and hysteria. I turn to Bashar's family, unable to utter a word. Sympathy and condolences could not suffice. With fleeting courage, I turn back to the bed. He is not reaching out. He is not laughing. He is not crying. He is not in pain. At 11 years of age, Bashar has passed away.

Two years of memories will not be silenced. Entering an empty office at the school, in complete darkness, I collapse. This is not pain that one recovers from. A week ago, I was walking up the stairs, as Bashar (in typical fashion) kicked his shoes off to try to get me to carry him. As I presented him with his shoe, he cried and cried. Realizing my stubbornness, he put his shoe back on, and got up laughing. He took my hand, and we kept going, hand in hand. Now, collapsed on the floor, my hands are painfully empty. Grasping at air. He's gone. Lord, take Bashar's hand, as I cannot.

 بشار. الله يرحمهُ

The next days mostly pass, as those infinite moments linger. And it is Thursday. I am heading home. I am back on the street. The many joys of life are occupying my mind, but there is a sharp figure that breaches the peace. Silhouette, squares, whites and greys on the hospital just a few hundred meters away. Top floor, third window to the left of the stairwell. The light is off in his hospital room. This is not pain that one recovers from. But I smile, and as my eyes well with tears, I know there is much joy and many blessings in the privilege of this pain. Bashar was a blessing, in ways that I could never express to him. In his frailty, his silence, and his incredible trust of those around him, he had much to teach us about strength, presence, and love. My child, you will be missed. My empty hands will tell of the blessing it was to have held your hands. For that opportunity, I am deeply thankful. Peace.

Sharing My Experience

With only a few days before my dad would arrive in Jordan, I only had a basic framework of what we might do. Admittedly, I usually opt to let others do planning when it comes to vacation. (In the context of Jordan, it is even more likely that I will spend vacation days scheming up new ideas for work in between reading, movies, and basketball in the lovely city of Salt.) Still, after acting as a mentor and teacher of a deafblind student for more than 2 years, I wasn't too worried about the stresses of putting together an enjoyable 10 days.

Also, it should be noted that I don't appreciate history, nor am I especially knowledgeable about...well, anything besides the work I have been doing. The prospect of acting as a tour guide is an embarrassing one, unless I am in my element (with Mohammed by my side). I was confident, though, that my father would be rather forgiving in this respect. Still, I am no stranger to awkwardness, and it simply feels right to visit Roman ruins and provide insightful commentary along the lines of, "Father, direct your attention to the columns over there. You'll note that they are old. Older than you, in fact." Or, even better, reading a sign that my dad missed, then imparting knowledge as if I'm utterly familiar with the Byzantine period.

Really, it is pitiful how little I know of Islam, Jordan, or even Christianity in the Middle East. I don't hold myself accountable to be an expert. I was more concerned with sharing my experience. And there have been a lot of experiences.

I wanted my dad to see what it looks like to communicate with a young man who is deafblind. To see all the ways that development needs to occur. To see braille and tactile calendars and a signed chapel service, including songs translated into sign. To see me fumble with Arabic at a market. To see me utilize Arabic adequately on the bus, in a restaurant, and with friends. To see the magnificent chaos of driving in Amman. I wanted my dad to see things he could never see elsewhere.

I wanted my dad to eat hummus, falafel, kebabs, ripe pomegranates, mutabbel, fattoush, fresh bread, knaffeh, tabouleh, and many other things that spellcheck doesn't recognize. To ride on a raucous party bus, blasting Arabic ballads for 5 hours while the shabab echo lyrics and dance in the aisle, unaware that their skinny elbows are colliding with my skull as they vie to impress the young British girls sitting a row ahead of me. And, I wanted my dad to help me actually take a vacation. He accomplished this mission.

With Mohammed, as he eagerly anticipates going home for a long vacation.

At the Roman Amphitheater in downtown Amman. This was after a stop at Hashem's Restaurant for some of the best falafel and hummus that Jordan has to offer.

Jerash, one of the many places that I know nothing about.

After getting cornered by a volunteer who was speaking gibberish about a king's head and music stone, we allowed him to take our picture.

A nice stroll (of the possibly hundred+ kilometers we walked over the course of this holiday), was along this beautiful colonnade in Jerash.

Not sure if bored, content, or confused...

A nice morning dip in the Dead Sea

We happened upon a friendly ginger. Was wonderful to see Peter Miller again.

After failing to find an Ethiopian place, we settled for Pad Thai.

Walking through a market in the Old City.

Bedouins in Wadi Rum.

It was a great series of adventures, misadventures, exhaustion, and plenty of learning. Thanks for coming, dad. Love you. Peace.

Salted Tea

6:00pm. It is a time that I relish. The day's activities have reached a natural break, and I am relieved of duties, as I head to the dining hall for a wonderful meal. I like my job, but I dare not proclaim that I have the fortitude or stamina to engage work in my every waking hour. Not only am I trying to teach skills, give information, translating, and encouraging expression, but I am doing so with my hands. This is moderately exhausting (read: After sitting in a prayer meeting for an hour of continuous signing, with Mohammed continuously resting his hands on mine as I sign, one succumbs to some measure of fatigue.) So, when I go to dinner, I get to temporarily reclaim my appendages as instruments whose sole purpose is for the shoveling of nourishment into my eagerly awaiting mouth. My digits are set free, the shackles removed.

And I relax. I evaluate the day. I do not stress or think of the countless things that I will need to do in the coming weeks and coming months. Those things are swallowed, quite effortlessly, with my evening tea.

With my tea in hand, I notice a familiar figure has wandered over to the staff table. Mohammed is toting his empty cup, and I simply think, "Not my business." As he moves in, next to the institute's director, I am intrigued and wonder how this will play out. He wants tea, but is simultaneously showing that tea alone will not do. With much bravado, he is signing, "Sugar, sugar, sugar." After filling his cup, Mohammed again indicates that only sugar can sooth his craving...the director hands him the salt. Mohammed doesn't take the bait. Testing both his resolve and his patience, the salt is pushed back into Mohammed's hand. Either through curiosity or uncertainty, Mohammed feels willing to investigate the shaker. Could there be sugar in it?

Getting some residue from the top, he licks his fingers and issues a response of "WRONG!", that seems to carry finality. Still, a grin is plastered across his face, and his head dips down to indicate that thought processes are in motion. When you are blind, you have no need to look around for help...

At this point, quite of number of spectators have gathered, amused and also surprised by the extent of M's communication and the nature of his behavior. They watch as Mohammed just gives in to the joke, and starts shaking salt over his cup of tea. The joke has been turned around, as hands rush in to stop him from ruining a perfectly good cup of tea. All the faces around him, shocked and aghast, return to their previous orientations, as Mohammed has continued to hold his grin. The sugar is passed to him and he excavates the crystals from their container.

Eyes turn to me, questioningly. Why did Mohammed come over here for tea in the first place? He has tea at his table, or an adjacent table. Does Mohammed usually do these things on his own? Why didn't he insist that he would not take the salt, even after he was being prodded?

I just laugh. He's becoming more expressive, more enigmatic. But what really makes me laugh is the overarching joke that everyone else at the table has missed, excluding myself and Mohammed.

"Look at the time."

What? No one has caught on. "So what?", is the reply. It is Wednesday, and it is 6:30, and Mohammed is supposed to be in the kitchen helping with the dishes. Tea wasn't his goal at all. It was just the decoy. They thought he was the victim of the joke, but he knew to play his part, making everyone else complicit in his quest to get out of work. I can only wonder what was going on in his head....

"You think salted tea is funny? I just got the director to assist in delaying work...who's laughing now?"

He sits, sipping slowly, savoring his sweet tea. Victory is sweet, indeed.

