I will attempt to elaborate on the complexity. Same. Different. No doubt, you think it is simple. You can tell the difference between socks and a shirt. If you can't, you probably have separate drawers, to ensure that you won't stumble into such a wardrobic mishap. You identify the simple, distinguishing characteristics of dirt and chocolate. Without that distinction, your friends will be much less satisfied when you sneak a pocketful of soil into a movie theater and proceed to hand out your "treats". You know that the blade of a butter knife slides safely upon your skin, and that a Miracle Blade does not so considerately discern the difference between digits and delectable treats. Maybe you weren't previously aware of that either, and are currently giving a thumbs down....sans thumb.
There are all sorts of stark contrasts in the continuum of same/different. But, it gets much more complicated when I give you four balls. A baseball. A football. A basketball. And a golf ball. I ask you which one is different. You say baseball. You're wrong. Unless, of course, you picked under that assumption that the baseball is different simply because I have never played baseball. You say football. Wrong again....unless the criteria was to choose the ball that is not spherical. Basketball. Another demerit. Maybe your rationale is that it is the biggest, and that sets it apart. You choose the golf ball. That's for strokes, all wrong, which puts you at par. I guess you might have chose it since it isn't used for a team sport.
Differences and similarities span a broad spectrum. And to classify things, you have to both know the criteria, as well as be able to accurately identify the qualities. So, my student has long been assumed to understand the same/different concept. Then, I braille a card game for him. I'm excited to teach him his first game. So, I tell him, based on the card that is on the pile, you can either play the same suit or the same number. He reads all his cards, then chooses at random. I implore him to reconsider. He won't budge. I ask him why he played that card. And, as I look at the two of hearts on top of the five of spades, he says, "They're the same suit." I give him each sign, which are clearly different, and tell him to try again. When he finally produces an acceptable card, I have him read each suit, and say, "THESE are the same."
Several hundred hands later, he is still not grasping it. And it dawns on me. To him, the concepts of same and different, no matter how many times presented, have been developed as invisible classifications. Classifications to be memorized in every context. And card playing is a new context, providing unknown divisions that he thinks he is simply supposed to memorize every combination. Which, I think he is trying to do. It isn't that he thinks he plays a heart, when a heart is on the table. He, quite possibly, tries to memorize that the last time a two of hearts was down, he was supposed to play a four of hearts. That is insane memorization, rather than thinking and classification.
It would be like me asking you, "What is the difference between a desk and a painting?" You would, undoubtedly, think I am telling a lame joke. But, what if I was asking you to actually pinpoint some existential quality. One thing. How would you answer that? Can you imagine having developed, over 18 years of your life, without actually being able cognitively process the way that you do? I certainly can't. But, I am trying. Mohammed and I are trying, to develop these skills. So simple, but so necessary. So essential. And I take each task, one day at a time. Hoping that they will build. That I'll make progress.
Recently, I was asked by a pastor about if it is worth it for MCC to invest an entire service worker position into a one-on-one student-teacher relationship. When I look that the quality of life that Mohammed is capable of achieving, I see that he needs this kind of interaction to get there. And, I cannot help but think of Matthew 25:40, when I think of my work. In this community, and culture, Mohammed is often mistakenly identified as being one of the "least". In my eyes, his value is quite surely found in the kingdom of heaven. So, in short, yes. It is worth it.
Here is a link to an article that I recently wrote for an MCC publication (if you aren't tired of reading already): A Common Place- Touching the World (You can download a PDF version at the bottom, which has some pictures showing me communicating with Mohammed.)
Peace.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Baseline
I miss running 10-in-60's on the basketball court. Visiting the opposite baseline every 5 or so seconds, then exhaustively engaging in playful banter, such as, "See you later," before darting to the other end. It is grueling, and definitely not fun, but I miss it.
The baseline is where you start. The baseline is where you finish. But no one makes a delicate approach when the sprints are finishing. You always overshoot. If it is a dead stop on the baseline, it doesn't feel like you actually made it. The baseline is where you finish, but it isn't that simple. A line is soft. One-dimensional. Very unimposing. The baseline holds stark contrast to every other line on the court. It is a wall. When you finish that last length, you lower your head and you assault the formless barrier which is so imposing. If you walk it in, you'll know that you didn't really breach the baseline. You just folded under it.
Now, if any of the KU basketball players were on my reading list, I feel like I would have relevant things to tell them about their baselines. Despite my repeated attempts, though, it seems they are not interested in letting a former NAIA D-II one-year varsity off-the-bench senior become their mentor (talking to you, Josh Selby). So, I'll adjust my pep-talk accordingly. (coincidentally, if you have Selby's email on hand, maybe you could forward it...)
I had little business becoming a deafblind educator. Indeed, professional deafblind educators probably scoff (nay, guffaw) at the proximity of my name to the classification. I am increasingly aligned with their sentiments. Still, when one enters the field of deafblind education, there are (for the most confounding of reasons) inevitably some parallels drawn between "one who administers education" and "an educator", as if the two are in any way similar.
So, as I have fumbled about, meandering along in my prolonged educatorial (smooth word) debut, I have tried to find my baseline. I find the experience akin to what I imagine it would be like to, overnight, be made aware that for no reason other than availability I had been given the nod to start for a revived Seattle Supersonics franchise. Then, while averaging a modest 1.1 ppg, 0.3 apg, 0.4 rpg in 38.6 mpg, and a tremendous assist-to-turnover ratio of 1.0: 38.5, retaining status as team captain and having carte blanche through an entire season. Then, to my surprise, winning MVP as the architect and floor general of the league's first, and very cavalier, 0-82 debacle of a campaign.
