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The
Summer of Independence
by
Carol Castellano
Reprinted from Future Reflections
My
daughter Serena had just graduated from elementary school.
We spent many mornings that summer practicing the route
from our home to the Junior High School, where Serena
would be entering seventh grade. The route seemed complicated.
There was an auto repair shop along the way where cars
and pickup trucks often jutted out onto the sidewalk.
There was the blended curb at Main Street. There were
high hedges that blocked traffic sounds and a driver's
view. There was the busy driveway of the school to be
negotiated. Serena and I both felt a bit daunted by
the task.
In
July we put our practice sessions on hold for awhile.
Serena was about to leave for the Buddy Program at the
National Federation of the Blind's Louisiana Center
for the Blind. Run entirely by blind persons, the four-week
program promised learning activities, friendships, and
fun to blind/visually impaired fourth to eighth graders.
My husband, son, and I put Serena on a plane bound for
Ruston, Louisiana. The airline assured us that they
would take good care of our girl on the flight and make
sure she made her connecting plane. Even with their
assurances, I felt heavy-hearted until we heard later
in the day that Serena had arrived safely at her destination.
Four
weeks is a long time for a family to be without one
of their children! I couldn't wait to make that first
phone call during week one, to see how Serena was doing.
A cheerful female voice greeted me. The young woman
identified herself as Serena's counselor, and said that
Serena was doing fine. Serena's voice was a little shaky,
but she said she was having fun and working hard. She
told me she was living in an apartment with two roommates
and a counselor. She mentioned picnics and movies and
swimming at a lake. Their days sounded busy, with classes
in the morning and activities in the afternoons and
evenings.
During
the call of the next week, I asked Serena if she'd tried
any new foods during her stay in Louisiana. I was thinking
of the gumbo and jambalaya and crawdaddies that might
be served in that part of the country.
"Yes,"
Serena answered. "I've had new foods. We had Hamburger
Helper. It was great! And we made Garbage Dip. I'm going
to make that for you when I get home."
It turned out that a major part of the program is for
the students in each apartment to plan, shop for, and
prepare their own meals. Thus, the appeal of Hamburger
Helper!
In the phone call of the third week, we heard about
horseback riding and potluck dinners, art class and
dancing. Serena was beginning to miss us quite a lot,
but there was only one more week to go. The counselors
assured us that she was doing fine.
The
day of her return finally arrived. We really missed
our girl, and I found myself practically in tears as
we paced the airport corridor waiting for the plane
to land. A few moments after we spotted her smiling
face, I encircled my daughter in a relieved hug. I automatically
reached for her hand and felt a slight drawing away
before the small hand settled comfortably in mine.
"Serena!"
I exclaimed. "You haven't held hands with anyone for
a month, have you!"
"I
guess not," she responded after a moment of thought.
"And
I bet you haven't been guided by anybody, either," I
added.
"Not
really," she replied.
The
enormous significance struck me.
"Our
job," I whispered to my husband, "is going to be to
stay out of her way!"
In
the first few days after Serena's homecoming, I was
amazed at how many times I had to check my hand, as
I reached out of habit to grab her hand, move her, turn
her, guide her. Each time I was struck both by the utter
importance of disciplining myself not to touch her and
also by how terribly automatic it was to do so! And
this was in a family that was well aware of the importance
of independent movement. I realized that too often we
still had taken the easy way out (in the short term)
and pulled Serena along.
As
the days went on, Serena told us about the activities
at the Center. She learned how to sweep, vacuum, do
laundry, and clean the bathroom. Welcome home, kid!
Serena explained that in addition to doing the work
of keeping the apartment clean, the students also attended
classes in daily living skills. She also asked if we
could buy the ingredients for that Garbage Dip. Mmmmm.
This
child who had just lived on her own for a month—no
mom to get out the cereal, no dad to grab the milk—now
automatically moved to do her share of household tasks.
We loved her new self-reliance. It was the most natural
thing to Serena to continue taking care of herself.
It was we who were so conscious of the difference. We
had to learn how to keep the process of independence
going and not get in its way.
Serena
told us more and more about the program. We learned
that there were daily, individualized classes in Braille
and computer, with the teachers starting at whatever
point was right for each student. There were also daily
cane lessons during the ten-block walk from the apartments
to the classroom building.
There
was also plenty of fun. In addition to the horseback
riding and swimming, the students went bowling and roller
skating. They learned how to play goalball. They visited
a waterpark and an amusement park. They attended art
classes and dancing classes. They baked brownies and
bread. They went out to dinner and the movies. There
was also time for hanging around talking and sharing
thoughts about being blind.
Every
day, Serena continued to demonstrate the results of
her month of independent living. In addition to her
self-reliance and initiative around the house, she seemed
socially more capable, too, joining in confidently to
conversations and speaking in a stronger voice. She
figured more things out for herself and was more aggressive
in her problem solving.
It
was in her movement, however, that we saw the most dramatic
results. She was much more assertive in her movement
now. She traveled with a new self-assurance that seemed
to have as its underlying assumption, "Of course I can
do this. Why on earth would anyone ever question it?"
Even the way she carried herself had changed. Her head
was high, her shoulders resolute. She looked as if she
had finally claimed the treasure that was rightfully
hers!
I
began to feel as if some kind of magic had taken place.
I suppose it was the "magic" of a child responding to
well-thought-out activities taught in a total-immersion
setting by competent blind role models and mentors in
an atmosphere of support, encouragement, hard work,
and fun!
The
Center's program culminated in an impressive travel
experience. The students and counselors went as a group
by bus to a local shopping mall. There, the students
were paired off and given assignments to complete. Partners
were allowed to help each other if necessary. Counselors
followed unobtrusively and only intervened if a student
really needed help.
Each
pair of students had to find the food court and ascertain
what types of food were available. Then they had to
order lunch at the restaurant of their choice, find
a table, and eat. After lunch, Serena's task was to
locate the movie theater and find out what movies were
showing. Her partner had to find the hardware store
and then locate a certain section within it.
"You
did all that?" I asked Serena in disbelief. "You went
to a mall and found a restaurant and bought yourself
lunch and located the movie theater?" I was amazed!
Serena had never been given this kind of challenge before.
She rose to it beautifully! No wonder she seemed so
confident and self-assured.
One
day not long after her return, Serena said to me, "By
the way, Mom, the route to the Junior High? Gonna be
a piece of cake."
With
gratitude to program directors Pam Dubel and Joanne
Wilson for the thought and energy they put into this
wonderful program and with loving thanks to my husband
Bill Cucco for giving me the courage to let Serena attend.
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