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.

Looking to the Ocelot

I have pondered, for many years, what animal I would most like to be. To me, it seems a very relevant question. In virtually every conversation I have, I can imagine that the subject would come up, and it would be rather embarrassing to not have an answer loaded up. I mean, to simply say, "I have no idea what animal I would choose. That is a daft notion...being an animal." Well, it seems even more daft to not have pondered the thought. It is of tremendous importance.

Ocelot. I mean, for the purpose of small talk, I might sometimes go with newt as an icebreaker. Or platypus to garner adulation. Or even the yeti crab, to display sophistication and uniqueness. But ocelot, that is my most sincere answer.

The ocelot: Sleek. Solitary. Feline ferocity packed in a rather unimposing body. Intensely calm eyes. Pungent urine. Round ears. Lowest resting body temperature of in its family. At this point, you have probably forgotten that I was describing the ocelot, since it is so eerily similar to how you might describe me.

Which brings me to health concerns. I have had a relatively low resting body temperature for a while. Often below 97. Which doesn't indicate much, but it conveniently connects the animal talk with this paragraph. Also, and slightly more pressing, were the constant feelings of fatigue and drowsiness, accompanied by mild irritability. So, I went to the doctor and found out that I have low iron and vitamin D levels, which I suppose would explain my symptoms. If I actually were an ocelot, I would be eating more meat. Since I am not, I am settling for supplements. Woot for feeling slightly more healthy now!

Besides that, work has brought its unique challenges. I am continually discovering that I am much better at evaluation and analysis than I am at putting together a program. So, simple things like making a schedule that includes vocational opportunities, cooking skills, communication focuses, and recreation/leisure time just doesn't seem to come together. Maybe it isn't simple...but still, I have trouble conceiving of how to assemble it, and so it gets pushed back a week at a time.

I continue to feel like I am not doing enough for Mohammed, mostly because I am not active enough in communicating with him. Once communication starts to make sense, it will be a lot easier to explain concepts. Until then, we hit walls.

Still, we have our moments. At 18, Mohammed neither understands the how or the why of brushing his teeth. So, I am teaching him how to do it effectively. I am teaching him the Arabic words for brush, toothpaste, clean, teeth, mouth, towel. I am arguing with him over the tastiness of toothpaste, discussing the viability of the minty gel as a nutritional supplement (although in terms that I am sure he doesn't understand). I am getting into rather heated exchanges over the proper technique of spitting into the sink. I am hiding the toothpaste to get Mohammed to be inquisitive. To approach me and say, "Where is the toothpaste?". I wouldn't even mind if he would curse my name and tell me he is bored with my shenanigans. Mostly, he is just resolved to stand until I help him, or give him the answer.

So, I told him that this is important. I explained that he must do these things on his own, and have knowledge about why he needs to do them. It wasn't compelling. To raise the stakes, I asked him what he would do if I were dead. To illustrate, I simply snapped my neck down and became as corpse-like as possible. This, I should have known, sent Mohammed into an obnoxiously cheerful, uncontainable giggle fit. Perhaps the notion of me dying on the spot was humorous. Perhaps he thought it was quite silly to conceive of me not being around to hold him accountable and to teach him. Or, perhaps, he was actually convinced that I had indeed been smitten by the cold, indifferent hand of mortality, prompting a celebratory giddiness. Regardless, it didn't convey what I had hoped. So, we went back to work...

A couple days later, I decided to apply more pressure. As a part of his morning schedule, Mohammed makes his bed. So, in line with developing communication, I decided to leave everything in order so that there was no work to be done. The catch: Mohammed's pillow was conspicuously missing. He will need to initiate communication with me, and ask a question. So, he climbs his ladder, and realizes that this will be simple. Since we had just worked on asking the question "Where is....(object)?", with his braille schedule, I was convinced that M would ace this. Instead, he comes down and tells me, "there is nothing". I know what he is implying, and am also aware that this non-specific communication is usually sufficient enough to make it evident what he wants. So, I simply respond, "What isn't there?". He is baffled. Of course, it is so clear. He had just tapped the pillowless space on his bed, but why doesn't Brent seem to know. I just play dumb, and ask, "So....what do you want?".

All of the sudden, the kid is more nervous and agitated than I have ever seen him. Issuing heart wrenching vocalizations akin to wails from a torture chamber, he simply grabs my hands pulls them up, implying that this is the part where I end it. It hurts to see him so confused and clearly panicked, but I only help him remember the sign for "where". He starts to randomly ask things. He goes with "Where is under?", "Where is Annas (name of a student)?, "Where is the ladder?". I explain that his first question doesn't make much sense, that Annas is in school, and the ladder to his bed is right beside him. He firmly grabs my hands again, so I give him more options. Desk, chair, bed, backpack. He tries asking those things as well, and as I direct him to each one, he gets more desperate and exasperated. I am suffering as well, at this point. It is one of those things I don't want him to just repeat and memorize, I want him to UNDERSTAND. I want him to figure it out.

So, we keep going, and eventually find our way to a pillow. I ask him, "What is this?". He tells me it is Annas. I have to explain, then, that it is Annas's pillow, but it is not a part of Annas himself. Bing. Light goes on. The kid, with not much relief, finally asks me for the pillow. Specifically, he tells me he wants "Mohammed's pillow". With a huge grin, I tell him where he can find it. After retrieving it, I have to show my extreme pleasure with jumping and high-fives. Mohammed, though, is still not amused.

I hope, though, that when he finally figures out the power of asking questions, he will find it not only tremendously useful, but will become incessantly inquisitive. I, undoubtedly, will be happy about it. Until then, I will be happy with Mohammed for his willingness to endure the grueling interactions that stem from my insanely high expectations, as we work towards the moments of epiphanic awakening.

I will patiently wait for those moments, and then spring on them, with feline ferocity. Just like the ocelot. Peace.