You look at the numbers. You look at the situation. And none of it adds up. That is how I feel in my job. Lack of experience and skill, poor performance, and excessive amounts of recognition and praise.
So, in the midst of this, I have looked for the baseline that I hold myself accountable to. And while I get better at my job, I begin to recognize an ever expansive set of needs. A deafblind young man, needing guidance in communication, independence, social relationships. Everyday I see new things to work on, without conquering the old obstacles. I am enveloped by it, while it simultaneously expands beyond me. It isn't static, nor do I know where to begin, or what the end would even look like. This baseline doesn't play by basketball's rules. So, at the epicenter of the this perceivably inflating responsibility, I am foundering and lacking direction.
My disadvantage, though, is that I didn't start this job with any point of reference. I was just thrown in. And now, a year and 3 months later, I am finally realizing that having goals is not the same as having direction. I can have the goal of reaching that baseline, and be sprinting with great fervor, but am probably running parallel to it. Good way to get burnt out. I want to stop, turn, and actually cross it. To not only know the goal, but to know the direction.
I am praying for direction, so that progress becomes meaningful rather than redundant. So, in Matthew 18:11, when it says, "For the Son of Man has come to save that which was lost." I feel like I could use some of that. Plus (no blasphemy intended), it provides a good basketball visual, with an mop-top, sweat-drenched, tube sock wearing, headband sporting Jesus diving across the baseline to save the ball which I so careless bounced off my foot. I can relate to that. I want my life to reflect gratitude and faithfulness for that sacrifice. Peace.
The baseline is where you start. The baseline is where you finish. But no one makes a delicate approach when the sprints are finishing. You always overshoot. If it is a dead stop on the baseline, it doesn't feel like you actually made it. The baseline is where you finish, but it isn't that simple. A line is soft. One-dimensional. Very unimposing. The baseline holds stark contrast to every other line on the court. It is a wall. When you finish that last length, you lower your head and you assault the formless barrier which is so imposing. If you walk it in, you'll know that you didn't really breach the baseline. You just folded under it.
Now, if any of the KU basketball players were on my reading list, I feel like I would have relevant things to tell them about their baselines. Despite my repeated attempts, though, it seems they are not interested in letting a former NAIA D-II one-year varsity off-the-bench senior become their mentor (talking to you, Josh Selby). So, I'll adjust my pep-talk accordingly. (coincidentally, if you have Selby's email on hand, maybe you could forward it...)
I had little business becoming a deafblind educator. Indeed, professional deafblind educators probably scoff (nay, guffaw) at the proximity of my name to the classification. I am increasingly aligned with their sentiments. Still, when one enters the field of deafblind education, there are (for the most confounding of reasons) inevitably some parallels drawn between "one who administers education" and "an educator", as if the two are in any way similar.
So, as I have fumbled about, meandering along in my prolonged educatorial (smooth word) debut, I have tried to find my baseline. I find the experience akin to what I imagine it would be like to, overnight, be made aware that for no reason other than availability I had been given the nod to start for a revived Seattle Supersonics franchise. Then, while averaging a modest 1.1 ppg, 0.3 apg, 0.4 rpg in 38.6 mpg, and a tremendous assist-to-turnover ratio of 1.0: 38.5, retaining status as team captain and having carte blanche through an entire season. Then, to my surprise, winning MVP as the architect and floor general of the league's first, and very cavalier, 0-82 debacle of a campaign.
You look at the numbers. You look at the situation. And none of it adds up. That is how I feel in my job. Lack of experience and skill, poor performance, and excessive amounts of recognition and praise.
So, in the midst of this, I have looked for the baseline that I hold myself accountable to. And while I get better at my job, I begin to recognize an ever expansive set of needs. A deafblind young man, needing guidance in communication, independence, social relationships. Everyday I see new things to work on, without conquering the old obstacles. I am enveloped by it, while it simultaneously expands beyond me. It isn't static, nor do I know where to begin, or what the end would even look like. This baseline doesn't play by basketball's rules. So, at the epicenter of the this perceivably inflating responsibility, I am foundering and lacking direction.
My disadvantage, though, is that I didn't start this job with any point of reference. I was just thrown in. And now, a year and 3 months later, I am finally realizing that having goals is not the same as having direction. I can have the goal of reaching that baseline, and be sprinting with great fervor, but am probably running parallel to it. Good way to get burnt out. I want to stop, turn, and actually cross it. To not only know the goal, but to know the direction.
I am praying for direction, so that progress becomes meaningful rather than redundant. So, in Matthew 18:11, when it says, "For the Son of Man has come to save that which was lost." I feel like I could use some of that. Plus (no blasphemy intended), it provides a good basketball visual, with an mop-top, sweat-drenched, tube sock wearing, headband sporting Jesus diving across the baseline to save the ball which I so careless bounced off my foot. I can relate to that. I want my life to reflect gratitude and faithfulness for that sacrifice. Peace.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Winsomnia
I am usually fairly positive, and I think that adding a "w" to insomnia makes it sound lot better. I mean, who doesn't enjoy mental exhaustion and sleepiness, almost every day, for more than 5 weeks? Who doesn't respond with elation when waking up at 3am is seemingly programmed into the body's sleep schedule? Who doesn't relish the relative impatience, lowered thresholds for outcropping of frustrations, and less than pleasant expressions plastered across their faces as tiredness takes its toll?
