Windows and Mirrors

The darkness of that night still creeps up on me. In those final moments, one cannot put together words to express gratitude for the experiences of 3 years. And so, my once fumbling hands move gracefully to simply sign blessings, make light of an intensely sad moment, and reassure that I shall "never forget". Hugs, handshakes, kisses on the cheek. My bags are ready. My tickets are ready. The truck is ready. But I am not.

I have no tears left to cry. For 2 months, they have been my lullaby, but their melody is extinguished tonight. I sit stoically and try to remember how to smile. Spontaneously, sound drops out of the air, and I feel it hit me hard though I cannot hear it. The truck begins to move, and though my body is in it, I remain stationary. I imagine that somehow, my atoms, molecules, cells, tissues have bonded to the school in Salt, Jordan. The affinity is too strong, and they tear away, holding a fragment of my self frozen and imprinted in that space and time.

The experience was similar to when young, deafblind Bashar died. Chronology implodes, a chaotic showering of past, present, and supposed future that bombards my hardly lucid mind. It is this shearing of the timeline that produces the multiplicity: Imprisoning me in that truck, jettisoning me on the paved school ground, and projecting my yet to be discovered self to an undetermined destination.

Past self waves goodbye to present self, and says, "Thank you. More is yet to come, keep moving."

Present self looks despairingly at past self. The past does not take advice.

My past spins the world underneath him, reveling in the blessings of years lived. Truly lived. No longer caring about the failures, the shortcomings, the inadequacies. He values the lessons, and can now see the beauty produced. My present pauses for a moment of tranquility. Growth over perfection. Faith over security.

And I drove away. Two and a half months later, I do feel that a significant part of me still lingers there in Salt. Daily, wisps return to me in exchange for other pieces. I am back in the US, adjusting to life here and the many differences from living in Jordan.

Most days, I feel I don't belong here. And it isn't because of the people. And it isn't because of my job. And it isn't because of the many familiar things that I am inexplicably estranged from, apart from. There isn't an external "because". I have returned, fundamentally changed by my experience abroad, which puts me on a different frequency than everything around me. Occasionally, I find a resonance that allows me to feel partially in-sync, but that feeling is fleeting. At best, I twist and contort to squeeze into the position that I used to occupy, but can no longer identify with.

So, Jordan gave me a window. And I looked out in awe, frustration, and appreciation. I could see much, and built the courage to venture out and live to an extent I had not know before. A life lived is a natural wonder. And now I am in the US, and I feel that all I have is a mirror. I look in and hardly recognize myself, as I am preoccupied with the view of what is behind me. But, each day it becomes easier to put down the mirror and step outside so that I can continue beyond a reflection, becoming a clarified image of the projection that I saw on that early morning in July when I left Jordan.

I am studying to get a M.Ed. in Special Education, but sometimes I am not sure that I am learning as much as I was learning in Jordan (but it is academic, which I am thankful for). I am working with kids with severe special needs, but most days I feel they are not in as much need as the children in Jordan. I have to learn a new sign language, find my way in the American education system, and get to know a new group of students, which tips the scale and negates much of the experience I had working with deafblind children in Jordan. This makes me feel less valuable, less effective, and utterly useless most of the time.

The reality is that I will never accomplish anything similar to what I did in Jordan. Mohammed, my son, you are the amazing student that any teacher wishes to have. To, for the first time in my life, meet a 17 year old congenitally deafblind boy that couldn't use language, count, read, spell, or make choices, then be given the freedom to spend 12 hours a day working with him. We did everything together. I saw him spell his first word. I saw him take numbers out of the classroom. I saw him read words, letter by letter. I saw him develop the language needed to ask questions and request help. I saw him pray with more conscientiousness than I ever use when I pray. And, a couple weeks before I left, I saw him help write a book about our 3 years together. I celebrated with him, as for the first time in life he could tell people that, "Today is July 11, it is my birthday, and I am 20 years old! This is my birthday party!". I don't think many teachers get to walk side by side with a student on such an incredible journey.

Even more, I was able to experience all these things in a community of people who had a very different culture, perspectives, and beliefs. And, over time, I formed relationships with them, came to love them, and made my home among them.

