What Are You Teaching Today?

Lessons Learned

The Lesson of Green

There were so many things I had wondered about blindness and deafness, and not simply the sterile, scientific, factual ramifications, symptoms, or causes of these particular special needs, for infinite pages of information about and research concerning blindness and deafness were readily available; undoubtedly enough material to support a lifetime of articles to be written. No, I wondered about the feelings associated with the everyday, ordinary, walking-through-life experience of being blind and/or being deaf.  Was the silent, dark world sad or lonely or scary? Do you imagine sounds? What would you imagine spring to sound like? In your imagination, do you see pictures? Colors? My dear blind-deaf friend, who taught me more than most of my college textbooks, welcomed these sorts of questions driven by curiosity and an earnest desire to understand and be sensitive. He frequently chuckled at the endless stream of questions that I would clumsily fingerspell into his hand.  He was pursuing a PhD in Computer Science and was the first true genius I had ever met. One day, in the midst of transcribing a textbook to braille, which was always an excellent time for listening to him explain his thoughts, ideas, and feelings, I asked my friend, “What is your favorite color?” His instantaneous response was, “Green.” There was not a moment’s thought. There was no pensive pause for contemplation. Just an automatic, “Green.” He had obviously considered this before and confidently trumpeted his answer. How? and why? were my knee-jerk responses. His beautiful response was one I will never forget.  He smiled as his soft, clear voice replied, “I know that green is the color of living things. Living things are hopeful and fresh and lovely. Because of that knowledge, I am certain that green is a color that I would love.”  There was always something ever-optimistic, ever-hopeful, and ever-believing about my most amazing friend. In his silent, dark world, he ceaselessly pursued learning, service to others, and joy. In his silent, dark world, he chose possibility and promise and fully discarded self-pity and self-doubt. He believed. He knew hope. He trusted in the goodness of those around him and generously gave of the greatness that was in him. In his silent, dark world, he heard life’s music and saw the light. He taught me.

Who am I teaching today and what? How about you?

He Taught Me...How Blind Eyes See

Lessons Learned

Green

There were so many things I had wondered about blindness and deafness, and not simply the sterile, scientific, factual ramifications, symptoms, or causes of these particular special needs, for infinite pages of information about and research concerning blindness and deafness were readily available; undoubtedly enough material to support a lifetime of articles to be written. No, I wondered about the feelings associated with the everyday, ordinary, walking-through-life experience of being blind and/or being deaf.  Was the silent, dark world sad or lonely or scary? Do you imagine sounds? What would you imagine spring to sound like? In your imagination, do you see pictures? Colors? My dear blind-deaf friend, who taught me more than most of my college textbooks, welcomed these sorts of questions driven by curiosity and an earnest desire to understand and be sensitive. He frequently chuckled at the endless stream of questions that I would clumsily fingerspell into his hand.  He was pursuing a PhD in Computer Science and was the first true genius I had ever met. One day, in the midst of transcribing a textbook to braille, which was always an excellent time for listening to him explain his thoughts, ideas, and feelings, I asked my friend, “What is your favorite color?” His instantaneous response was, “Green.” There was not a moment’s thought. There was no pensive pause for contemplation. Just an automatic, “Green.” He had obviously considered this before and confidently trumpeted his answer. How? and why? were my knee-jerk responses. His beautiful response was one I will never forget.  He smiled as his soft, clear voice replied, “I know that green is the color of living things. Living things are hopeful and fresh and lovely. Because of that knowledge, I am certain that green is a color that I would love.”  There was always something ever-optimistic, ever-hopeful, and ever-believing about my most amazing friend. In his silent, dark world, he ceaselessly pursued learning, service to others, and joy. In his silent, dark world, he chose possibility and promise and fully discarded self-pity and self-doubt. He believed. He knew hope. He trusted in the goodness of those around him and generously gave of the greatness that was in him. In his silent, dark world, he heard life’s music and saw the light. He taught me.

They Taught Me 3

Lessons Learned

Blind, Deaf, PhD, My Teacher

He was blind from birth, became deaf when he was seven, and when I met him, he was working on his PhD in Computer Science. We were both students at the University of Wisconsin at Madison; he was a much better student than I. I had seen him with his seeing eye dog numerous times around campus, and every time they crossed my path, I found myself amazed and mesmerized by the surety with which they walked and the calm, gentle aura they exuded. I always stopped and watched them pass and wanted to say hello, but, well, how? So rather than trying to cross the uncomfortable feeling bridge of “I don’t know how,” I copped out and melted into the crowd of silent but staring faces. I disappointed myself. Not knowing what to say or how exactly to say it was never a fear that paralyzed me from pressing forward or risking the connection to be made; until now. So time passed, our paths silently crossed, and I remained disappointed with my fear to cross a bridge.  Then an opportunity appeared in the form of a notice on the bulletin board of the house where I was living. The notice read, “Blind-Deaf student requires assistance with homework.” Although it had to be him and this seemed to be the bridge I myself had been unable or unwilling to conjure, I still did not immediately call. Feeling intimidated by his handicap and highly inadequate to reach toward this challenging and completely unfamiliar collection of needs, I resisted. How could my ignorant hands help without understanding? I had no training. I was just an ordinary student. But I did have a bit of time to spare and serving the need of another was the desire of my heart. Perhaps ignorant hands can be trumped by a willing heart. Perhaps ignorant hands can be taught as long as a willing heart builds the bridge. I called. We met. He taught me how to help him with his school work. He was infinitely patient with my ineptness and we frequently shared laughter as I often quite clumsily stumbled up the steep learning curve of serving in this circumstance.  Regularly I found myself transcribing very complicated mathematical pages from textbooks to braille which he would sit and read as quickly as the printer handed them over.  Supremely complicated math problems he could solve without writing them down.  He was unquestionably a genius, unbelievably brilliant, and I was humbled and honored to watch him work. We became good friends. He invited me to his lectures which were far too complicated for me to understand but I attended because I was so proud of him and blessed by his unquenchable passion for learning and sharing. Church, grocery shopping, taking his dog outside to do her business, pizza parties with his other blind and/or deaf friends, walking about campus, bringing him to visit the students in the hospital school where I worked, checking basement mousetraps, these were among others on our list of bridge building activities and interspersed through all were amazing conversations about life and dreams and hope and gifts. I learned more from him than from most of my textbooks.  He taught me about living optimistically and hopefully despite circumstances and about how one must rise up with courage using every gift available in faithful service to others.  He changed my life forever. He taught me that in reaching out to be a blessing we in fact ourselves are deeply blessed. Yes, he taught me.