I have enjoyed, at times, the constant challenge of overcoming this obstacle. For the most part, it is much more draining than the lack of sleep itself. And I rarely overcome it. At best, I feel like I am operating at about 50% efficiency. Quite literally, I can count on one hand the number of days that I have felt like myself during my work day, being patient and thoughtful (It should be noted, though, that I have a normal number of digits on my hand. If I had 30 fingers, then it would be much less impressive to say such a thing...). It feels somewhat disappointing to really enjoy what I do, but to have so many breakdowns. Falling asleep in the middle of helping Mohammed spell a word in Arabic. Being inexplicably irritable, and criticizing rather than facilitating and helping. Committing to going to bed before 9pm, then waking up at midnight, 2am, and 6am.
The contrast is starkly remarkable. Tired day: I asked Mohammed a question. He did not answer, but rather mirrored my signs back to me. I quickly informed him of his lack of an answer, and the insufficiency of his response. I then allowed him time to think, but mostly struggle to identify where he went wrong. I then tell him he needs to work, and not be lazy, and that I am not satisfied with his studying.
One of my few not-tired days: I asked Mohammed a question. He did not answer. I gave him two possibilities, based on a recent exercise during a classroom session. He gave an answer, without understanding it. I had asked "How is school? Do you like it or do you not like it?". He responded, "I like school." He doesn't understand the meaning, though. This is his "program", not expressing anything, but rather reeling off a trained response learned by rote. So, I move on. I say, "How is (blank)? Do you like it or not like it?". I give him several items he likes to let him build confidence in his answer, affirming him. Then, I ask about exercise. He gives the same response "I like". 70 push-ups later, he is exhausted. Does he still like exercise, in this moment? No. Not remotely. And he is starting to make a connection, but doesn't know what to do, so when I ask him a final time, "Do you like exercise or do you not like exercise?", it is with exasperation that he says, "I don't know." He didn't even know that he could express it, even though he is perfectly capable of using the sign, "I don't like". I had to illustrate it for him. And then, suddenly, he was on the "don't like" bandwagon. So, when I asked him about his shirt and his pants he thought the answer was clear, but he was suddenly confused once again, because as I responded (in the middle of a room full of people) "if you don't like your clothes, let's get them off", he knew something was clearly wrong. As he frantically fought off my hands, while simultaneously bursting out in nervous laughter, a connection was being made. "Like" and "not like" are more than classifications. It isn't just about repeating "I like school", or "I love mama" or "I want to eat". There is meaning, and the meaning is expressive. In addition, he is allowed to express his feelings, and others can actually understand it. Not that he has suddenly mastered expressive communication, but he is moving towards awareness of it.
Ummm....which day sounded better? It is kind of like this: I tell you I'm having a party. I give the you the day and the time. You show up. I say, "Hey, it's a party". Then I get you a glass of water, make up a word like "firgled", and then tell you about my hopes for KU basketball this year. You might have a really good time, watching me fill your glass with unfettered excitement. No doubt you giggled at "firgled". If you like KU, you might feel engaged...but it all depends on if you equate boring with exciting. Or. I tell you I'm having a party. You show up and I have a Moonwalk (you know, the awesome inflatable bouncy house). I made fresh fruit cocktails. A KU game is actually on. There are fireworks, and maybe even an amateur wizard is present for all sorts of magical shenanigans. That's a party. For me, both days involve work, but only one has a lot of work being done.
Through all the tired days, we have still made progress. I wish to make much more progress though, and a not-tired day is usually ends with me entertaining other aspirations, like starting self-taught parkour around the campus. I like when I have the energy to do that. For now, I suppose I have to be thankful for the not-tired days when they come, and hope that the insomnia subsides. In the meantime, I guess I'll keep pushing myself to be accountable to the weariness. To be aware, and focus everything I have into accomplishing the same goals, no matter my energy level.
If it wasn't lack of quality sleep, it would certainly be something else influencing my work day. Thankfully, sleeplessness is easy to recognize, and helps me to be critical about how I conduct myself in the classroom. Hopefully, it will help me develop better habits as a teacher, which is definitely more of a blessing than a curse. And, in the end, everyone wins. Hence, winsomnia. Peace.
I have enjoyed, at times, the constant challenge of overcoming this obstacle. For the most part, it is much more draining than the lack of sleep itself. And I rarely overcome it. At best, I feel like I am operating at about 50% efficiency. Quite literally, I can count on one hand the number of days that I have felt like myself during my work day, being patient and thoughtful (It should be noted, though, that I have a normal number of digits on my hand. If I had 30 fingers, then it would be much less impressive to say such a thing...). It feels somewhat disappointing to really enjoy what I do, but to have so many breakdowns. Falling asleep in the middle of helping Mohammed spell a word in Arabic. Being inexplicably irritable, and criticizing rather than facilitating and helping. Committing to going to bed before 9pm, then waking up at midnight, 2am, and 6am.
The contrast is starkly remarkable. Tired day: I asked Mohammed a question. He did not answer, but rather mirrored my signs back to me. I quickly informed him of his lack of an answer, and the insufficiency of his response. I then allowed him time to think, but mostly struggle to identify where he went wrong. I then tell him he needs to work, and not be lazy, and that I am not satisfied with his studying.
One of my few not-tired days: I asked Mohammed a question. He did not answer. I gave him two possibilities, based on a recent exercise during a classroom session. He gave an answer, without understanding it. I had asked "How is school? Do you like it or do you not like it?". He responded, "I like school." He doesn't understand the meaning, though. This is his "program", not expressing anything, but rather reeling off a trained response learned by rote. So, I move on. I say, "How is (blank)? Do you like it or not like it?". I give him several items he likes to let him build confidence in his answer, affirming him. Then, I ask about exercise. He gives the same response "I like". 70 push-ups later, he is exhausted. Does he still like exercise, in this moment? No. Not remotely. And he is starting to make a connection, but doesn't know what to do, so when I ask him a final time, "Do you like exercise or do you not like exercise?", it is with exasperation that he says, "I don't know." He didn't even know that he could express it, even though he is perfectly capable of using the sign, "I don't like". I had to illustrate it for him. And then, suddenly, he was on the "don't like" bandwagon. So, when I asked him about his shirt and his pants he thought the answer was clear, but he was suddenly confused once again, because as I responded (in the middle of a room full of people) "if you don't like your clothes, let's get them off", he knew something was clearly wrong. As he frantically fought off my hands, while simultaneously bursting out in nervous laughter, a connection was being made. "Like" and "not like" are more than classifications. It isn't just about repeating "I like school", or "I love mama" or "I want to eat". There is meaning, and the meaning is expressive. In addition, he is allowed to express his feelings, and others can actually understand it. Not that he has suddenly mastered expressive communication, but he is moving towards awareness of it.