I eventually find my way up to the boarding house, just to chill for part of the evening. As I am about to leave, one of the students stops me and ask me if I want to wrestle. "Just some grappling, no kicking or punching. Just try." I'm not exactly a fighter, but I usually humor the young men. Since I have about 30 lbs. on him, and a significant strength advantage, I reluctantly agree thinking it won't be hard to get him on the ground (the point of the match).

We start it up, and I am immediately surprised by his intensity. Tangled up, he tries to lift me off the ground. Not happening. I push him off and smile, suddenly more confident. I know my approach. Lock arms, and all that I have to do is wrap up his knee. For a second, it also hits me that I have no idea how to execute such a move. Mostly I just fumble about defensively, as I push him away.

I get his arm, and it seems all but over (for me, as I'd soon find out). As I twist him around, I am ready to lock his other arm. He seems all but immobilized...

Thud. Eehhmmmmmm. I smile through clenched teeth (happy that my deaf adversary can't hear me groaning as I realize something does not feel good), and let him help me up. I replay the last second in my mind. As we twisted, it left him with a lower center of gravity, and also a leg behind my legs. Not a good strategy on my part. In my defense, I hardly expected that he would sweep my legs out and throw his weight backwards to pull off a rather impressively elegant reverse body slam. I didn't expect it because it seems dangerous to execute this move on a tiled floor....which I suppose is softened by concrete.

In my limited experience of such situations, I have come to realize that fracturing a rib is a possible consequence. Not that I actually went to the hospital for an x-ray...but, when there is persistent pain for several days, sharp reminders of sensitivity that accompany just about any core movement, and breathing in deeply causes discomfort, it seems safe to assume that this isn't just a bruised ego. He asks about it later, seemingly puzzled that any injury could have resulted. I reminded him that I hit stone, with force, and an extra body's worth of weight on top of me. This answer seemed rational enough to register with him, but I assure him it's no problem. Next time, I'll probably ask for a code of conduct before we wrestle, just to make sure I know what I'm supposed to be prepared for.

Hopefully, a couple weeks of caution will have me back on my feet (or comfortably on my back). After all, the last thing I need is an injury lingering over my teaching career. Peace.

Tuesdays are for Cooking

Tuesday is for cooking. There was once a time when baking a cake took less than an hour. Let's be transparent: Cake is about cake. Meaning that the ingredients are nice, and mixing them is essential, tossing the batter in the oven is necessary, but the culmination is in the finality of the process. Procurement of the tasty morsels as they're removed from the pan and escorted (by means of fingers, fork, spoon, long distance toss, or patience-building-snail-shuttle) to the mouth. This is where cake is less of a process and more of an experience, transcending time and space, spanning infinite complexity as the sensory system inadequately tries to convey its gratitude for such a pleasant and wholly invigorating encounter (Gratitude that we approach diminutively, scaling it down to chemoreceptors and merely a "pleasant taste"). How we've been deluded into thinking that a particle exceeding the speed of light is remotely important in the presence of cake, I'll never know.

Now, don't mistake me for some sort of cake connoisseur. I will issue no qualms when others offer to provide me with cake of sub-standard quality. In fact, I am entirely indifferent about my degree of participation in pastry production and preparation. Historically, I have not been involved beyond consumption and the ensuing euphoria. Which is why, when I say that there was once a time when baking a cake took less than an hour, I am perhaps being disingenuous. There was only a time when I spent each day, wandering listlessly about in the hopes that I might stumble upon a rare, wild, unsuspecting cake that I might capture and devour.

But, the present and apparent parting of those past-times has been an adjustment. Naturally, it seemed only reasonable that I could simultaneously teach and learn how to bake a cake. And this is why Tuesdays are for cooking. The morning begins with a brief prayer time in the new chapel. While it isn't always explicitly engaged, I like to be reminded that God is the context of love and service. To have time in the morning to ponder this is a good way to be thankful for my job, and the capacity in which I serve with MCC.

On to school. Mohammed starts off by preparing his braille calender, which has become more routine than enjoyable. Rather than monotony of days and numbers, I try to breach the mundane, injecting questions along the lines of "So, what will the date be when you go home for the weekend?", or "You will have vacation in 4 weeks. How many days is that?". We're sitting on a porch swing while studying, looking out over Salt as the sunlight pours over us, cutting through the dust that obscures the rolling hills that seem to extend endlessly. I wonder if Mohammed appreciates the beauty of the setting more than me, despite his blindness. I push him towards the edge of the swing, a reprisal attack for his answer that one week and two weeks are the same number of days. Resilient, he bounces back, willing to look again.

Who cares? It is Tuesday. On to the kitchen to start mixing the cake. Braille recipes have been abolished for the time being, as they are apparently repulsive and make baking more of a fight than fun. Still, ingredients have braille labels, and after approaching me for the cabinet keys, Mohammed starts pulling out everything and arranging it. It is expected of him, and I hardly marvel at how easily he accomplishes these things now. I am doing so now rather than typi.....ng.

After the inception of what I like to call "The Experience", otherwise known as Mohammed's coconut cake, the measurements of each item have been memorized. I stand back and observe as my student lackadaisically tosses cups of flour into a bowl. Mental note: remind him that even though he doesn't see the flour spilling on the table, there is less speculation about this occurence than there is regarding sounds made by trees falling in forests when listeners are not present. Not on my game, I drift off. Mohammed moves on, only to be rudely interrupted.

"How many cups of flour did you put in?"
"3 spoons of baking powder," is his reply, thinking ahead and not really answering.
"No, right here. How many cups of flour?"
Realizing the subject..."3 cups flour."
"Oh. That's right." I'll pay more attention.

This is going swimmingly. Easy as cake. On to the eggs. He lets them fit into his fists, like he's ready for a fight. Note: I think this would be a superior street fighting technique, to always have an egg ready to bust skulls. I don't like this orientation for cracking. We do the first three, with significant co-active movement as I direct the breaking of the shell, the placement of the thumbs, and the pulling apart and discarding of the shell. Oops. Sidetracked again...I step away to sign with someone else. Turning around, Mohammed is traipsing lazily towards the trashcan, shells in hand.

My thought: I like my eggshells on the side, thank you. Let's go see the damage from the fourth egg, which Mohammed dispatched on his own. Using my CSI skills, I keenly examine the mixing bowl. No evidence of a struggle or foul play. The absence of eggshell proves we have a natural in our midst. I interrupt him to express my pride in the fact that he not only went ahead on his own, but that he has performed admirably. Since I have no medals on hand, a high-five will suffice. Mohammed adds his own, characteristically peculiar victory dance. I step back to do my own victory dance as he continues, unsuspecting of the pride emanating from his equally peculiar teacher. I realize that there are other people present, and promptly stop dancing.

When he's confident, Mohammed is much more proactive in communication. On this day, his confidence level was perhaps an inverse of a chart mapping the financial gains of recent investments...this means that it was high for those of you that haven't been paying attention. The previous weeks, we've been mixing by hand and dictating when we want the other person to take a turn. Not even acknowledging this tradition, Mohammed tells me that today he wants the electric mixer. I'm hurt that I won't get to participate...Mohammed still lets me have a turn with the mixer. How sweet.

Recently, lighting the oven by means of matches has been reminiscent of epic tales that feature gargantuan reptiles of incendiary nature. This has included loss of hair on the arms, and explosive sounds that breach the limitations of deafness. After all, allowing Mohammed to light the match, find the oven valve and open it, and then guiding his had to the proper location is not the quickest of methods. It is important to keep him involved.

Back to confidence. I assume he is emboldened by today's successes, but he remembers these recent, fiery encounters all too clearly. So, he requests to go see Issa (a carpenter and painter at the school that is one of Mohammed's friends). Perpelexed, in the court of my mind, the lawyer of rationality requests to approach the bench. The judge promptly overrules the motion strike this request from the record. Okay, I'll just go with it. As Mohammed keeps signing, I realize that he is signing "lighter", as he knows Issa is a smoker. Not a bad idea. Unfortunately, we don't find Issa, and go back to the match method, both of us wary of potential consequences. Arm hair is left intact for this week.

