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.