Ummm....which day sounded better? It is kind of like this: I tell you I'm having a party. I give the you the day and the time. You show up. I say, "Hey, it's a party". Then I get you a glass of water, make up a word like "firgled", and then tell you about my hopes for KU basketball this year. You might have a really good time, watching me fill your glass with unfettered excitement. No doubt you giggled at "firgled". If you like KU, you might feel engaged...but it all depends on if you equate boring with exciting. Or. I tell you I'm having a party. You show up and I have a Moonwalk (you know, the awesome inflatable bouncy house). I made fresh fruit cocktails. A KU game is actually on. There are fireworks, and maybe even an amateur wizard is present for all sorts of magical shenanigans. That's a party. For me, both days involve work, but only one has a lot of work being done.
Through all the tired days, we have still made progress. I wish to make much more progress though, and a not-tired day is usually ends with me entertaining other aspirations, like starting self-taught parkour around the campus. I like when I have the energy to do that. For now, I suppose I have to be thankful for the not-tired days when they come, and hope that the insomnia subsides. In the meantime, I guess I'll keep pushing myself to be accountable to the weariness. To be aware, and focus everything I have into accomplishing the same goals, no matter my energy level.
If it wasn't lack of quality sleep, it would certainly be something else influencing my work day. Thankfully, sleeplessness is easy to recognize, and helps me to be critical about how I conduct myself in the classroom. Hopefully, it will help me develop better habits as a teacher, which is definitely more of a blessing than a curse. And, in the end, everyone wins. Hence, winsomnia. Peace.
Friday, October 15, 2010
I Like Elixirs
Sometimes, I just choose a blog title, then actually try to relate the content to the chosen title. I don't think this one will work.
I have been slightly overwhelmed by looming responsibilities, most of which I haven't the slightest notion of how to approach. This pertains, quite specifically, to doing my job. I have before me the task of unifying goals for the next year within a comprehensive curriculum. I even have activities, and plenty of resources. But actually putting it all together may take weeks, even months. In the meantime, I am simply trying to integrate new things as they are produced. Which has been somewhat less than successful. I tend to lazily shift blame to my student, accusing him of lacking motivation. The precision of my job, though, actually requires me to make the learning process as successful as possible. Instead, I often make it quite difficult, and boring.
I look forward to learning from my continued failure to bring energy and excitement into education. Still, it is often hard to play it entirely off the cuff. There is usually uncertainty that accompanies each attempt, and it becomes really difficult when most methods have an implied question mark attached. A question mark changes everything. A question mark changes everything?
There has been some success in continually narrowing down my methods (basic process of elimination), which gives me hope. I am also finding new ways to motivate. I find push-ups are a perennial powerhouse of motivation. When Mohammed had been refusing to focus on reading the braille in front of him, and I told him to do some push-ups in order to "wake-up". I was quite amused when he asked to be punished with a time-out instead. I forcefully said no.
Still, all things considered, I don't take much notice of the things I should be tremendous leaps and momentous milestones. The actual progress that has been made. With a month of Arabic, followed by several months of summer holiday, and then 3 weeks since I have been back, Mohammed has developed a significant vocabulary. I often scoff at the simple knowledge of words like "food", "car", "bathroom", and even just having a recollection of the names of people he works with. But, 5 months ago, Mohammed didn't even know that Arabic existed. He didn't know there were such things as "letters". Words were anomalies, somehow connected to bumps on a page. None of it made sense, and it was all a monotonous sequence. Now, it is still repetition, but he is accumulating the awareness that is needed. It all feels normal to me, unless I actually evaluate it. It is truly incredible.
More than 8 months ago, I was scoffed at for trying to teach Mohammed how to sign the numbers 1-6. It was perceived as being useless, a waste of time on an impossible endeavor. Now, several months later, Mohammed is fingerspelling and brailling the names of the teachers that doubted he could manipulate his index finger independently to signal the number one. Perhaps this is his ever so subtle way of metaphorically manipulating his middle finger...nevermind. And I get to sit back and feel blessed by his success (and it is his, not mine). With tactful arrogance, I just let his brilliance communicate to others what I have been thinking all along the way, which is, "How about them apples?" I am by no means venerable, and perhaps could use some humility along with the pride I feel for being able to work with him. There. Tie-in. A mystical elixir of humility. The Humility Elixir. I like elixirs. You didn't even see that coming.
I have had some of my responsibilities cut back, and although they were exhausting a year ago, I also miss them. I miss my daily lunch battles with Haazim, where I would obstinately insist he must feed himself, and he would invariably reply "I want water" (or simply scream and bite the table, or attempt to bite the hand of anyone daft enough to think they should intervene). And then having the opportunity to teach him signs right after the meal, as we ventured together to a land of wonderment known to most simply as "the school". I cringe when I see him being force-fed, and simply being led around, pulled from location to location and having an implied message of "do what I force you to do". Progress is slow, but people do notice it. So, I take solace that people observe how I interact with him in hopes of figuring out how to actually communicate with him. I take solace in the knowledge that he has been angry with me several times, and for good reason, but has not yet thrown a fit while I am working with him (which is a daily, perhaps even hourly occurrence a vast majority of the time). I take solace that he smiles and casually walks back to the deafblind unit with me when I say, "Swinging is finished, now we are walking back "home" together."