Wielding his braille timer, we toss the cake in and learn some Arabic words while we wait. Who cares if it takes an entire morning and part of the afternoon to put this together. I would rather see a meaningful expression of independence for Mohammed trump the experience of cake. After all, cake isn't really just about cake. Cake is for wonderful interaction, and Tuesdays are for cooking. Try it out, I think you'll agree. Peace.

P.S.- The cake was delicious. If you want the recipe, hit me up.

Enjoining by Joining (Frabjous Day)

When working 6 days a week has become routine, my Friday holiday has become somewhat of a treasure. It is a day to take on many things. I can sit around and read news. I can sleep in. I get to workout for whatever amount of time that sleeping in has allowed. I can peruse the facebook, send out emails, and write blogs. I can even watch an episode of The OC to start my day (which has recently induced extreme stress, due to the fact that Seth and Summer are apart but clearly should be together).

Fridays are for rest. Recuperation. A day to renew myself in the hopes of longevity. In the interest of the students that I work with. Which leads to seclusion and reflection, while I treasure "my precious" Friday. (For clarification, I use this phrasing because I am occasionally referred to by the name Gollum. I find this name to be both endearing and fittingly descriptive, though somewhat baffling because the volunteers that issued it had previously been identifying people through Harry Potter references. Dobby would have sufficed.) It is not alarming isolation, some vociferous introspection that clutches at my throat. I quite appreciate retreating into solitude and unwinding for a day.

So, as I sit on the playground, enjoying the sounds of Salt and the chaos of children who are temporarily relieved of academic duty, I am certain that this will be a celebratory frabjous day devoid of social interaction.

Not so, said the deaf children, clinging to my shirt. "You are fantastic, wise, the purveyor of joy. Come with us, come with us, our personal toy. For today there's a trip to the almond tree's shade. Come with us, come with us, our day will be made!" (Their requests were not this poetic, but don't let that curtail your interest.)

All hope was then abandoned as the older students cajoled, "You miser, strange hermit of despicable sort. Don't go home, stay with us (was their cunning retort). If you simply walk with us, we can promise you fun. Take a hand, share your life, for your solitude's done." Again, paraphrasing...

So, I went out on this journey. The parade of foreigners and deaf children, a peculiar bunch, just out for a stroll. And we had a ball. Kids jumping around, climbing all over my body, which apparently resembles a tree when sunlight peaks over the fall clouds in Salt. Teaching a young girl the virtues of silence and proper behavior after enduring 10 minutes of her obstinate screaming as she clamored for her right to snack time (as I took in the beauty of nature and the cityscape while simultaneously tuning out her pummeling fists as she vied for attention). And, lastly, marching back into the city with a 4 year-old boy on my shoulders, as he delighted in both the vantage point and the privilege of turning a young American into his noble steed. I had thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon.

By joining the children, I had a chance to enjoin them into participating in my relaxation and fun. Not just "let the little children come", but recognizing that they can't come if you're not there. And this is where my year can change.

Mohammed has had priorities dictated to him for his whole life. His choice-making has been minimal, and the recognition of him as remarkable has been slowly misconstrued by his inability to do many things. More often than not, due primarily to misunderstandings or lack of familiarity, the "negatives" of Mohammed have commandeered his vessel of respect.

And, I have fallen prey to this as well. I think not only as a teacher, but more significantly, as a Christian. To identify a singular moral discrepancy and inflate it, allowing it to suffocate the individual as a whole. Admittedly, it is nice to have the freedom to attribute negatives to others, as it gives less time to worry about one's own faults and transgressions. Then again, it is unfailingly insufficient in terms of realizing how remarkable other people are. I don't think Jesus had much trouble with this, as a person's sins and shortcomings never seemed to even register. Mostly, he just welcomed them without reservation or classification. And while I do try to do this, I admit that there have been many instances in which have done the opposite.

With Mohammed though, I am letting him reclaim his positive image. I value him as an individual, and always will, which leads to me being interested in what he likes and who he is. And, for at least this one, last year together, I will have an opportunity to join him in his life. And as I join, I get to enjoin him into a better quality of life, as we learn together. Even after two years, I continue to be blessed with such an opportunity. Oh frabjous day, indeed. Peace.

Getting Realigned

After spending 3 weeks at the Helen Keller National Center in New York, observing and making connections in the field of deafblindness, I have returned to Jordan.

While at the HKNC, I had a lot of opportunities that showed just how intense my work in Jordan has been. Many clients at HKNC are not congenitally deafblind, having lost sight or hearing later in life. Many also still have usable vision or enough hearing for spoken language. Vocational opportunities are available through many organizations that have partnered with HKNC for many years. There are residential staff to support, many of them having background in the field. Activities for each night are organized by the residential staff, and volunteers help out so that there is always a support person for each individual who is deafblind (should it be needed). Students arrive and often talk about their priorities, helping to mold a program that is most beneficial at the individual level. There are people who studied various fields, and bring their respective expertise and master's degrees to enhance educational opportunities. There are case managers, vocational trainers, habitation specialists, speech pathologists, communications teachers, living skills teachers, technology instructors, creative arts teachers, orientation and mobility specialists, vision and audiology specialists, and interpreters. There are teams.

Had I not committed to being in Jordan, I would have loved to stay at HKNC. It was organized and easier, fun and relaxed, light and wonderful. I might even pursue a job there in the future. Those are far off possibilities.

But I am Jordan. And I have a lot to appreciate about what I have built here, but also a lot of ways to realign myself, my expectations, and my approach. In deafblind education here, I am the team. Which isn't to say that I don't have support. That would be a lie. BUT, when I am here, there are simply no individuals that have credentials in ANY of the aforementioned areas. I have taken it upon myself to become knowledgeable in those areas, and take them all into account for my role as teacher and case manager. This field is too new in Jordan, so when I want to increase life skills, I can't just write down recommendations and hand it off to someone. Occasionally, I might write it down, then bring my chair to the other side of my desk and read it as if seeing it for the first time. It's an internal memo. (It should be noted, though, that when I say "my desk", I am actually imagining what it might be like to actually have a personal office or at the least a desk, which I do not have. I need to advocate for myself on that, I think.)

It was certainly nice, though, to have professionals be impressed that I taught my student how to differentiate braille characters, fingerspelling, hundreds of Arabic words, how to count and understand numbers, use a cane, and tell time...over the course of a year. It was nice to hear suggestions, and then respond with, "Yes, we already do that, and I had to make the resources to make it happen."

I still need time to take what I saw at HKNC, and allow that to realign my passion. Because, the most important thing I learned was not simply in providing information and services to individuals, but to do so in balance and consideration that the individual needs time, and needs to enjoy life.

I sincerely hope that I can integrate that into a new school year. I will be praying that I can find the wisdom to do so, the balance to carry it out without burning out, and the perseverance to follow through. I will also be praying for the same things for those far away: former SALTERs, current MCC workers, friends, students, and family. Peace.

When Air Disappears

It isn't often that I think about breathing.

The precursors are irrelevant, as it becomes evident that the feet are no longer on the ground, assuming a position that is undoubtedly foreign. As the disorientation and panic envelop limited cognizance, the moment becomes an eternity. Gravity whips strangling belts around the body, jerking it from the pause in space back down to the earth. Time exists again, but the seconds are agonizing as the air has been ejected from your lungs. Pain becomes strangely transient when one has the awareness that breathing has ceased. The air has disappeared. You're convinced the air has disappeared. I'm certain the air has disappeared.

