Two Dots and a Broken Heart

Yesterday, I took my niece, Destiny, to visit the Mississippi School for the Blind and Deaf. She will be attending school there in January. She has spent the last two years in our local public school system, and she just isn't getting what she needs there.



When we walked into the building, my sister instructed my niece to "trail the wall". For those who don't know, this means to walk along the wall, touching it with your hand, using it for a guide. Upon being told to do so, Destiny sadly grumbled, "No, momma. They'll make fun of me." My heart was broken. How much can one child suffer? Never mind the myriad surgeries. Never mind the bumping and stumbling injuries. Never mind the pain of having an eye removed and having a prosthetic fitted. Never mind not understanding why she can't see like her brother and sister. But let's also add the heartbreak of being made fun of by classmates, children whose parents don't bother educating them on disabilities and human compassion.



We joined Destiny's class for lunch. If you ever need a humbling experience, go watch a class of blind children. Watch them make their ways through classroom and down halls. Watch them locate things on shelves. Watch them help each other. Watch them do all this with not a single complaint. Watch them become excited about holding a new friend's hand and guiding her down the hall. Watch them love to read...



After lunch, the teacher and my sister needed to speak to the principal. I remained in the hall with the class. Behind us, on the wall, there was a large display of essays written in braille by the students and translated into typed paragraphs for others to see. In the essays, the students had responded to the following prompt, "Learning is important to me because..." As I scanned the essays, I noticed that nearly all of the essays included this response, "...because I want to read."



One of the girls in the class asked me if I'd like her to read to me. "Please do," I asked her. She placed both hands on the wall and ran them across the display until she could focus on one essay. Meticulously, she guided her index finger over what looked like dots to me. She spoke the words she read, never missing a beat, until something stopped her. She stood quietly and pressed the side of her head closer to the wall, as if she could will the braille to speak into her ear. I wondered what was wrong. She'd been doing so well. Did she come upon a letter she doesn't know? Finally, she whispered, "They blacked this one out." She moved on to another essay and began reading. I leaned into the wall and focused on what she'd been reading. There in the middle of the paragraph, the typically raised braille had been depressed. Even her skillful, tiny hands couldn't decipher the letters, now.



Two Dots...and I have the nerve to complain about my reading assignments taking up too much of my time.