We Do Great Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Striking the Rock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking On More

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

Change Obscured by Time

There are significant differences between independence and directed living. Between expression and imitation. Between critical thinking and programmed answers. And in each case, when the latter is executed seamlessly, one can hardly differentiate between the two. A tiny shift, though, disrupts the patterns and can reveal significant deficits.

It took me several months to finally recognize these deficits, and then several more months to approach them with strategies for development. In the meantime, I have hardly been able to recognize change. Indeed, spending 10-12 hours a day observing and working with Mohammed, these gradual and minute progresses are seemingly invisible. Having them drawn out, day to day, over the course of a year surely obscures one's ability to identify change. It is as the sun in the sky. Between the sunrise and the sunset, one is hardly conscious of the path traversed throughout the day.

Before heading home for Christmas break, I was determined to record a conversation with Mohammed. We sat down, and ended up with something like a 5-minute exchange. I then put that video on my computer, and remembered to refer back to a video assessment from more than a year ago.

October 18, 2010. I hate this video. I only show the first minute to others, as beyond that, my visible frustration and impatience is embarrassing. I keep the video, though, to remind me of not only the many things I need to work on as a teacher, but also the moments with my student that have been lost along the way.

To contrast, I will simply provide a transcript of each conversation (as verbatim as possible considering the translation), to illustrate the disparity between then and now.

Oct. 18, 2010- Brent-"Hello. How are you?"
Mohammed- *hands rest on table momentarily* "Hello. How am I."
Brent- *disappointment and exasperation plastered across face* "What did you do at home, 2 days ago, on (one day) Friday?"
Mohammed- *a full 13 seconds pass before he starts signing* "Do at home. Yesterday. Finished. Day before. Finished." *starts to sign "Friday", but then goes back to replicate the preceding sign "one day" to fully mirror me, struggling with this* "Day. Day. Day. Day........Friday."

That is it. That was a conversation, 14 months ago. A spontaneous, unscripted conversation looked like this. Everything I said was repeated back to me. Communication, at an expressive level, was not remotely understood.

Dec. 22, 2011-  Brent- "Now, you and me are going to have a conversation. What do you want to talk about?"
Mohammed- "The topic. I don't know."
Brent- "You choose what you want to talk about. The topic."
Mohammed- "The topic... (pause) ...Home."
Brent- "Ok. The topic is home. Mohammed, what do you do at home?"
Mohammed- "At home, (starts to sign "help" (hinting at the later answer seen below) then..) I listen to music."
Brent- "At home, who do you listen to music with?"
Mohammed- "Mama."
Brent-"Cool....."

The conversation continues, talking about what else going on at the house. Mohammed says he will help mother clean. I ask if he does anything more, and he tells me he will help mama with the laundry. When I ask why we do laundry, he is confused. Sarcastically, I say, "Oh, my shirt and pants smell, and are dirty, and this is ok?" Mohammed says, "Dirty finished. Clean." He gets the idea.

I go on. ".....after vacation is finished, then what?"
Mohammed- "I return."
Brent- *prodding* "You return? What?"
Mohammed- "Monday. After a week. On Monday I return." (spot on, actually)
Brent- "Ahh. After a week, on Monday, you return....return WHERE?"
Mohammed- "I don't know. I am doing..."
Brent- "Returning. Returning. Returning. WHERE?"
Mohammed- *pause* "School."

Forget Helen Keller at the well, fingerspelling water. The ever idyllic story. That account, while touching and memorable, is defunct in my educational realm. Not a child with acquired deafblindness at 1 and a half years old, utilizing the communication skills developed during early infancy (the mental plasticity there is paramount), later learning words around age 7. No. Mohammed was born deafblind. And in that October video, he was 18, practically operating as a robot. 14 months later. He talks. He does not echo. He does not issue programmed responses. He talks.

Helen needed a door to be opened in her mind. It was a miracle. Mohammed needed the walls to be broken down. The barricades, that imprisoned his mind, had to be destroyed. It is a miracle. There are none like him in Jordan.

For this reason, there are rumors of a young American that occasionally comes out at night. With the moonlight shining off his bald head, he blasts hip-hop music and dances in circles around the school courtyard, pounding his chest. He mumbles that this is what he was meant to do, but he does not Tebow. He thanks God that somehow, his path collided with this opportunity. That is the rumor, at least.