And there is that instance. The instance that composure, the same as the body, suffocates. It is to the frenzied appeal of surrender that the mind whirls about to face. Seemingly unbearable, this vacuum of torture. Surrender, is the plea, but it is without conviction. The disarray's deceit derided the diaphragm, but defeat isn't definite. The muscle is resurrected, and as air is inhaled, the feeling of suffocating once again becomes foreign. I was momentarily aware of breathing, notably due to its unpleasant absence. No need to think about breathing once again.

But a couple deep breaths help me appreciate the fact that the air never really disappeared. I just couldn't get to it.

As I prepare to begin my summer vacation, I am still catching my breath. Whether through carelessness, or veiled truculence, or maybe even through subscribing to obstinacy, my feet have found themselves in the orientation far too often. And I hit the ground, panic, slowly catch my breath, and once again resume NOT thinking about breathing. But, it seems, that I don't have enough time to catch my breath before a thunderous clap steals the air.

Mohammed is every bit as stubborn as I am. And it is the last week of summer school. I have planned accordingly, knowing that it is better to just designate relaxation and fun activities. The week begins, and it becomes immediately evident that he simply no longer cares. His communication skills evaporate in the heat of apathy. Self-help skills are trampled by the allure of learned helplessness. Cooperation becomes a most vile, abhorrent concept.

I taught him how to light a match, and start the gas stove, and it is his responsibility to prepare his own breakfast. He takes some bread from the freezer, lights the stove, and begins warming up the bread. Then, in the manner and mindset of a mischievous miscreant, he decides that today he is just going to let the bread burn. I watch him in disbelief, noting that he takes the bread off the stove to see if it is burning, which he followed with tossing it back on the stove. Finally, I just ask him, "What are you doing?", which startles him a bit as he realizes that I was watching. Knowing that he's caught, he simply remarks that the bread is now bad and should go in the trash. Nope. As I elaborate about his misbehavior, he tunes out until I tell him to go ahead and eat the bread that he cooked. Burnt portions and all. After he's done, we run into similar problems and I end up sending him to a timeout.

Again. And again. First, it's standing in isolation. Then, push-ups. Then standing while holding a chair. Then, a slap on the back of the hand, and a verbal warning about how angry I am with him for being so lazy and uncooperative. More time-out. He tells me he's done with school, he just wants to be punished and then go home. I oblige him, not holding back my displeasure but simultaneously being perplexed as to what I can actually do.

I don't know what to do. For that last week, everyday was filled with thunderous claps that stole my breath. And as I panic. As I turn to plead for surrender to just bestow apathy upon me, I instead lose awareness of my lack of breath. I clench my teeth, and my suffocating urgency is reflected in my teaching. I look at Mohammed, and he is hating being at school. Hating working with me. And my bitterness wants reprisal: If you want to be as stubborn as me, this will be a horrible week. And it was. So terrible, in fact, that upon the release, all that I could catch was stagnant air.

Jonah knew a little bit about stagnant air. Hanging out inside a fish for 3 days (I bet you aren't familiar with fish breath). Chilling under the shade of a vine, fantasizing about fire and brimstone raining down upon Nineveh, only to watch the vine wither as the sun was bearing down upon him and the dry air choked his lungs. His bitterness wanted reprisal, every bit as much as mine does, but for Jonah suffocating might have seemed a decent alternative to breathing.

And here I am, and although I did not hesitate to embark on my journey, I certainly have embodied Jonah's bitterness. I want God to bring down an army of enforcers. At the very least, a grandma of drill-sergeant caliber who would whip Mohammed into shape. But I am more ambitious than Jonah, and I want to even take holy retribution into my hands. And this is why I can't breathe.

God taps me on the shoulder. The vine is withering, and the air is stagnant. I am catching my breath. Jesus is the model to follow, not the misguided and suffocated path of Jonah. Jesus implores that I follow him first, but Jesus didn't teach the deafblind. He copped out and healed the blind and the deaf. I'm pretty good, but not that good. So what am I supposed to do?

Jesus changes the dynamic. It isn't a matter of what, but how. He came to inform, and to correct, but to love and to forgive first. That is the model of how. Through his grace, his forgiveness, I have a new breath. I can finally catch my breath. It is only through foolishness that I turn from that, to continually fall and take in the stagnant air of bitterness. Lord, help me turn to your grace and forgiveness, so that when I fall, you can breathe life into me. So that when air disappears, you can breathe life into me.

With that renewed life, I am certain I'll be a better teacher, and now I have summer vacation to prepare for that. Summer vacation is an opportunity to think about breathing. I want to think about breathing more often. Peace.

Egregious Monstrosity

Egregious. There is a sort of unbelievable essence and simultaneously negative connotation associated with the word. A tacit association that makes its appearance leave a generally unpleasant aftertaste after it rolls through the language processing of the brain. The brain does, after all, receive and interpret the sense of taste, and I sometimes confuse reading a word with tasting a word. Coincidentally, some particularly sweet words are vivacious and moose (or mousse, whose actual taste I am more familiar with).

Egregious. Through information imparted upon me, I have become aware that this word, instead of meaning uncommonly bad, can also be defined as remarkably good. Perhaps the usage has faded out of the modern lexicon. And, in the beginning of this post, I am not yet sure how I will ascribe the descriptor. So come with me on a Bob Ross expedition, and we will paint the definition as we go.

My second school year has come to a close, and I want to take a moment to go back to the start. I can hardly remember what Mohammed was like at the very beginning of the delightful insanity that I call a job. In scanning my old blog posts, I am suddenly awakened. Buried deep in the recesses of my mind, though, memories begin crawling to the foreground. Their wretched claws digging deep, with a resurrected vitality. I am there again.

Mohammed was casual, and just as I didn't expect much from him, he didn't expect much from me. I labeled him "brilliant". He labeled me "teacher". Everyday was predictable, and we held hands as I guided him through each activity (very few of which he could actually accomplish on his own). Go to school and stack blocks for 30 minutes. Come back, sit and have a snack, relax for 30 minutes. Bathroom break. Mohammed going through the motions as I clean shelves for him. Go to lunch. Another hour break. Prepare a schedule, in which Mohammed pretended to read braille. You are bored reading about it. I was enthralled, back then, by the novelty. Spending 45 minutes just working on moving his fingers to sign the number two. I had some sense of vision that told me this was a great place to be, despite the fact that I couldn't really wade through the fog of a fervidly fueled ignorance of what it would mean to really delve into deafblind education.

I was also surprised to go back and read some perspectives I had then. I couldn't see myself staying in Jordan to continue working. I seemed convinced I would end up back in the states. Me, in my element, being analytical and detaching all factors beyond the influences of a moment, then transitioning into the spiritual aspects and future implications. I was placid and preoccupied, but with earnest proclivities based on bearings I considered to be founded on maturity (the reality, though, is that I desperately needed to learn how to fail, how to be angry, how to be focused, to develop maturity that would be a staunch, grizzly voice unfailing in constancy).

I stayed in Jordan. The reason was to pursue a better understanding of the Christian ethic of service. I still have a lot of work to do, that respect. The bonus, though, was the inception of the "egregious monstrosity". This has been a two-headed leviathan, whose lurking I have come to fondly embrace much in the same way that I enjoy a free hour to clean the gym and shoot some hoops.

The first head of the beast is Mohammed. He is now an unstoppable force, and his advancement has left me befuddled and inadequate in most every sense. And here is why: I have given him permission to undergo metamorphosis. No more hand-holding, no more sitting around. His growth becomes a daily struggle, not for me, but for him to engage. So, with several weeks left of school, when Mohammed decided to just quit working, I gave him the freedom to do so. The old, silent, passive Mohammed of yesteryear evaporated. A conniving, cutthroat, and cunning adversary had replaced him. Even a simple task, such as preparing his food book, became something he refused to do. Taking independence to a whole new echelon, infused with stubbornness, he chose every braille card except the one word for the food we were having that evening (then pretended to not know that the final word was on the page....before finally succumbing to defeat when realizing I had his number). It is extraordinary to see him transform from a kid that could not answer questions, could not understand or sign "2", would not use a walking cane, would not sign anything unless in prompted by a specific sequence of signs that were familiar.

