Friday, July 02, 2004
dreaming
"I was deep within a dream, an angel with a broken wing
She came to me and gently brushed a tear across my face"
- brimuzik, "Holly", 1995
My dear readers, I have shared with you in the past that I've been a special education teacher of students with significant with a capital fucking "S" disabilities for over a decade. I spend my days with people who cannot now, and in all realistic probability will never, walk or talk; with people who can't eat, sleep, or in many cases literally shit without somebody's help. Such is the life I have chosen. It's modest but it rocks. I wouldn't trade it for all the multi-platinum albums and groupie sex in the world.
The rush of thousands of screaming fans got nothing on the rush of witnessing that moment when the neurons connect and a student whom the world is quite willing to write off as "disabled" and "retarded" does something new because you raised the bar and then encouraged them to jump it.
And I'm just not egocentric enough to be a rock star.
As one of the weird and unforseen perks or consequences (depending upon your viewpoint, I reckon), I sometimes dream about the student's I teach. In my dreams, the students do more than walk and talk, they run and sing, they escape the bondage of their real world limitations.
Everybody I know who works with this population of children and young adults has similar dreams. Everybody.
"The only limits to our student's abilities are those of our imagination" - a mantra by The Good Doctor Noyz
__________
First, some background info for my newer dear readers:
When The Boy, who turned 3 about one month ago, was first and finally placed with The Wife and I last March we knew he had very limited movement in his arms. We were certain that he was paralyzed from the waist down.
We were very, very wrong.
Currently, although he does not have the motor coordination to balance and thus needs your help, he can stand up and support his own weight for about a minute, and if you lie him down he's got the strength and motion for crawling, he just has yet to master the coordination of the muscle groups involved.
_________
Last night, I dreamed of The Boy.
In my dream, The Wife and I are sitting on the couch, the T.V.'s on, but we're not really watching. It's just background noise. The Boy is older, he's five, maybe six. I don't recall what he wore.
He runs down the short hallway into the living room and stops beside the coffee table. He does not speak, he remains completely silent. His eyes playfully sparkle as they connect with mine. His one-sided Elvis grin taunts me as he turns and runs off.
Following the obligatory and unspoken hide and seek count I get up to follow. I walk down the short hallway into our bedroom. At the foot of The Wife's and my bed, a boy-sized shape appears to be hidden under the black throw blanket that usually stays folded across our feet. I know well how to play this game.
Dramatically from a child's perspective, I approach, "Oh, where is The Boy? Oh where could he be? . . . and what's this? Who left this big blanket here on the floor?"
I grab the blanket and toss it aside. The Boy looks up at me with laughter and jumps into my waiting arms.
And then the alarm clock or the dogs or something happenened and it's dream over.
__________
The Boy RUNS? The Boy JUMPS?
I dreamed it. That's damn near the same as imagining it. Now it's time to make it reality.
If I only knew how. . . and never forget my dear reader. . .
All for the Love of The Boy
|
She came to me and gently brushed a tear across my face"
- brimuzik, "Holly", 1995
My dear readers, I have shared with you in the past that I've been a special education teacher of students with significant with a capital fucking "S" disabilities for over a decade. I spend my days with people who cannot now, and in all realistic probability will never, walk or talk; with people who can't eat, sleep, or in many cases literally shit without somebody's help. Such is the life I have chosen. It's modest but it rocks. I wouldn't trade it for all the multi-platinum albums and groupie sex in the world.
The rush of thousands of screaming fans got nothing on the rush of witnessing that moment when the neurons connect and a student whom the world is quite willing to write off as "disabled" and "retarded" does something new because you raised the bar and then encouraged them to jump it.
And I'm just not egocentric enough to be a rock star.
As one of the weird and unforseen perks or consequences (depending upon your viewpoint, I reckon), I sometimes dream about the student's I teach. In my dreams, the students do more than walk and talk, they run and sing, they escape the bondage of their real world limitations.
Everybody I know who works with this population of children and young adults has similar dreams. Everybody.
"The only limits to our student's abilities are those of our imagination" - a mantra by The Good Doctor Noyz
__________
First, some background info for my newer dear readers:
When The Boy, who turned 3 about one month ago, was first and finally placed with The Wife and I last March we knew he had very limited movement in his arms. We were certain that he was paralyzed from the waist down.
We were very, very wrong.
Currently, although he does not have the motor coordination to balance and thus needs your help, he can stand up and support his own weight for about a minute, and if you lie him down he's got the strength and motion for crawling, he just has yet to master the coordination of the muscle groups involved.
_________
Last night, I dreamed of The Boy.
In my dream, The Wife and I are sitting on the couch, the T.V.'s on, but we're not really watching. It's just background noise. The Boy is older, he's five, maybe six. I don't recall what he wore.
He runs down the short hallway into the living room and stops beside the coffee table. He does not speak, he remains completely silent. His eyes playfully sparkle as they connect with mine. His one-sided Elvis grin taunts me as he turns and runs off.
Following the obligatory and unspoken hide and seek count I get up to follow. I walk down the short hallway into our bedroom. At the foot of The Wife's and my bed, a boy-sized shape appears to be hidden under the black throw blanket that usually stays folded across our feet. I know well how to play this game.
Dramatically from a child's perspective, I approach, "Oh, where is The Boy? Oh where could he be? . . . and what's this? Who left this big blanket here on the floor?"
I grab the blanket and toss it aside. The Boy looks up at me with laughter and jumps into my waiting arms.
And then the alarm clock or the dogs or something happenened and it's dream over.
__________
The Boy RUNS? The Boy JUMPS?
I dreamed it. That's damn near the same as imagining it. Now it's time to make it reality.
If I only knew how. . . and never forget my dear reader. . .
All for the Love of The Boy
|
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