Amidst the pressures, the stressors, the time constraints, and the responsibilities, there is so much goodness that goes unrecognized. And being thankful that we are given the opportunity to experience the spectrum is renewing. I am being careful, though, not to characterize the pressures, stressors, constraints and responsibilities as being on the opposite end of the spectrum. If those are a part of my job as a service worker, as a faithful follower of Christ, then I think they are wholly good by association. I just have to take the time to recognize that as well. Peace.
I have been slightly overwhelmed by looming responsibilities, most of which I haven't the slightest notion of how to approach. This pertains, quite specifically, to doing my job. I have before me the task of unifying goals for the next year within a comprehensive curriculum. I even have activities, and plenty of resources. But actually putting it all together may take weeks, even months. In the meantime, I am simply trying to integrate new things as they are produced. Which has been somewhat less than successful. I tend to lazily shift blame to my student, accusing him of lacking motivation. The precision of my job, though, actually requires me to make the learning process as successful as possible. Instead, I often make it quite difficult, and boring.
I look forward to learning from my continued failure to bring energy and excitement into education. Still, it is often hard to play it entirely off the cuff. There is usually uncertainty that accompanies each attempt, and it becomes really difficult when most methods have an implied question mark attached. A question mark changes everything. A question mark changes everything?
There has been some success in continually narrowing down my methods (basic process of elimination), which gives me hope. I am also finding new ways to motivate. I find push-ups are a perennial powerhouse of motivation. When Mohammed had been refusing to focus on reading the braille in front of him, and I told him to do some push-ups in order to "wake-up". I was quite amused when he asked to be punished with a time-out instead. I forcefully said no.
Still, all things considered, I don't take much notice of the things I should be tremendous leaps and momentous milestones. The actual progress that has been made. With a month of Arabic, followed by several months of summer holiday, and then 3 weeks since I have been back, Mohammed has developed a significant vocabulary. I often scoff at the simple knowledge of words like "food", "car", "bathroom", and even just having a recollection of the names of people he works with. But, 5 months ago, Mohammed didn't even know that Arabic existed. He didn't know there were such things as "letters". Words were anomalies, somehow connected to bumps on a page. None of it made sense, and it was all a monotonous sequence. Now, it is still repetition, but he is accumulating the awareness that is needed. It all feels normal to me, unless I actually evaluate it. It is truly incredible.
More than 8 months ago, I was scoffed at for trying to teach Mohammed how to sign the numbers 1-6. It was perceived as being useless, a waste of time on an impossible endeavor. Now, several months later, Mohammed is fingerspelling and brailling the names of the teachers that doubted he could manipulate his index finger independently to signal the number one. Perhaps this is his ever so subtle way of metaphorically manipulating his middle finger...nevermind. And I get to sit back and feel blessed by his success (and it is his, not mine). With tactful arrogance, I just let his brilliance communicate to others what I have been thinking all along the way, which is, "How about them apples?" I am by no means venerable, and perhaps could use some humility along with the pride I feel for being able to work with him. There. Tie-in. A mystical elixir of humility. The Humility Elixir. I like elixirs. You didn't even see that coming.
I have had some of my responsibilities cut back, and although they were exhausting a year ago, I also miss them. I miss my daily lunch battles with Haazim, where I would obstinately insist he must feed himself, and he would invariably reply "I want water" (or simply scream and bite the table, or attempt to bite the hand of anyone daft enough to think they should intervene). And then having the opportunity to teach him signs right after the meal, as we ventured together to a land of wonderment known to most simply as "the school". I cringe when I see him being force-fed, and simply being led around, pulled from location to location and having an implied message of "do what I force you to do". Progress is slow, but people do notice it. So, I take solace that people observe how I interact with him in hopes of figuring out how to actually communicate with him. I take solace in the knowledge that he has been angry with me several times, and for good reason, but has not yet thrown a fit while I am working with him (which is a daily, perhaps even hourly occurrence a vast majority of the time). I take solace that he smiles and casually walks back to the deafblind unit with me when I say, "Swinging is finished, now we are walking back "home" together."
Amidst the pressures, the stressors, the time constraints, and the responsibilities, there is so much goodness that goes unrecognized. And being thankful that we are given the opportunity to experience the spectrum is renewing. I am being careful, though, not to characterize the pressures, stressors, constraints and responsibilities as being on the opposite end of the spectrum. If those are a part of my job as a service worker, as a faithful follower of Christ, then I think they are wholly good by association. I just have to take the time to recognize that as well. Peace.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Newness in the Same Place
After a home leave that lasted seven weeks, I feel blessed to have returned to a Jordan that is recognizably the same, and intuitively different than when I first arrived. The intriguing newness of Jordan that happily accompanied me a year ago has deserted me in favor of other bright-eyed, vibrant young adults that venture into foreign lands. Instead, a rather faithful contentedness has revealed its commitment and consistency, perhaps keeping me uncomfortably comfortable.
It is strange to return to a familiar place, but to acknowledge its changing form. A once inconsequential step that lies three floors below the deafblind unit has taken on meaning. It is where Haazim learned his first sign, and where I cried my first joyful tear with him. Hand rails and fences surround the premises, and were once simply noted as landscape. Now, they are a part of my service, comprised of hundreds of hours of painstakingly meticulous painting, which was more often unappreciated due to its pace rather than applauded for its quality. The gates, through which I entered, a barrier between my American culture and a Jordanian deaf culture which I was invited into with a painfully evident clause to clarify my temporary status. A year later, that gate is my own door, and when I enter I am welcomed home as an old friend.
