This morning I visited a small pavilion in the middle of a meadow covered entirely with daisies and sunshine. Perhaps it is the awareness of being alone in "seeing" them—those daisies—that makes them seem so beautiful to me. Yet I am not alone in knowing them, in appreciating them.
The younger children from the school for the blind are there on the grass, picking flowers and soaking in the sun—one of the first warm days of what has been such a dreary season.
Everyone gathers on the meadow, but the pavilion I enter is reserved for the more severely handicapped children: those for whom blindness is compounded by other grave difficulties (intellectual disability, autism, deafness, and so on) that prevent them from joining the regular school program with the other blind children.
The group is small—about twelve children—and remarkably diverse in composition. Beyond their shared handicap of blindness or severely limited vision, the children vary greatly in age and developmental level.
Some walk normally; others do not walk at all.
Some seem to have no connection with the outside world; others are quite sociable.
Some appear to have severe intellectual disability, while others—like F.—show an alert mind when you manage to reach him.
F. is blind and deaf. He does not speak, but he understands the language of touch through his fingertips, a method his teacher practices with evident success.
What I mean to say is that work presented as group instruction must in reality be highly individualized.
The educational activities I observed were clearly oriented toward developing language and independence, with the goal of preparing as many children as possible for integration into the special school for the blind of which this pavilion is a part.
Language development happens here through learning communication in its simplest forms.
Independence develops as children learn to walk and control the many movements of their bodies and the use of their hands.
But I do not mean to analyze at length an educational system or teaching methods. I want only to describe what I saw during a morning spent with these children and their teachers.
I observed three work groups.
The first, called "language instruction," shows how to create a relationship with "the other"—the foundation of communication and therefore of language itself.
One educator works with each child, stimulating him by singing, giving gentle taps on his hands, rocking him, trying to draw out a response.
T. clearly registers and already responds with a smile. M., by contrast, constantly tries to escape the stimulation and return to the endlessly repeated movements of her own world—but sometimes, for just an instant, she seems to realize that another person is "speaking" to her, and even this smallest acknowledgment is a starting point.
Another child has his lesson on the floor on a mat, his whole body engaged in various passive movements.
It must be remembered that since these children cannot see, contact must be maintained constantly through voice and touch.
The second group practices "movement."
Five children participate. The instructor, herself blind, sits at the piano. She is assisted by a sighted teacher who helps the children.
Here too the work is highly individualized: simple walking exercises, rhythmic exercises, exercises with drums, with objects in hand, following a voice called from another room—the variations are endless, progressive, and suited to each child's level. Everything is always rhythmic and animated by the pianist, who simultaneously sings out directions to these children who cannot see her.
I confess I was deeply moved by one little girl who, beginning immobile and hesitant, moved with increasing confidence—in complete darkness, remember—toward that voice calling her clearly and insistently, to the sound of cheerful, constantly varied music.
Later I saw this same group take part in what I would call a lesson in "tactile awareness" and orientation.
The teacher, standing at the center of a semicircle formed by small tables where the children sit, distributes materials, gives instructions, and assists individual children as needed.
A trainee helps a girl who is still new to the group.
The tables are formica, and on each one the teacher places a kind of placemat made of soft material that he calls "the meadow." Each child runs his hand over "his meadow" to understand its size.
Then the teacher distributes plastic figurines with clearly defined outlines: trees, houses, chicks, horses. Everything is given out gradually, explored to recognize its shape, then placed on the meadow according to the teacher's instructions: the house on the right, the tree on the left, the horse near the tree, and so on.
Two girls who are not completely blind can even name the colors of the objects they manipulate; for the others, everything must be understood through touch alone.
Each lesson lasted about half an hour.
Perhaps it is obvious to speak of the importance of music in the education and lives of the blind, but I cannot help it—I was struck not only by the music itself but by who was playing it.
The pianist brought to her technical skill a constant warmth and an ability to adjust to each child. This is something no recording or tape could ever replace.
My last two reflections may be equally obvious, but they matter deeply to me.
In the section for handicapped children, I was reminded once again of how crucial it is to meet each child at his actual level—not at his age, and not at the level we wish he were at.
This small group of educators offers us a lesson in faith. Faith in the capacity for progress in each child, faith grounded in long, patient, and skillful work.
Nicole Schulthes, 1978