Now, he asks me how I'm doing, he tells me he wants to listen to music, or pack his clothes to start summer vacation, or even lie and pretend that he no longer recognizes the braille words that he's been preparing in his food book for months. Such delightful treachery. Now, when I tell I'm quitting work and going home for vacation, and that he can stay at school and work, he clutches my arm and remind me that this will not happen. It won't happen because Mohammed is going home for vacation. Mohammed doesn't want to work anymore. Brent has to stay at the school to work on his computer. Such statements are now a regularity. Before, the extent of his expression were phrases such as, "music", or "eating finished", or "no misbehavior", and all were preceded by significant prompting.

In addition to the monster I have created, the one I have built a cocoon for, there has been one emerging from the depths of my soul. The passion for my job has become inseparable from the other aspects of my life. I take my work home with me. When I have a bad work day, it carries over into my personal life. Why? My personal life is also at the school, for the most part. This egregious monstrosity has an insatiable desire for perfection. It has an eclectic allure. It has a penchant for critical degradation of even the most fervent efforts.

And this monster is adorable. I hold it close to my core. In some ways, it has been defeatist to remain so open to being broken down at the center of my being. But, it has also been faithful and endearingly honest. Honesty about when I need to be better. Honesty about failures. Honesty about lack of maturity and perspective. The antithesis to cookie monster. Rather than consuming delectable treats, it dispenses treats that are rather hard to swallow. Sharing is caring...as a large, purple, pre-Cretaceous reptile used to say.

This colossus has, at times, left me emaciated. It has driven me, more than once, to just retreat into solitude and lay prostrate in prayer. It has pushed me to the edge of weariness. It has inflicted lasting impressions that are now a part of me. And it has, always been valuable. As long I continue to let this egregious monstrosity be a companion, I must also continue in the development of maturity. And there are moments when I am undoubtedly short-sighted, but as a part of this two-year process, the results have been remarkably good. And that is the egregious that I like best. Peace.

Expression

It is getting hot. It is a dry, unimposing, strangling heat. The conditions are perfect for backpack strap sweat lines. Perfect for swimming (if one had access to a pool). Perfect for foreigners who have become accustomed to not taking showers more than 3 times a weeks (because from here on out, I will reek of the involuntary perspiration that is continually issued throughout the day).

Mohammed feels the effects. He has made it clear that he will no longer be wearing sneakers. Sandals are his footwear of choice because it is "very hot". Not wanting him to forget how to tie shoes, I turn to my most effective teaching method: Entrapment. Without mentioning my intentions, I casually ask Mohammed if he would like to help me. Hesitantly, he consents. I explain that there seems to be a problem with my shoe (the next part he doesn't actually receive, because he pulls his hands away at the mention of shoe...) and I would like him to fix it. He quickly signs, "Shoes finished." I remind him that he already agreed to help me, but to no avail. We argue back and forth, and I am trying to make him aware that his honor is at stake. After all, an accord was struck.

Nope. He doesn't care. No big deal. To really goad him, I tell him I am angry that he is refusing to help me now, and he can go get his own shoes and tie them. "Nononono," says Mohammed. "Come on, you said you'd help. Don't be lazy," says Brent. "No. Tying shoes finished. You do it. You're lazy," says Mohammed.

WHAT. Go back and re-read that. He insulted me. For the first time. EVER. I was quite happy. It is likely the best insult I will ever receive. If there has been a primary goal for the year, it has been development of expressive communication. Not just waiting for prompts and responding, but to actually be conscious of his own thoughts and spitting them out. And he did. I wish I could say I rewarded him for it, but I just carried on the conversation, as a conversation should go. We dueled, and he eventually helped me out. His successful tying of my shoes was followed by much laud, as celebratory dancing was initiated. We were happy.

I am in the boardinghouse many evenings. I inform Mohammed of my fatigue, and my desire to crash for a quick nap. I scurry up his ladder to his prepared bed and flop down, with Mohammed hot on my heels, clinging to whatever garments that come within his grasp. As I pretend to sleep, he is lifting my head off his pillow, then signing furiously, at such unprecedented speed that I imagine the Earth's rotation was inverted and time began to creep backwards. The gist of it: Brent is not tired, thanks to God. Sleeping is done. This is Mohammed's bed.

Another victory for expressive communication.

It is Thursday, and I re-arrange his braille schedule. He identifies this, and matter-of-factly tells me, "This is wrong." Good, my young apprentice. Expressive communication: "Ah, yes. A Jedi's weapon, much like your father's. By now you must know that your father can never be turned from the Dark Side. So will it be with you." --Emperor Palpatine

Palpatine said it well, but you have to add in words like "communicator", "effectiveness", "teacher", and "Expressive Side" to make it relevant. If you switch it all out, though, the quote becomes convoluted, and taints the Star Wars legacy. So, you can work out the metaphor as you see fit.


It had been a particularly draining day, and after coaxing one of the other students from the deafblind unit to navigate to the dining hall on his own, I was late to eat. I was exhausted. I certainly hadn't had enough sleep. I sit down to eat, and am minding my own business. Then Mohammed, with seemingly no reason, walks over to the table I am at. Casually, he asks, "How are you?"  It was so unexpected that my initial response was only laughter, with a hint of pride. I couldn't say anything other than, "I am happy." Still laughing, and neglecting to continue signing, Mohammed takes initiative to finish the conversation. "How is Mohammed? Mohammed is good. Thanks be to God."


Mohammed still thinks he has it all figured out most of the time, but I am luring him to the Dark side. As the Emperor said, " Oh no, my young Jedi. You will find that it is you who are mistaken, about a great many things. " It's me and him, working it all out, and the expression is powerful. The two of us, master and apprentice, just like the Sith. But more peaceful....peace.

Position to Critique

Only once have I driven a stick shift. I don't consider the lack of experience to be a character flaw. I simply haven't encountered situations in which such skills were needing cultivation. So, I would consider myself to be somewhat less than an expert on shifting technique. Lack of technique does not put one in a good position to critique.

So, when I was graced with a taxi driver of utter incompetence as I was finishing an Easter vacation in Egypt, I broke the basic tenants of criticism. Although I wasn't vocal, I felt I had a decent grasp on this driver's apparent disregard for gears, based on the periodic "drrrrreeeeeeggggggkhhhhhh" as he let off the clutch and THEN attempted to shift up. As his embarrassment took residence in his crimson face, I assured him that it wasn't a problem. I wanted to be kind, and not point out his deplorable performance, hoping some encouragement would bring him to a higher echelon of driving skills. We continued on, occasionally lurching forward intermittently, thus disrupting my attempts to sleep. The day before, I had pulled an all-nighter while hiking up Mt. Sinai to watch the sunrise and visit a monastery. Needless to say, I wanted sleep.

Gears locking in, and the car pouncing forward like a decrepit cheetah making one last attempt at catching some unattainable prey. I was in no mood for metaphors, but my tired brain wanted to make the best of the situation. And soon I found I was blessed to be kept awake, as I became navigator on this already overly exciting expedition. At the first opportunity to turn, we had two options, and a clearly marked sign. One route led north to Nuweiba. The other: South to Sharm el Sheikh (my destination). As my driver, with the confidence of wicker chair, crept slowly towards the north route. Initially dumbfounded, I came to the conclusion that he is illiterate. Suddenly, this was the most interesting taxi ride ever (it was before...but he raised the bar). I doubted that informing him of this would be productive.