While inconspicuous, I notice the subtle difference. A newness has nonchalantly crept in, daring to redefine a place that I was quite fond of in the first place. A swelling reserve of experiences here combined with the continuity of a growing perspective and spirituality makes it impossible to return.
In truth, I was hoping to return to the place I came to a year ago. Following many opportunities for reflection, new friendships, moments of reconnection, and much valued time with family, I strangely anticipated the oddly revitalizing feeling of being a stranger again. Upon my arrival at the institute, I felt anything but that. And as touching as the hugs, kisses, and handshakes from the childre were to those who accompanied me as I moved back to Salt, it was strikingly disheartening to me at the moment. To be greeted as a brother, instead of as a detached American simply passing through, that brought on a moment of clarity. That moment, in itself, was the consummate expression of acceptance, and it was certainly not one that I had expected. A sort of newness that I thought would be unattainable, and did not even realize I had been moving towards over the past year.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful for it, but initially, that moment caused me great distress. It brought on a bit of worry, and worrying is definitely not one of my strong suits (I even worried a bit about the worrying, which is a quite vicious cycle). It was obvious that I now have an identity in my context in Jordan, and I also have an identity to those who know me in the US. To me, the two are the same, but the expression in each context has fashioned a being that is simply not sustainable. In each context, it is a simple matter to be myself. To be in one context, though, and hope to maintain each interaction from the other context...well, that is about as easy as trying to write in Arabic with my feet.
Simply, I realized the constancy that would be required of me if I were to attempt to unify both expressions within one context. To be both in Jordan, and continue to relish the lavish relationships that I experienced briefly during my time back in the US. The pursuit, even pondering the pursuit, was quite occupying. It was so daunting, especially feeling like I had to sort it out in solitude.
Henri Nouwen brings an interesting perspective in Making All Things New, writing "Today worrying means to be occupied and preoccupied with many things, while at the same time being bored, resentful, depressed, and very lonely." I certainly was utilizing an incomplete understanding to approach all of these occupying roles. A teacher. A student. A friend. A mentor. A son. A brother. Maybe without processing, I could have very well moved towards crippling experiences and delved into a dark place.
Somehow, though, when I was looking through the roles, "a Christian" was skipped. That is terrifying. I call it lack of clarity, and am thankful that moment has passed. I realized that if I want to continue to do service work, my identity has to be built upon the foundations that Jesus Christ has laid out. First and foremost, I must be faithful to that. In doing so, all of the occupying roles can seamlessly be integrated, although that is not to say there will be much deliberate planning and intentional shifts in how I utilize my time. I cannot be everywhere and do everything, but I can be present in the place and context I currently am in, share the stories of my work and life with those that I love and whose relationships I am blessed to share in (wherever they may be), and do so with the intention of serving Jesus Christ's vision. That is my prayer as I begin the next two years. Peace.
It is strange to return to a familiar place, but to acknowledge its changing form. A once inconsequential step that lies three floors below the deafblind unit has taken on meaning. It is where Haazim learned his first sign, and where I cried my first joyful tear with him. Hand rails and fences surround the premises, and were once simply noted as landscape. Now, they are a part of my service, comprised of hundreds of hours of painstakingly meticulous painting, which was more often unappreciated due to its pace rather than applauded for its quality. The gates, through which I entered, a barrier between my American culture and a Jordanian deaf culture which I was invited into with a painfully evident clause to clarify my temporary status. A year later, that gate is my own door, and when I enter I am welcomed home as an old friend.
While inconspicuous, I notice the subtle difference. A newness has nonchalantly crept in, daring to redefine a place that I was quite fond of in the first place. A swelling reserve of experiences here combined with the continuity of a growing perspective and spirituality makes it impossible to return.
In truth, I was hoping to return to the place I came to a year ago. Following many opportunities for reflection, new friendships, moments of reconnection, and much valued time with family, I strangely anticipated the oddly revitalizing feeling of being a stranger again. Upon my arrival at the institute, I felt anything but that. And as touching as the hugs, kisses, and handshakes from the childre were to those who accompanied me as I moved back to Salt, it was strikingly disheartening to me at the moment. To be greeted as a brother, instead of as a detached American simply passing through, that brought on a moment of clarity. That moment, in itself, was the consummate expression of acceptance, and it was certainly not one that I had expected. A sort of newness that I thought would be unattainable, and did not even realize I had been moving towards over the past year.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful for it, but initially, that moment caused me great distress. It brought on a bit of worry, and worrying is definitely not one of my strong suits (I even worried a bit about the worrying, which is a quite vicious cycle). It was obvious that I now have an identity in my context in Jordan, and I also have an identity to those who know me in the US. To me, the two are the same, but the expression in each context has fashioned a being that is simply not sustainable. In each context, it is a simple matter to be myself. To be in one context, though, and hope to maintain each interaction from the other context...well, that is about as easy as trying to write in Arabic with my feet.
Simply, I realized the constancy that would be required of me if I were to attempt to unify both expressions within one context. To be both in Jordan, and continue to relish the lavish relationships that I experienced briefly during my time back in the US. The pursuit, even pondering the pursuit, was quite occupying. It was so daunting, especially feeling like I had to sort it out in solitude.
Henri Nouwen brings an interesting perspective in Making All Things New, writing "Today worrying means to be occupied and preoccupied with many things, while at the same time being bored, resentful, depressed, and very lonely." I certainly was utilizing an incomplete understanding to approach all of these occupying roles. A teacher. A student. A friend. A mentor. A son. A brother. Maybe without processing, I could have very well moved towards crippling experiences and delved into a dark place.
