A Blind World

12.11.2010

Today’s entry is very personal.

I have a blind student whom I’ve had once before as a 4^th grader. Having a student with a disability is a challenge and, I have to admit, there are moments where I wish the situation were different – particularly when I would like to incorporate art into the lesson. I usually can’t, though I try whenever I can and discuss with his mother ahead of time.

As a whole, this student is exceptional and I predict he will achieve great things. I remember noticing him when he was little and how he stood out from the rest, blindness aside. He’s engaged, curious, and a real pleasure with which to work. It’s obvious the other students in the class don’t quite know what to make of him despite knowing him for 10 years, and because he can’t participate in many extra-curricular activities there’s little opportunity for them to get to know him outside of the classroom.

Today’s events gave me a glimpse into what I imagine to be his parents’ daily life. (I should mention that his younger brother is also blind.) We were rehearsing for next week’s Christmas pageant and I had to make sure I was with him at all times to cue him, guide him to the stage, direct him once there whether to sit or stand, guide him back to his seat, and to basically serve as a pair of eyes for him including informing him of what was going on and for what to listen. Now, I had and have no problem doing this. It wasn’t this big huge sacrifice by any means. But, I have to admit that after an hour and half of this routine, I was exhausted. When the entire student body rehearsed the ending of the pageant by singing and mimicking the hand and body gestures the teachers were directing at them, I observed both boys’ parents help with as many gestures as they could. I almost broke down in tears.

It wasn’t out of pity for these boys. They don’t know any different. Their world since birth is what it is. I grieved for the parents, for their work, dedication and sacrifice that they make on a daily basis. I know each parent makes sacrifices but I would argue not on the level of parents with a child with a disability. Even what I consider to be a tiny glimpse into these parents’ world is a joke. I get to walk away.

These two blind boys interpret the world in a way their parents, or any of us with sight, couldn’t ever imagine. And this is where the greatest part of my grief is found: As a parent, I imagine you want to give your child the world, to experience life through their eyes, and to be able to help them awake to the world around them. These parents can’t do that. Sight separates parent and child. That’s not to say they can’t do it at all, but the way people with sight interpret the world is, obviously, different from those who are blind. It makes me sad that these parents can’t share their world with their kids. And, ostensibly, their kids can’t share their world with them.

We all have a purpose, or so I believe, and I know that these two boys are adapting and that they’ll be OK. There are many things that they can still do and they work around their challenges. Lord knows we all have challenges with which to contend. I hope, though, that we remember to often pause and appreciate ourselves, our lives, our parents, our kids. I know that any time I may feel frustrated with whatever it is when it comes to accommodating this student, that I will quickly check myself. Prepping my lessons a day or two earlier than I normally would so that they may be transcribed for him is nothing compared to what his parents have to do. And each time I see a smile on this kid’s face or hear him laugh, I will remind myself that happiness and joy don’t need eyes.