But, as I look in the mirror, I see that the vulnerability of my present reflection is very similar to that past self so far behind me. That past self that showed up at a school in Jordan to teach English, and ended up losing his hands under the hands of a deafblind friend. The circumstances are admittedly different, but the mindset need not be. I went to Jordan because I wanted to put aside the things I was comfortable with and allow God to work through me. To have faith that I could live for God, and that I could find a way to love and serve others without letting myself get in the way. Now, I have another opportunity for the same kind of faith to take hold. I don't yet know if I'll ever go back to Jordan, or how my experience there will continue to shape me. Will I remain a teacher, work on international development, or become a consultant? But faith allows me to carry on in the present, put down the mirror, and be content at having a projection that lacks clarity.

I thank God for the blessings of my time in Jordan. I thank all of you who supported me during that time, reading about my experiences and offering prayers. The time has come, though, for this blog to be concluded. I have decided that I will not continue to write as I encounter these new challenges in Boston during my study and continued work in special education. Perhaps this cessation will give me time to begin my book....I do not yet know.

Peace.

Reflection

As a part of my final Europe/Middle East regional retreat with MCC, I was honored to give a reflection on the work I have done over the past three years. This will be an approximation of that reflection (you might notice that I borrow the end from a previous blog post...).

When I signed up for the SALT program, I chose a placement with the following job description: Interest in working with, and nurturing creativity in Deaf children and young people aged 4-20 years. Willingness to help with leisure time and playground supervision duties and teach English.

This is not what I've been doing the past three years.

After studying Arabic for my first month in Amman, I moved to the Holy Land Institute for the Deaf, Salt, Jordan. I was excited to try out my limited phrases, like "Kiifak?", and then respond to the same with "Ilhamdulillah!". Instead, I was greeted by children, who (I then proceed to quickly sign a series of inquisitions that children normally ask) did this, and you, of course, know what all that means.

On my second day at the institute, I happened to meet Brother Andrew. Brother Andrew is the school's director, and is notoriously busy, sometimes taking weeks to respond to a single email. But on that day, he happened to have time to chat. After about an hour of talking, he had determined that he wanted me to work in the Deafblind Unit. I agreed (I mean, he is the director, has a nice beard, and is somewhat intimidating).

Now, it should be mentioned that before coming to Jordan, I spent the summer volunteering at camps. And while doing this, I came across a verse that has stuck with me ever since.

• Proverbs 3:5-6 - Love the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways, acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

I suppose I should have known better than to ask God to make my paths straight...look where I ended up. You might call it providence, the way I was operating on certain assumptions, and was led into a career unknowingly.

When talking about deafblindness, most people think of Helen Keller. Now, Helen Keller wasn't born deafblind. She became ill and lost her hearing and sight at about 18 months (those months were significant times of development). Mohammed was born deafblind, so I like to think he is just a little bit better than Helen Keller...

During my time working with Mohammed, we have done many things. When we began, he could not say when he wanted something. Respond to questions. Say how he's feeling. He's improved his communication in so many ways. Mohammed's legacy, though, will likely be learning Arabic. He is the first congenitally deafblind person (to my knowledge) in Jordan, and perhaps the Middle East, to learn a written language. Truly, he is Jordan's "Helen Keller". When we began working on it, we were told many times that it was a futile effort. That he would never understand. That we were wasting time on something too complex.

I am stubborn, to a fault. So we kept plugging away. The door, fingerspelling "B-A-B" (in Arabic, of course). Father, "B-A-B-A". Brent, "B-R-N-T". Again and again.

Months later (and this might reveal something about my character, as I secretly reveled in the sweet taste of "I told you so"), a teacher came to me. She explained that Mohammed had gone to all the teachers and fingerspelled their names, one by one. Awesome. And I just sat there nodding, knowingly, that he could do it all along.

I have also seen Mohammed grow as a person, especially into his sense of humor. There are too many instances to count, or remember for that matter. Here are a few:

1. Mohammed has a job, and he works for a small salary at the school. Occasionally we'll go out and buy a Pepsi. I like to tease him, so I'll go up and prod him, saying, "Thank you so much for buying me a Pepsi." Smiling, he'll shoot back, "You've had enough, thanks be to God. This is mine!".
2. Mohammed met a teacher in passing, and she reminded him about the upcoming 10 days of vacation. He doesn't even really acknowledge her, dismissively saying, "Wrong." As I prepare to intervene (specifically to remind him to converse politely), he continues with a grin, "...I'm going home for 11 days vacation."