We kept going, and the driver, having sunk to the depths of self-pity, made a bold decision to cut his losses and stay in 4th gear to cruise at a full 30km/h below the speed limit. I was happy, because I knew that the highway was a straight shot for at least 40 km, so I wouldn't need to monitor him (I assumed he could tell the difference between the road and the adjacent desert). Close to Sharm, I once more directed him, as he didn't recognize the left arrow with a big airplane next to it as a symbol for the airport. It all culminated with him driving the on the wrong side of the highway to pull a u-turn, which was perhaps the most confident maneuver he performed. I smiled.

I wasn't in a position to critique, but I felt quite qualified to do so. My job is the same way. Recently, I have been feeling pressure from some people to change the program of my student, which I have been utterly resistant to. As the requests became more frequent and direct, I had to explain that Mohammed has a schedule built based on assessments and priorities, not based on platitudes and fantastical whims. I was entirely frustrated with the situation, especially since the art of reasoning was being discarded for phrases beginning with "I think it would be nice" or "this is what I hope" that contained no measure of professional perspective. Not conducive to discourse.

The worst moment came when I was told that my dedication to Mohammed's education was "selfish". I was so appalled that I just laughed. It was later clarified that I am "selfish" in the sense that I prefer Mohammed to only work with me and that he doesn't get to be with others. I defensively cackled. Selfish. Selfish?

I do try to be humble, but the self-righteous road was calling my name. Outraged, and feeling inconsolably withered down, I went back to work but was pacing. Pacing. Heart racing. Flushed with emotion. . Repeating the word. Selfish. I admit, I am with Mohammed most of my day. Even past work hours, we are together, often until he goes to bed. Regardless of the connotation, selfish was not appropriate. To me, it felt like a vicious low blow, absent-minded thrown without regard for the impact. His waking hours are not mine, they are OURS. We share them, and we learn together. I wouldn't trade that for anything, but that isn't selfishness. That is love and dedication for a student that deserves a lot more than I know how to give. Admittedly, he changes the standards I hold myself to, but he has also changed the way I see my life. I am continually trying to let my work reflect the gratitude I feel towards him.


I still bare my teeth some days, but the issue was resolved. It was paramount, especially to show that I will passionately fight for my student. And to show that I have knowledge, and experience, and commitment. And I don't take those things for granted. I use them to do as good of a job as I can. Mohammed comes first. Selfish...I guess I'll laugh that one off until humor swallows the sting.

In another unrelated occurrence, I had an amazing moment that illustrates what human potential is when someone has the chance to truly be connected to another individual. Kawther is deafblind, and she suffers from some neuromuscular disorder (I am unaware of the etiology). Perhaps resembling a subtype of spastic cerebral palsy, she lacks directed motion. Unable to walk, and seemingly unable to coordinate movements of several muscles simultaneously, that she will ever be able to even use gestures as a form of communication is a long shot.

Occasionally, though, I will approach her just to say hi, allowing her to become aware of my presence, and taking my hand as I identify myself with my beard and short hair. She has now become familiar enough with me that she will try to stand and walk into my open arms as I kneel directly in front of her. It is a wonderful expression of trust and affection.

And then, in the extraordinary manner which I have become accustomed to as being the essence of individuals who are deafblind, Kawther began to talk to me. She talked about my lukewarm and welcoming hands, commenting in the way that she grasped them. I replied by squeezing and pulling her in closer. She expressed her desire to dance. I felt honored to be her partner. As her weak legs tried to spin around, with her arms fumbling for support from me, I encouraged her by providing assistance. If she fell, and picked her up and embraced her. My way of saying, "That was a wonderful effort." A kiss on the cheek conveys, "You are amazing." And then, she replies, taking my arms and actually manipulating my movements. She pulls my arms around her and smiles. I pull my arms away, but she tugs them back, and as I powerfully hug her, she smiles again. It becomes a game that lasts for 20 minutes, simply taking turns, allowing her to express herself and know that I am responding. That we are communicating. At the end, though, she takes the opportunity to clarify that I am among the doubters. Oh ye of little faith. As I hold my arms out of her reach, she brings both of her arms across her chest. She is signing that she wants a hug. I hug her and the most vibrant, winsome smile shows up. She has, perhaps for the first time in her life, used symbolic communication to express herself, and she is loving it. She does it again and again, showing utmost pleasure in this discovery with each hug that I give. And I am just sitting there in awe, arms wrapped around her and almost in tears, because I am more proud of her in this moment than perhaps I have ever felt in regards to anything I've accomplished.

It is as if I rediscovered love in that moment. We were each taken down to simplicity, to the core of our beings, and we were bringing our complete selves to the conversation. To that moment. To that relationship. An exchange of what is essential, and a recognition of God's presence in another. A dance in which we were both enriched to see the other without any ulterior motives. Rejoicing in who another person is, in an objective matter, in which my ego had no place. I wasn't thrilled with Kawther because her success was also my triumph. I was ecstatic because her success was something to celebrate with her. It was the best dance I have had in my life.

I often fail at attaining such love in most of my daily interactions. More so, I think I fail to do so in my faith. To know that I can I don't have to put up a shield, and can bring my broken self to just be loved. To know that even in the brokenness, I am complete in God's love, falling into supportive arms. To know that when I say, "God, I need your embrace", that there will be an answer. Not because of who I am, or because of merit, but simply BECAUSE I am. And that is the nature of love. Peace.

Cataplexy

It was a day like any other. My normal days vary a significant degree from your normal days. When's the last time you had a conversation with a someone who is deafblind? Don't feel bad. I am not accusing you of anything. You could ask me when was the last time I had a conversation with someone who ISN'T deafblind.....I don't actually have a whole lot of those.

Manifestations of anger and legitimate frustration are rarely as much of a surprise as I wish they were. These are not my own. They are Haazim's. Still lacking constructive ways of communicating, and relying on tantrums as the most horrifically efficient way of conveying desire, he knows how to bring about an adrenaline rush that leaves me shaking in a pathetic stupor of consuming incompetence. When a child is willing to abandon all sense of self-preservation as a means to an end, it makes it hard to know how to intervene in a positive manner.

I can usually sense an incident's proximity.

So, on that day like any other, I was helpless. Outside of the school campus, walking the streets of Salt, I became tragically aware of his mental preparation to battle. The reverberations of such defiance were being silently issued by his listlessness. Already too far from the school to come up with proactive distractions, I was sensitive to his cues. Accommodating his curiosity, rather than subscribing to ignorance, I take preemptive steps to prevent the kind of misunderstandings that incite his volcanic rage. For each cue, I am willing to stop walking to give Haazim an outlet to talk in his own manner. It might be a tug on my arm, as he tries to establish an imaginative hierarchy of power which crowns him king of schedules, lord of field trips and perhaps I am the jester. It might just be to allow him to smell the air, dank and homely, a mix of sickly cats and rubbish and recently sprouted plants that still cling to hope that more rain will indeed come. It might be feeling the littered pavement, which still has a lingering chill that makes it seem as if winter is obnoxiously unaware of its obligation to succumb to the changing of seasons. He seems accepting of my offerings of goodwill, and all is well.

With the school in sight, my misgivings spring up and I sense inevitable defeat. With a ninety degree turn, Haazim declares an end to the goodwill treaty I had offered up. He senses something, which I cannot discern. Whether it was the distinct feel of the crumbly, craggy, concrete steps, or the aroma of dusty chickens in a nearby shop, it didn't really matter. He wanted something. There was no discussion. I was dismissed, and no amount of signing registered any meaning. I once again responded to his communication, but eventually we didn't obtain that which he was looking for. And just as quickly as he realizes that I don't know how to help him, he screams and throws himself down the cruelly apathetic concrete steps.

With several people around to witness this spectacle, I am frantically embarrassed. I furiously sign to Haazim that we are finished, and we are going back to school. He pulls away and claws at nothingness, resigned now to inflict damage rather than explore in calm cooperation. As I take his hand again, he tries to bite me. I would have yelled, but in the confusion, my heart seemed to have relocated to my esophagus, making any sort of vocalization impossible.