I'm not Anne Sullivan, and I'm not a miracle worker. But this has been a miracle. This is what I'm meant to do. Lord, let my work be a living act of praise, and the miracles are yours. Peace.

This Street Has Changed

My eyelids seem to be pulling me towards home, as a Thursday evening comes to a close. There is nothing unfamiliar about this weariness. In the dark, as I step along the tiled path in the school courtyard, the calm of the night is a soothing recompense for this week's events. I take a long, drawn-out breath and smile.

On this Thursday, Mohammed was barred from going home. On a previous day, he was under the impression that I had gone home, while I monitored him. After several hours of witnessing confounding and impetuous behavior, I intervened. It was rather disappointing to see my student deliberately act so disgracefully, but somewhat redeeming in his display of shame when he realized he had been caught. After several conversations about how to behave, it was decided that if vacation is equated with laziness and a lack of propriety, Mohammed would not be allowed to go home. Both parties were opposed to this option. Mohammed protested, as he talked of "3 days at home", "kissing mother and father", "if I'm good, then I will go home, yes?" and "not staying at school". I despaired, as an already emotionally overwhelming week had left me exhausted, and Mohammed staying would eliminate my precious Friday morning sleep session. I needed rest. I convinced myself, though, that Mohammed needed to have a paradigm shift. My work with Mohammed is once again occupying my mind as I walk.

Among the many stresses, unattained goals, and myriad failures, there is overflowing satisfaction for the progresses, the successes, and the relationship I have with M. This usually resonates within my mind as I exit the campus and walk along the empty street. It is on this street that I stop to buy the most awful assortment of junk food when going to bed just doesn't seem sufficient. It is on this street that I casually stroll along, looking up at the stars as I think about many blessings. It is on this street that I put on my headphones and just tune out the noise in my head and my life. It is on this street that I reflect on my day. This street is my catharsis. This street was my catharsis. This street has changed.

This past Sunday, I was heading home rather early. With my backpack on and a Perkins Brailler in hand, I am stoked to do a different kind of work. This particular Brailler had been newly broken (by Mohammed after a fall on the staircase), and I am somewhat excited to heroically repair the now defunct machine. It makes me feel rather professional to fix something that most people will never use in their life. Before I reached the gate, this eagerness to leave the campus was erased.

Asma (a colleague in the deafblind unit) comes running towards me, tears streaming down her face. I ask what is wrong, already knowing the answer. Bashar, a young boy from the deafblind unit, had gone to the hospital in the morning and the initial assessment was not promising. Not concealing her desperation, Asma grabs my arm while signing, "Bashar may be dead soon. I'm going to the hospital. Come with me, please." The immediacy and intensity of that moment left me frozen. I often find myself imagining up horrific circumstances and wondering how I would respond if they came to be. This was not a circumstance I had ever dared to imagine.

Helpless. I just stood there. Helpless. Asma continued to the street. Helpless. Thoughts flash in my mind, but they are a dense fog as I fumble to move. To respond. To acknowledge that everything, in that moment, had fundamentally changed. In the midst of that change, I was still standing. Paralyzed. Helpless.

A teacher comes out of the chapel, slicing through the infinity of a moment, and the reverberations bring me back to consciousness. I explain very little, give him the Brailler, and as my heart pounds feverishly, I sprint to the gate. Onto the street. This street has changed. I catch up to Asma, and as she realizes I am with her, she takes off running. I follow, as liquid emotions course through me. Rational processing has been replaced with panic. Hope with uncertainty.

I stand in disbelief. Sullen faces surround me. The air is thick and suffocating. Asma hugs the small body of Bashar, lying in the hospital bed. God, please, don't let my eyes settle upon him. As unrelenting shock consumes me, my colleague is equally consumed by grief and hysteria. I turn to Bashar's family, unable to utter a word. Sympathy and condolences could not suffice. With fleeting courage, I turn back to the bed. He is not reaching out. He is not laughing. He is not crying. He is not in pain. At 11 years of age, Bashar has passed away.