Not only has his personality blossomed, but I have seen him grow into a young man I am proud of. Before flying to retreat, Mohammed and I had spent a week in turmoil. He did not want to focus in school, so I decided we'd scrap school and spend the week doing cleaning jobs to see if that might change his attitude. So, on Thursday morning, I stopped in to say bye, and turned to leave. Despite the week's events, Mohammed was quick to grab my arm and turn me around. Brazenly, he says, "First, we make peace and kiss cheeks." I should have known. I should have remembered, but Mohammed was the one teaching lessons that day.

We have toiled through failure to find our way to success. But there have been many success, and much learning. Mohammed has taught me much. Much about relationships. Much about grace and forgiveness. Much about humility. Much about unconditional love. He has shown me that we are never characterized by disability. Or by what we are unable to do. We are characterized by our abilities. His life gives me courage to read Proverbs, and be challenged to love the Lord with all my heart, and lean not on my own understanding. In all my way, to acknowledge, knowing that he will make my paths straight.

Through the opportunity that was placed in front of me, I have been lucky enough to see God's hand in much of what I do with my own hands, as well as the hands of my student. To be blessed with innumerable opportunities to learn. To have had such a wonderful experience that I did nothing to deserve. I will never find another student like Mohammed, but as I move on, I will do so with faith that God will continue to guide me on this path.

At the end, I requested we sing #545, Be Thou My Vision. It was wonderful.

On a recent field trip, we climbed trees, bought Pepsi, and hiked all over Roman ruins.

Together with some deaf students at my surprise birthday party.

Some might think I have enjoyed my years in Jordan, or that it has significantly changed me. Dare I say it, they might be on to something. Peace.

We Do Great Things

It hasn't been a sprint or a stand-still. Two and a half years has neither dragged nor flown. The days have marched by diligently. They scarcely know of any other option, and I have doubts that days are even self-aware. Then again, I can't say I've ever really gotten to know them individually. I usually only spend 24 hours with one before moving on to the next. I hope that doesn't make me shallow. Yeah, I've got jokes.

I wish that I could remember each day individually, but my brain does not operate with such sequential efficiency. I retain days here and there. I remember the first day that I came to the Holy Land Institute for the Deaf (which I believe was September 11, 2009, and was a day that profoundly changed the course which my life would take). I remember the many days that co-workers have reminded me that THEY remember the first day that I came to the HLID. I remember November 27, 2011, as a day that a beloved student passed away. I remember the day that I went home and just collapsed on the floor, praying for a bit more wisdom, strength, and patience. I remember the day Mohammed first correctly used numbers to convey how many falafel he wanted to eat. I remember the day I told my mother I was extending my term. I remember the day that I figured out my student didn't understand the idea of expressive communication. I remember the day I came to the school to check email, and found out that I'd been accepted into the M.Ed. program at Boston College's Lynch School of Education.

There have been many isolated events, ranging over the entire emotional spectrum. I've been furious. I've been elated. I've been content. I've been displeased and recalcitrant (+15 point combo). I've been thankful. I've been ungrateful. Each day is great, but also unpredictable due to my conscious and subconscious responses to the day's events.

One predictable element of each day, though, has been the opportunity to learn. I am not always intentional in the ways that I engage these opportunities. Still, passive learning finds a way to take each day an instill within me new ideas, new understandings. To opportunity to learn: This is a blessing.

MCC's SALT program is aptly named. Serving And Learning Together. The need to learn is too often undervalued, as service has such wonderful and perhaps more tangible results. Especially as an American, I had a sense of privilege, which promoted a sense of obligation to bestow a better quality of life upon those I encountered. This is dangerous, though, as being privileged can also imply that the people I would encountered were in need. In need of the things that made me privileged. Money. Education. Certain freedoms. Technology. And so forth.

Without learning, service begets pity and imbues a sense of self-sacrifice. "Yes, I help an utterly incapable young man. He really is quite unable to do most things on his own, and I have sacrificed a comfortable life to take care of him. Indeed, I am owed admiration for such selflessness and commitment. I should be acknowledged and supported in every way, as I could certainly have chosen an easier life."

With learning, service changes perspective and unifies us. "Yes, I work daily with a wonderful young man, whose stubbornness and humor rival my own. He really is quite capable when recognized, supported, and respected, much like myself. No, I don't think that life could be much better than this, regardless of cultural or vocational circumstances. It is a blessing to be able to work with him, and I hardly feel like the title of "service worker" is accurate. He has taught me very much, and I am better for it. Together, we do great things."

