Blind Ambition

I close my eyes and gently brush my fingers over the pinholes in the gray scrap of cardboard, unable to decipher the braille. The sentence trails crookedly across the dense paper. Each pinhole is precise on one side, a ragged burst on the underside. I want the mysterious words to penetrate me just as the characters pierce the makeshift tablet. I want the words to remind me that there are many ways to look at a situation.

During the years I lived in Morocco the world I operated in routinely caused me to take a new look at situations. Notions about what is right and wrong, what's polite and rude, and especially procedure were constantly challenged. In the beginning I felt duty-bound to show everyone how procedural disintegrations should be handled, especially on the job. I would generously offer good old American problem-solving techniques to help establish best business practices. I believed my analytical approach would help create order out of chaos and everyone would benefit from the lessons I offered. But in Morocco my approach proved to be an exercise in futility because in this ancient kingdom, operating procedures exist but merely as a suggestion.  Detours, officials and maladroit navigators inevitably make you veer off course. Ultimately, arrival at the final destination by any means possible defines success, and the methods for getting there too numerous to count.

One semester at The American Language Center where I taught English I found myself taken aback. I walked into the first day of my Wednesday afternoon class as a blind student was led into the classroom. Really? I thought. I have no training to teach the visually impaired. This must be some mistake and I knew who to hold responsible. During the afternoon break I hurriedly sought out our Director of Curriculum and the man in charge of class assignments.

"Si Omar," I opined as I burst into his office, "One of my students is blind!" Si Omar raised his head from the task before him and met my indignant gaze. His eyes softened and his forehead creased in sympathy. "I know," he acknowledged with a empathetic sigh, "Poor girl." His eyes met mine for a brief second before turning his attention back to his paperwork. Clearly there was nothing more to say.

The Director's refusal to acknowledge my awkward position vexed me. But in the final analysis my vexation gave way to a rush of shame when I saw the arrogance behind my thinking. My unbridled exasperation at being caught unawares by this situation would eventually be rendered immaterial the day I finally realized The Director clearly and correctly indicated the bigger challenge was the student's, not mine. But initially I considered myself the wounded party.

Certainly I felt ill-prepared to teach the blind but there sat Nejmah, bravely presenting herself to an unfamiliar world she needed to grope through, ready to exert extraordinary effort. How selfish, how utterly audacious of me to whine about what boiled down to my own lack of confidence. But that day in Si Omar's office I snapped my mouth shut as the fruitlessness of my complaint seeped in. I acquiescently backed out of Si Omar's office, quietly closed the door and headed back to work through my predicament.

Throughout the following months I tried my best to match Nejmah's efforts. I researched ideas for teaching the visually-impaired online. I assigned partners for Nejmah so they could read exercise questions and reading comprehension passages to her. I photocopied homework pages so Nejmah could take them home and have someone read the exercises to her and record her answers in her workbook. I tried to think of activities that didn't rely on sight. I made a conscious effort to expunge the words "see" and "look" from my instructions and I hoped against hope that somehow the lessons were imparted to all of my students.

When the day for the final exam arrived, someone from the administrative staff escorted Nejmah to the library to patiently and laboriously read all the questions aloud and record her answers. Ultimately, it took several hour long sessions to complete. When all the questions had been asked, answered and recorded, the exam was handed to me for grading and my own moment of truth. Had I actually taught anything?

I placed Nejma's exam in a pile of papers to mark from my other classes and took everything home. That evening I picked up Nejma's exam, red pen in hand, and held my breath as I marked her paper and tallied up the score: 69! Nejmah had squeeked by. I dutifully recorded her grade in three places when it hit me; Nejmah had been given an exam for the wrong level. All those hours of sitting for the final wasted. This was unacceptable.

The following day I marched into the office of the Curriculum Director, exam in hand and bristling with righteous indignation. "Si Omar, do you remember the blind student in my Beginning 3 class?" He searched his memory for a few seconds. "Oh yes, what about her?" I paused for my dramatic reveal. "Si Omar, the student was given the exam for Beginning 4!" The Director didn't miss a beat and volleyed back, "Well did she pass?" Completely perplexed by his response I could only nod my head. He cocked his head, lifted his shoulders to his ears and held the palms of his hands out. "Well then," he said, "no problem." I was dumbfounded. That's it? Were no corrective measures called for? No investigation into how this had happened in the first place? What kind of institution was I working for?

Unable to leave the situation alone I sought out the person who had administered the exam to make him aware of his mistake but his reaction only added to my consternation. "Eywah," he chuckled. "That explains why she kept saying she never studied that in class. Now it all makes sense."

Huh, I thought. Imagine that. The final outcome was the only thing of interest here. Never mind how we had arrived. Forget that this student had been tested on something she hadn't studied and practically said as much. Forget that I was untrained in meeting the special needs of my student. Nejmah had successfully passed and no further action or discussion was warranted.

Once again I trace my fingertips across the well-defined pinholes on one side of the cut of cardboard. My hand reads the message from left to right. I slowly turn the card over to feel the irregular holes on the flip side and trace the mysterious words as an Arabic reader would; from right to left. Two approaches to deciphering the code but the passage itself remains unchanged.

It just depends on how you choose to look at it.