Two years of memories will not be silenced. Entering an empty office at the school, in complete darkness, I collapse. This is not pain that one recovers from. A week ago, I was walking up the stairs, as Bashar (in typical fashion) kicked his shoes off to try to get me to carry him. As I presented him with his shoe, he cried and cried. Realizing my stubbornness, he put his shoe back on, and got up laughing. He took my hand, and we kept going, hand in hand. Now, collapsed on the floor, my hands are painfully empty. Grasping at air. He's gone. Lord, take Bashar's hand, as I cannot.

 بشار. الله يرحمهُ

The next days mostly pass, as those infinite moments linger. And it is Thursday. I am heading home. I am back on the street. The many joys of life are occupying my mind, but there is a sharp figure that breaches the peace. Silhouette, squares, whites and greys on the hospital just a few hundred meters away. Top floor, third window to the left of the stairwell. The light is off in his hospital room. This is not pain that one recovers from. But I smile, and as my eyes well with tears, I know there is much joy and many blessings in the privilege of this pain. Bashar was a blessing, in ways that I could never express to him. In his frailty, his silence, and his incredible trust of those around him, he had much to teach us about strength, presence, and love. My child, you will be missed. My empty hands will tell of the blessing it was to have held your hands. For that opportunity, I am deeply thankful. Peace.

Sharing My Experience

With only a few days before my dad would arrive in Jordan, I only had a basic framework of what we might do. Admittedly, I usually opt to let others do planning when it comes to vacation. (In the context of Jordan, it is even more likely that I will spend vacation days scheming up new ideas for work in between reading, movies, and basketball in the lovely city of Salt.) Still, after acting as a mentor and teacher of a deafblind student for more than 2 years, I wasn't too worried about the stresses of putting together an enjoyable 10 days.

Also, it should be noted that I don't appreciate history, nor am I especially knowledgeable about...well, anything besides the work I have been doing. The prospect of acting as a tour guide is an embarrassing one, unless I am in my element (with Mohammed by my side). I was confident, though, that my father would be rather forgiving in this respect. Still, I am no stranger to awkwardness, and it simply feels right to visit Roman ruins and provide insightful commentary along the lines of, "Father, direct your attention to the columns over there. You'll note that they are old. Older than you, in fact." Or, even better, reading a sign that my dad missed, then imparting knowledge as if I'm utterly familiar with the Byzantine period.

Really, it is pitiful how little I know of Islam, Jordan, or even Christianity in the Middle East. I don't hold myself accountable to be an expert. I was more concerned with sharing my experience. And there have been a lot of experiences.

I wanted my dad to see what it looks like to communicate with a young man who is deafblind. To see all the ways that development needs to occur. To see braille and tactile calendars and a signed chapel service, including songs translated into sign. To see me fumble with Arabic at a market. To see me utilize Arabic adequately on the bus, in a restaurant, and with friends. To see the magnificent chaos of driving in Amman. I wanted my dad to see things he could never see elsewhere.

I wanted my dad to eat hummus, falafel, kebabs, ripe pomegranates, mutabbel, fattoush, fresh bread, knaffeh, tabouleh, and many other things that spellcheck doesn't recognize. To ride on a raucous party bus, blasting Arabic ballads for 5 hours while the shabab echo lyrics and dance in the aisle, unaware that their skinny elbows are colliding with my skull as they vie to impress the young British girls sitting a row ahead of me. And, I wanted my dad to help me actually take a vacation. He accomplished this mission.

With Mohammed, as he eagerly anticipates going home for a long vacation.

At the Roman Amphitheater in downtown Amman. This was after a stop at Hashem's Restaurant for some of the best falafel and hummus that Jordan has to offer.

Jerash, one of the many places that I know nothing about.

After getting cornered by a volunteer who was speaking gibberish about a king's head and music stone, we allowed him to take our picture.

A nice stroll (of the possibly hundred+ kilometers we walked over the course of this holiday), was along this beautiful colonnade in Jerash.

Not sure if bored, content, or confused...

A nice morning dip in the Dead Sea

We happened upon a friendly ginger. Was wonderful to see Peter Miller again.

After failing to find an Ethiopian place, we settled for Pad Thai.

Walking through a market in the Old City.

Bedouins in Wadi Rum.

It was a great series of adventures, misadventures, exhaustion, and plenty of learning. Thanks for coming, dad. Love you. Peace.

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.