I step back. Other voices suddenly cut through the 10 second calamity that has enthralled my brain for what seems like days. It is a butcher. In his most sternly reproaching tone, he is screaming "Shame. Shame. Shame on you boy." The Arabic words sweetly slash my ego, and then I realize he is supporting me and scolding Haazim. I appreciate his candor, and kindly inform him that Haazim neither sees nor hears. His contempt falls on deaf ears. He nods in understanding, then promptly yells at Haazim, "Go back to Brother Andrew (the institute's director). Back to school." I smile, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, but my face bears no expression other than simple fatigue. I pick Haazim up and we return to the school. No one wins the battle. We both lose.

When it comes to choosing between a tantrum and cataplexy, I'd take cataplexy. Cataplexy doesn't carry the undertones of disdain that the tantrum inflicts on my tender soul. Working with deafblind children has given me a stronger resolve, and a tougher exterior. But it hurts when I am often overtly strict, or expressly severe in punishment. The toll of often sailing the waters of "last resort" leaves me feeling hijacked by pirates. Some pirates have good intentions and jolly dispositions, I suppose. I do prefer, though, a calm lake that is crowned by a wearily descending sun. The kind of calm waters that only come with having actual knowledge and training that dictates action, rather than the intuitive responses that have been characteristic of my work.

I give Mohammed a chocolate. I want to be better, for him. He starts to peel back foil, but hands the chocolate back to me. An implied, "You do it. You're better at this than me." A devilish impulse incites a twitch in the corner of my mouth, producing a vile snarl of pure evil. I let him feel as I delicately remove the wrapping, and promptly put the chocolate in my mouth. In dismay, he feels my empty hands. He couldn't believe his fingertips (eyes). I give him a second chocolate, and we begin a dress rehearsal of my self-produced play called, "Learned Helplessness." The second chocolate has unparalleled deliciousness. I savor it. Mohammed can hardly stand my reprehensible treachery. He calls for another chocolate. Not even acknowledging me, his determination is victorious. As he eats it, I wonder what vengeful thoughts are stewing as he considers the fact that he could have eaten three chocolates instead of just one. I like to think that this kind of exercise makes him appreciate independence in a tangible way, but it probably jut makes him appreciate the times when I am not around to assist in the consumption of his chocolates.

Recent forays into prayer- Mohammed has been taught that prayer is about spewing predetermined lists of blessings as they have been dictated to him by a peer. I have countered this by making prayer into a conversation. We have had many gems come out of this interaction. One day, with a seemingly genuine concern, Mohammed requested a blessing for Satan. I laughed. In one of his first self-constructed prayers, at the end of an exhausting day, Mohammed prayed this: Thank you God, bless me, that is all. I laughed again. And then, in one of his most brilliant moments (regardless of his understanding of what he said), I asked Mohammed, "Why do we pray?", which left him utterly stumped. I had him ask me, and I replied, "I pray to talk with God." I asked him once more, expecting him to copy me, but instead he replied, "Because I love God." I told him that he had given an exceptional answer. I wasn't sure if I was even grasping how exceptional that answer is.

The tantrums. The communication battles. The prayers. The daily surprises that are more challenging than I am capable of handling, yet somehow handle. But I'm not cataplectic. I wouldn't take cataplexy. Cataplexy wouldn't get me through a normal day. My normal days vary a significant degree from your normal days. It's a good thing. Peace.

Thermal Fusion

It's 5:15am, and it is my day off. Some usually delightful tune issued from my iPod has turned sour, disrupting my slumber. The melodious cacophony prompts a grotesque smile as I rise from my bed, though I dare not stand. I know perfectly well why I have chosen to be awake at this most unpleasant hour. I can taste some formless messages being emitted (either by my own body or an otherwise unpleasant demon of the unconscious dream world) which are inducing a mild euphoria at the prospect of returning my head to the comfort of a pillow. But, the sweetness is also alarming, and its allure is akin to what I imagine addiction lusts for me to experience. I vaguely remember a public service announcement about a frying pan, eggs, and a brain on drugs. I try to avoid things that could be addictive. Apparently, my logic has defined sleep as "addictive", so I indulge only in moderation.

The frying pan reminds me that the burners on the stove in my apartment are still issuing pathetically useless yellow flames. I dismantled it a couple days ago, checking valves and pipes and tubes, then reassembled the stubbornly cool fire utility. I haven't figured out how to fix it.

The grotesque smile creeps back as I take the full two steps necessary to cross my room. I have committed to being awake, which makes me happy. Not enduringly happy. More like the kind of happy I am after spraining an ankle and realizing I can "walk it off". It is relative happy.

Although I have only traversed a couple feet, my right calf is already issuing protests to remind me that it has been strained. I look down at the calf disapprovingly and in reproach. My calf lacks sensory mechanisms (such as eyes) to receive the full effect of my ire, although this doesn't stop me from imagining that tiny hands within the muscle fibers are clapping together in apologetic embarrassment.

I stand over my little bookcase, taking in the nuisance which woke me up, mildly amused by how something so cathartic can be circumstantially manipulated into an annoyance. Enough of my alarm-set music. iPod: You are honorably discharged for the morning. Sleep demon: Pathetically dispatched for neglecting to understand psychology. I am much more likely to succumb to flattery than to a simple assault on my sleepiness. Sleepiness has little effect on the fact that I am training for a half-marathon. Awake or not, I feel compelled to run so that my body won't fall apart in 3 weeks on the day of the race.

I sit back down on my bed, ready to lace up my minimalist Adidas running shoes, and I remember yesterday. It quickly flashes through my mind. Yesterday was horrible. I was teaching Mohammed about time, and we were focusing on minutes. These are new to him. So, I took a little foam clock and put braille on both sides. One side has the numbers for the hours, the other has 5 minute increments. The plan was to feel his tactile watch, and then arrange the hand on the model clock to the equivalent number of minutes. Mohammed didn't grasp the correlation, and set about to simply wait for me to help. I told him to do it by himself, which he did, somewhat defiantly, by simply twiddling around for a couple minutes without really setting out to solve the problem which was before him. Looking back, I think this is approximately the time in which he was already mentally checked out.

I helped him to arrange the clock, and then asked him to read the number. He was way off, so, we decided to focus on reading the numbers. My impatience was already brimming over, but I wanted to try to go slow. He stumbles on "0", but then correctly identifies 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30. His grasp of quantities is improving, as is his braille reading. Then, we get to 35....he hasn't memorized this far. He guesses, wrong, and I help. We move on. He gets 40, he gets 45....then comes 50. Mohammed is initially wrong, and then just doesn't care. No longer interested in actually reading the braille number, he is simply spewing out random numbers to show that he hasn't saved this data into his hard drive of a brain. He is protesting the thought process which I am subjecting him to. As he feigns focus, putting up 3's and waiting for my response, my inexperience once again takes hold. I slap his hand down, and tell him to read. To focus. To think. But, he would rather just keep aiming blindly at whatever the target answer is, using buckshot from his database to hopefully cover the possible answers while I wait. I repeatedly slap his hand down, asking him to show me where he is seeing a 3. He doesn't know, nor does he care at this point. I show him that it is a 5 and a 0, together. His mind is already in the kitchen, ready for lunch. I am fuming. He finally mirrors me, acknowledging that it is 50. It wasn't even school at that point, just an infuriating power struggle, which Mohammed only moderately understands the dynamics of. We go to lunch, Mohammed's father shows up, and he goes home for the weekend. I feel rather pathetic as a teacher. Yesterday was horrible. Today is better, I have already decided.

I look back down at my laces. I am not a masochist. I do, however, feel like a poor performance at works provides a little bit of motivation to push myself to be better at whatever I do. I step out my front door, and take a deep breath, in anticipation of 8 grueling miles. A sense of accomplishment comes over me as I realize that I have beat the sun in rising. I take off.

