Salted Tea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look at the time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesdays are for Cooking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoining by Joining (Frabjous Day)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Getting Realigned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Air Disappears

It isn't often that I think about breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egregious Monstrosity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Expression

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

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

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

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

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

Another victory for expressive communication.

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

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


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


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