Somehow, though, when I was looking through the roles, "a Christian" was skipped. That is terrifying. I call it lack of clarity, and am thankful that moment has passed. I realized that if I want to continue to do service work, my identity has to be built upon the foundations that Jesus Christ has laid out. First and foremost, I must be faithful to that. In doing so, all of the occupying roles can seamlessly be integrated, although that is not to say there will be much deliberate planning and intentional shifts in how I utilize my time. I cannot be everywhere and do everything, but I can be present in the place and context I currently am in, share the stories of my work and life with those that I love and whose relationships I am blessed to share in (wherever they may be), and do so with the intention of serving Jesus Christ's vision. That is my prayer as I begin the next two years. Peace.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
SALT Should Include an F
I don't have a countdown. I know the date that I fly back to the US. I know the date I fly into Kansas. But I honestly don't know the specific number of days between now and then. Unless, of course, I look at a calendar. I am practically flawless when it comes to basic addition and subtraction, and as long as we're not in triple digits, I am confident I could figure out the time frame between now and then.
I have one more week at the school, and for that week, a couple deafblind students come back. I am ecstatic. Not "buy gummy bears" ecstatic, but "randomly break out robot dance moves without prompting" ecstatic (which is, quite evidently, a much better kind of ecstatic).
And, although I don't mean to slight my return to the US, it is the coming week and the coming school year that attract my attention. Being in the US with friends and family will be important, fun, meaningful, but won't require so much deliberation. Kind of like putting on pants. Or swallowing food. I am a savant at both.
So, while I have some plans for my time in the US, and a bit of anticipation, it all seems routine. Almost like I have done this before. And, with that kind of feeling, it is hard to have that bubbly excitement which makes you suddenly homesick and overtly expressive about how long you have been waiting for this. Similarly, if I planned to eat ice cream on the coming Saturday, I don't suppose that would encounter a longing for the magic of flavored milky crystals accompanied by some inane compulsion to spread the news that Saturday is gonna be brilliant. I still like ice cream, all the same, and I might mention to someone in passing that I will be engaging in frosty bliss at a specific point in time, but like I said, it still seems rather normal. (If you got lost in the metaphor (which was so elegantly stated), the point: I am happy to be going home, without regard for the amount of time that has passed between the last time I was there.)
But, meanwhile, my inexperience in the job I will continue doing for the next two years, it is chiding me. Reminding me that I will be returning to teach. Prodding me, calling me childishly ignorant names like "Mr. Bumbleface" or "gulpy pants" or "brazen hussy" (words hurt). And, poignantly issuing out memos, referencing instances of failure.
Which is what made SALT so fun. And, even though I would love for SALT to include an "F" for fun (or just meld the words together, instead of Serving, Learning, and Fun Together, you get Servarnunther, which just rolls off the tongue), I would much rather applaud the distinct precision of "F"ailure. In SALT, I encountered failures of a uniquely prodigious nature. Jumping into deafblind education, I knew I would fail, but I didn't anticipate the impressive regularity of the occurrences. There were so many more, which varied in frequency. Failing to get on the right bus. Failing to communicate an important, or irrelevant thought in Arabic. Failing to follow cultural norms. Failing to lock a door. Failing to finish a painting job quickly. Failing to use correct signs. Failing to maintain spiritual focus. Failing to be motivated to study. Failing to have a basic conversation.
So many ways to fail, some familiar, many atypical and uncannily simple. And it has been a blast. Every morning, I get the sense that I am developing extrasensory perceptions, based purely on my ability to anticipate that a new day will bring epic foundering and higher acuity in regards my inadequacies. How absolutely delightful!
And even so, I am not entirely sure my ego has been kept in check. I still feel a bit proud, stubborn to allow failure to shape me in more significant ways that it has. Seems shameful to be proud of acknowledged failure. But, I do like that I am able to withstand, and even be thankful for failure. It has, perhaps, been the best part of SALT.
Still, failing to fail in a manner that brings about tangible change is the worst thing I can do. I hope SALT has taught me to be better at failing. I certainly look forward to not only continuing to do so in the future, but to creatively one-up myself. Peace.
I have one more week at the school, and for that week, a couple deafblind students come back. I am ecstatic. Not "buy gummy bears" ecstatic, but "randomly break out robot dance moves without prompting" ecstatic (which is, quite evidently, a much better kind of ecstatic).
And, although I don't mean to slight my return to the US, it is the coming week and the coming school year that attract my attention. Being in the US with friends and family will be important, fun, meaningful, but won't require so much deliberation. Kind of like putting on pants. Or swallowing food. I am a savant at both.
So, while I have some plans for my time in the US, and a bit of anticipation, it all seems routine. Almost like I have done this before. And, with that kind of feeling, it is hard to have that bubbly excitement which makes you suddenly homesick and overtly expressive about how long you have been waiting for this. Similarly, if I planned to eat ice cream on the coming Saturday, I don't suppose that would encounter a longing for the magic of flavored milky crystals accompanied by some inane compulsion to spread the news that Saturday is gonna be brilliant. I still like ice cream, all the same, and I might mention to someone in passing that I will be engaging in frosty bliss at a specific point in time, but like I said, it still seems rather normal. (If you got lost in the metaphor (which was so elegantly stated), the point: I am happy to be going home, without regard for the amount of time that has passed between the last time I was there.)
But, meanwhile, my inexperience in the job I will continue doing for the next two years, it is chiding me. Reminding me that I will be returning to teach. Prodding me, calling me childishly ignorant names like "Mr. Bumbleface" or "gulpy pants" or "brazen hussy" (words hurt). And, poignantly issuing out memos, referencing instances of failure.