Through the opportunity that was placed in front of me, I have been lucky enough to see God's hand in much of what I do with my own hands, as well as the hands of my student. To be blessed with innumerable opportunities to learn. To have had such a wonderful experience that I did nothing to deserve, much in the same way I am loved unconditionally.

With only a few months left in my term, it is only slightly terrifying to think of moving on. Yet, I think that a commitment to continue living in a specific way, with a focus on loving and serving others in accordance with my faith, will provide many more opportunities. Opportunities to have my perspective changed and to be unified with others in myriad ways, all the while learning. I feel like I am in "Remember the Titans" when I say, "You can't replace a Mohammed." And it is true, I will never find another like him. But there will be others. And if I can continue to live out my faith, I will meet them, and learn from them. Together. We do great things. Peace.

Striking the Rock

There lies within me an affinity for incredible success. As much as I'd like to say I am quietly unassuming, there is a boldness that yearns for a title. The Best. The Amazing. The Brilliant. It is a driving voice that provides fervor, a maniacal pursuit of goals that are glaringly improbable. For those of you who think I am humble, you are not aware of the arrogance that I try to suppress. Not "in your face" arrogance, but more of a "I'm sure you think your idea will really help me" arrogance.

And for each success, I build add a little bit of idolatry to my life. I wouldn't be remotely surprised to find that, during a fMRI, while describing the things I've accomplished, brilliant yellow lights show up in the frontal lobe in a form resembling a golden calf. (I should note that I actually would be very surprised if this did happen, because that would be an incredible coincidence.) Pondering and acknowledging the many events and people, both past and present, that have influenced me is a decent way to alleviate the problem.

But I revert. When I am tired. When I am anxious. When my vision is clouded. I think, "I can do this." And I list off all the things I HAVE done.

Moses, having wandered the Sinai for many years, had a fair share of trials. "Moses, we were better off in Egypt." "Moses, I'm thirsty." "Moses, are we there yet?" "Moses, there's a rock in my sandal." The emotional and psychological burden, as well as the matters of faith...I can scarcely imagine the stress, or how I would have found a way to cope. After all, I get a twitch in my eye just from a little sleep deprivation...

And yet, Moses did it with incredible grace and humility. This is not the part of Moses that I identify with. It was the second time that Moses spoke with God, to produce water for the Israelites, that resonates with me. The moment when Moses, in anger and frustration, loses his composure. He HAS done this before. He HAS produced water from a rock. Standing indignantly, overwhelmed and feeling unrecognized, he strikes the rock. He doesn't command water from it. He strikes it. Not once but twice. "...must we bring you water out of this rock..."

With more tact than Kanye, God's like, "Yo Moses, Imma let you finish, but...you aren't going to enter the promised land." Who gives water? The hand of Moses, or the hand of God? How often do I speak out of turn, claiming a success in my name?

I HAVE taught this student. I HAVE become an expert. I HAVE given years of service.

Without God, could I have? My fervor, anger, and indignation produced success? I lower my head, and ask that the golden calf be excised. And if you don't mind, God, don't make it hurt too much. Perhaps something non-invasive? I am bald, and a scar really wouldn't suit me.

But it does hurt. Recognizing how much I rely on myself everyday without praying for guidance. In the back of my head, perhaps buried underneath worldly idols, I do know. I know that it was providence that brought me here. That God had molded me, as his beloved, to do something I couldn't fathom. That God's love, patience, and grace existed in me because God chose me (and you too). And those qualities have opened doors for success. But it was not me, and me alone.

Humility, and the will to listen. I hope for faith that allows me to no longer strike the rock. Peace.

Taking On More

It is often with many reservations, and even more apprehension, that I imagine systematic change required for deafblind education and advocacy to thrive in the Middle East. I cannot help but to constantly grapple with many factors, including educational systems, cultural barriers, and established (read: entrenched) methods for interaction with individuals who are deafblind. Admittedly, these are formidable foes for a person wanting to enact sustainable change.

And yet I am that person. And I have these foes. I am an unusually stubborn individual.

Still, I am cynical (at times), and often shy away from unnecessarily lofty goals. So, how does this one American volunteer, who has devoted several years to becoming a student and expert in deafblindness, find ways to make lasting impressions that will extend beyond his term? Well, I can specifically remember a time when I was thrown in the fire...