The running sends me through a wormhole. Time passes without me actually experiencing more than a few moments. An interested pedestrian says, "Good morning", with a smirk. His intrigue stems from my exposed lower legs (!عيب), blond hair, strangely attractive beard (I'm fairly certain he thought I was quite a looker), and the fact that I am running mindlessly around Salt this early in the morning. I tumble across an unknown distance. I am pulled back into the normalized time continuum by the honking of some admirers. They are shabaab, young men with their own culture (of which volumes could be written to detail the precise mannerisms and general behavior they often exude). They are cruising around, packed into their blinged-out green Hyundai, even more mindlessly than the manner in which my now jellified legs are carrying me. Back into the wormhole.

The sun shoots unpleasant rays into my eyes from around a hilltop. I feel as though I might have died. I realize that it wasn't the sun which did this to me. It was merely the luminous burst that prompted an awareness of my current state, as induced by too much running. The sun is a powerful thing. I cannot fathom the energy it produces by thermal fusion, but I appreciate it in the same way I appreciate good friends or a plate of spaghetti (not to say that friends and spaghetti are the same thing...I can distinguish the two on most occasions). I finish running.

Back to fusion. Although the time is still far off, I am already contemplating what is will be like to leave this place. To have invested so much of my time as a service worker primarily into a relationship with one student...well, that does not make for an easy transition. I feel like I have stepped into a process of fusion. Rather than two atoms fusing together in a gracefully exothermic ballet, it is me and Mohammed. We are interacting in very rewarding ways, which impact not only ourselves, but those around us. Apart, we are what we are, but fused, we do a lot more. The form of my service work is impacted by Mohammed. It transforms who I am, and who he is. It shapes me, Mohammed, and many others, in direct and indirect ways. Our exothermic equivalent is the vitality that we receive, the things we learn from each other, the relationship that is formed, and the changed perceptions on deafblindness.

Fusion. Clever analogy in what could have been an uneventful, rather forgettable morning run. Thank God for faithfully providing me with such moments of reflection. If you haven't yet, go out and look at the sun. The luminous burst is captivating. And may you remember God as you think of the fusion present in your life. Peace.

Crying Out

In the midst of program renovations and personal struggles of daily balance, I had a delightful obligation thrust upon me. A personal appraisal report. Evaluating myself.

Let's be honest. I am not satisfied with how well I do my job, because I have such vivid delusions of utopia. I see beyond what I am doing wrong, identifying what I should ideally be accomplishing. Not just the ideal, but the unattainable. I wouldn't classify myself as being entirely naive, but I certainly do maintain an admirable amount of wide-eyed, born yesterday-ness in regards to my expectations. It is as if I'm subscribing to the cliche' "Shoot for the moon, because if you miss, you'll land among the stars" notion. Sigh. More like, "Shoot for the moon, and lasso that smugly deformed heavenly body and bring it down a couple levels". And, as we both know, I lack the Herculian power to wage a futile moonbattle. I can't even do the moonwalk.

It is both fair and unfair. Unfair that my student doesn't have a professional to work with. Unfair that I expect myself to fill the role of professional. Fair that I chose to do this job, and to do my best at it (and, even more confounding, was my eager willingness to do it). Fair that I should expect this to be more than a tantalizingly entertaining experiment in cultures and service and independence. Fair that I should be able to say I am failing to be an excellent teacher without necessarily saying that I am failing to serve in a Christian way.

So, I am sitting and chuckling at some of the finer points of my personal appraisal form. Dating from the start of my term, a year and a half ago, I am supposed to address which of my "responsibilities have proved most difficult during this period". My sarcastic muscles haven't been flexed for so long, and it is hard to force myself to answer seriously. My initial thoughts, though, were somewhere along these lines: Well, having no prior experience in education, and having majored in biology in college, I would say being thrust into the position of full-time educator and program coordinator for an individual who is deafblind has proved most difficult. A concise answer that blankets over the gamut of responsibilities that my job basically entails. Boils down to an equation. Most difficult thing= my job. But that sounds too horribly positive and upbeat for me to just leave it at that.

I am looking into things like transition planning for an 18-year old that still gets confused about responding to simple questions like, "What do you like to do?". By transition planning, I am think vocational options, communication strategies, and targeted activities for increased independence. I don't feel like I could put together that kind of portfolio for myself. And I am supposed to do it for Mohammed? I mean, why waste your time scratching out a thesis paper into firewood when you know you're gonna burn it anyway. Yeah, that pretty much sucks the hope out of the room, wraps in a neat bow, then tosses it into the all-too-familiarly unkempt squatty potty at my flat.

And yet here I am, delightfully scratching away with a dopey grin plastered across my face. Almost as if I have been duped into thinking that I am coloring a Spiderman poster. But there is a reason. And this reason happens to reside in the realm of sanity (research shows sane people hold more credibility than the insane, but I have my doubts). And my reason is that I am crying out. I'll keep forging onward, but I'll be screaming for help while I trudge on.

In Mark 10, Jesus encounters Bartimaeus. Bartimaeus, a labeled and recognizable outcast, is likely looked upon in both pity and condemnation. Pity for his blindness and poverty. Condemnation for the supposed sin which brought this condition upon him (who cares if it was even his sin, right?). But, he doesn't really care about that when he finds out Jesus is passing. Bartimaeus cries out. And is healed because of his faith.

I am not a spiritual figure coming into the life of disabled persons, healing them. I'm more like Bartimaeus. In some instances, though, I get to also be the advocate, standing next to Bartimaeus. And rather than judging, assuming, or pitying, I get to simply join in the act of crying out. Or, maybe just cry out because the person beside me doesn't know how to. That is more like what my job is.

And this question, on my appraisal report, was so good for me to reflect on. The question and reflection:

1. In what ways does the work you do parallel your understanding of MCC’s mission to help bring peace, justice and comfort to God’s children?

See Matthew 25:40 (...whatever you did for one of the least of these...you did for me.). In this context, a deafblind individual is perhaps very deserving of the title “least of these”. It isn't that such a designation is derogatory. I certainly do not intend it to be. But, to be multi-sensory deprived means to be inherently disconnected from the beginning. To be labeled in such a distinct way, then pitied and stigmatized and misunderstood. At age 18, Mohammed doesn't know how to ask questions. He doesn't know how to express his feelings, or have a normal conversation. He can't tie his shoes. He has never been given real control over his life. It is one thing to be blind Bartimaeus, crying out for Jesus. But, to not even understand how to cry out for help, or comprehend that people could respond to such a call: This takes social exclusion to a whole new level, bringing together a lack of empowerment, misconceptions, and unfathomably minute awareness of one's own potential.

Working so intimately with Mohammed isn't merely a matter of education. It is about elevating him out of the prison of prolonged ostracism. It is about informing people about him, and changing perceptions about individuals with disabilities. It is about reaching out to a culture that sometimes misinterprets what it means to be multi-sensory deprived. In doing this, I am not just bringing peace to one child. I am not just striving for justice for individuals who are deafblind. I am not just comforting Mohammed. I am reaching out to an entire community to break down barriers that are self-imposed, and are preventing some measures of peace, justice, and comfort for more than just the students I work with. It may merely be a pebble tossed into the ocean, but I hope to break the surface tension, disrupting placid waters with ripples of awareness, compassion, and advocacy. I think this aligns with what I interpret MCC's mission to be.

Which brings me to my final equation. Most difficult thing= My Job= Most awesome thing (you can figure out if this transitive relation applies to your life at your leisure). And that is why I do have a dopey grin, and a rather tired face, at 3:00am. Although I am still a little bitter that the appraisal form didn't address more of my strengths.......Beard Growing: 4= Examplary-- outstanding; exceeds expectations.

Peace.