Which is what made SALT so fun. And, even though I would love for SALT to include an "F" for fun (or just meld the words together, instead of Serving, Learning, and Fun Together, you get Servarnunther, which just rolls off the tongue), I would much rather applaud the distinct precision of "F"ailure. In SALT, I encountered failures of a uniquely prodigious nature. Jumping into deafblind education, I knew I would fail, but I didn't anticipate the impressive regularity of the occurrences. There were so many more, which varied in frequency. Failing to get on the right bus. Failing to communicate an important, or irrelevant thought in Arabic. Failing to follow cultural norms. Failing to lock a door. Failing to finish a painting job quickly. Failing to use correct signs. Failing to maintain spiritual focus. Failing to be motivated to study. Failing to have a basic conversation.
So many ways to fail, some familiar, many atypical and uncannily simple. And it has been a blast. Every morning, I get the sense that I am developing extrasensory perceptions, based purely on my ability to anticipate that a new day will bring epic foundering and higher acuity in regards my inadequacies. How absolutely delightful!
And even so, I am not entirely sure my ego has been kept in check. I still feel a bit proud, stubborn to allow failure to shape me in more significant ways that it has. Seems shameful to be proud of acknowledged failure. But, I do like that I am able to withstand, and even be thankful for failure. It has, perhaps, been the best part of SALT.
Still, failing to fail in a manner that brings about tangible change is the worst thing I can do. I hope SALT has taught me to be better at failing. I certainly look forward to not only continuing to do so in the future, but to creatively one-up myself. Peace.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Reflections on Teaching
I lied in my title. You thought you would be getting some juicy material. Maybe even delving into the realm of the philosophical. Not gonna go there.
Still, there is just a week left of school before the kids go home for the summer. Then, I get to paint, to finish off my SALT experience. Which will give me endless hours to process a year in Jordan.
Here is the part that might leave you, dear reader, disappointed. I could ramble on and on about my time here. The culture. The things I have learned. The stories. The falafel. The "life-changing" experience. I won't. Because I am interested in something else.
What have you been doing? I am in a different part of the world, away from you. There is value in what I am doing, and in this context, it is DEFINITELY an experience. But it isn't more valuable than what you are doing. And while it has revealed things about me based on the unfamiliar, uncomfortable, strange circumstances I am faced with daily, (SPOILER ALERT) it hasn't changed a whole lot about me. From my perspective, I think it has just allowed me to actually understand myself from a different angle. Refreshing. Not life changing.
So, as I was saying, what have you done in the past year? I hope you have been praying. I hope you have been focused on God. I hope you have felt a sense of calling in the things that you do. I hope you've loved and felt loved. I hope you have served faithfully. I hope you have done justice, loved kindness, and walked humbly with your God. I don't care how or where, because that is irrelevant. Jordan. Israel. Bolivia. America. Botswana. Indonesia. I hope you're doing the same thing I'm doing. Probably better than I'm doing it.
And if you think I am selling my experience short, too bad. If you think I am supposed to be changed, many apologies. If you think there are profound realizations that will come about as a result of the last year, you are entirely correct. But you have that too. A year in SALT doesn't give me a monopoly on God, on service, on change, or on growth and paradigm shifts.
The point: While I doubt I'll get much feedback here, if you want a simple, semi-focused, mildly humorous, probably sarcastic assessment of some of the things I have experienced through SALT, shoot me an email (brentalanstutz@gmail.com). Tell me about your past year. It has been just as important as mine. I'll do my best to be diligent in responding.
And lastly, here is a teaser. One thing I have learned in Jordan: Dune jumping in Wadi Rum is fantastic.
Still, there is just a week left of school before the kids go home for the summer. Then, I get to paint, to finish off my SALT experience. Which will give me endless hours to process a year in Jordan.
Here is the part that might leave you, dear reader, disappointed. I could ramble on and on about my time here. The culture. The things I have learned. The stories. The falafel. The "life-changing" experience. I won't. Because I am interested in something else.
What have you been doing? I am in a different part of the world, away from you. There is value in what I am doing, and in this context, it is DEFINITELY an experience. But it isn't more valuable than what you are doing. And while it has revealed things about me based on the unfamiliar, uncomfortable, strange circumstances I am faced with daily, (SPOILER ALERT) it hasn't changed a whole lot about me. From my perspective, I think it has just allowed me to actually understand myself from a different angle. Refreshing. Not life changing.
So, as I was saying, what have you done in the past year? I hope you have been praying. I hope you have been focused on God. I hope you have felt a sense of calling in the things that you do. I hope you've loved and felt loved. I hope you have served faithfully. I hope you have done justice, loved kindness, and walked humbly with your God. I don't care how or where, because that is irrelevant. Jordan. Israel. Bolivia. America. Botswana. Indonesia. I hope you're doing the same thing I'm doing. Probably better than I'm doing it.
And if you think I am selling my experience short, too bad. If you think I am supposed to be changed, many apologies. If you think there are profound realizations that will come about as a result of the last year, you are entirely correct. But you have that too. A year in SALT doesn't give me a monopoly on God, on service, on change, or on growth and paradigm shifts.
The point: While I doubt I'll get much feedback here, if you want a simple, semi-focused, mildly humorous, probably sarcastic assessment of some of the things I have experienced through SALT, shoot me an email (brentalanstutz@gmail.com). Tell me about your past year. It has been just as important as mine. I'll do my best to be diligent in responding.
And lastly, here is a teaser. One thing I have learned in Jordan: Dune jumping in Wadi Rum is fantastic.
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