Two and a half years ago, a naive 23 year old waltzed into Jordan and deafblind education like it was a Tuesday night game of dunkball. And as you all know, dunkball isn't about honing the precision marksmanship of the deep threat. You just lower your head, take off, try to get friendly with the rim. Having some talent helps, but a cunning court sense lets you know the important moments to pick your battles.

In the field of deafblindness, I have been blessed with better court sense than I experienced in my basketball years. I am still naive, apparently, and have voluntarily thrown myself into the fire this time.

1) Training students- There is a core group of deaf students that act as peers for the deafblind unit, helping in many ways. These children have received no practical information about deafblindness. Perhaps I am being overly critical, but I believe this to be a problem. I mean, this is a specialized field. I am fairly trusting, but similarly, I would not want a layman to remove my appendix if he was operating purely on goodwill, caution, and attentiveness (unless he was highly recommended).

Every day, following school hours with Mohammed, I now head over to the deafblind unit to try to model concepts for the students, followed by a formal lesson. To give you an idea, I will describe one of the first lessons. It began with choosing a deaf student to be blindfolded (essentially becoming deafblind). That student was then led to another room, then given no prompts or instructions, but simply told to sit down. I am a devious fellow, and I was already transformed, cackling at my own perceived genius. The giddy students quite enjoyed seeing that I had concocted some sort of interesting illustration, though none could guess my intention. As the rest of us talked about sensory deprivation, and the many ways it impacts a person's ability to access information (or even to have neurological stimulation), the singular student was left to sit in the suffocating darkness and isolation of deafblindness. It only took a few minutes for that alarming deprivation to produce observable changes in behavior. With the remaining distance sense removed, what does one do to be stimulated? Often a self-stimulatory behavior takes hold, and this student only needed 5 minutes to start playing with his/her hearing aid, flicking it again and again. This kind of behavior is often viewed as inappropriate, and forcefully stopped, but here we had a well-behaved student unknowingly resorting to self-stimulation very similar to the "inappropriate" actions of the students in the deafblind unit. As I pointed this out, jaws were dropping left and right. Cleaning up dropped jaws is a messy task, so we went to talk more about the issue of self-stimulation, and how to intervene to provide stimulation which promotes interaction with other persons and the external world. Debriefing is fun, but each day there still remains a gaping hole between the information presented and the manner with which we can apply the many ideas and techniques.

2) Training a family- Mohammed has advanced in communication far beyond his family's competencies. As I am the one for this job as well. Not only an "expert" (ha) in deafblindness, but an expert in Mohammed's communication modes, this was a no-brainer...except that I would need to have some sense of Jordanian and Muslim culture, and also rely on Arabic as a primary channel of communication. Not so easy.

Like I said, I'm stubborn (though not particularly brave). I finally just told Mohammed's family that I was going to make a sign-language course for them to help them communicate with Mohammed. I wasn't going to take no for an answer, and I am very familiar with the Arabic word for "important". So I put together the details and we have begun this disjointed journey. They are amazingly welcoming and supportive of my efforts, and I have trouble expressing my gratitude.

I try to be understanding and sensitive to the fact that it must be tremendously frustrating to not only lack the skills to communicate with your son, but possibly embarrassing and painful to see someone else do it so effortlessly. So, it is with patience and much encouragement that we will continue on with these lessons. I am not in short supply of fervor. Besides, there is hardly an equal feeling to seeing the joy in a mother's eyes when she, for the first time, sees her son deftly respond to the question, "What is your name?", as he fingerspells with confidence. Awesome.

3) Training a replacement- This, I haven't yet begun. This will be the one that will give me the most fits. It is not arrogance, but rather reality, that prompts me to point out that there is scarcely an individual who can offer the same time commitment as a young, single, dedicated and passionate volunteer, who has few obligations beyond fulfilling the role of educator and servant. I have molded a program for an individual who I love very much, and this has led to 12-hour days being the norm. In my mind, even such an intensive program doesn't provide for all of the educational needs of this young man. It will be with much pain that I accept that my model will not be sustainable in the future. Yet, I will do my best to put together a proper transitional plan for my student.

As I take on more responsibilities, I am dedicating myself to continue to love my work. And eventually I'll find time to write some more humorous, light-hearted accounts of my daily life. In the meantime, I'll have plenty on my plate to keep me busy...

Peace.