Critical Incident - Maria (Newly Edited)

Maria walked into my ESL class in mid-year, a soft angel with large brown eyes which were as dysfunctional as they were soulful. I had been given the information that she was visually impaired and that she would need extra help and understanding. When a bright and gentle child like Maria needs help, it's not hard to want to give it. The challenge is in knowing what to do. I had dealt with dyslexia, retardation, illiteracy, and brain damage in my ESL classes, but never visual impairment. I gave her a seat on the front row. Luckily, Gail, the visual impairment specialist showed up to give me assistance. She knew that I would be a good contact person for Maria's needs. Luckily, Maria qualified for free visual equipment. She showed up a couple of days later in coke bottle glasses. The thickness distorted her pretty eyes, but she didn't seem to mind. She worked hard and got along well with the other students, although I could see her struggling to see the board and holding her papers close. I wanted things to be easier for her. Gail was continually in touch with me about Maria's progress. A couple of weeks later, the other visual implements arrived - a large magnifying glass so that she could read papers, and a collapsing telescope so that she could hold it up to one eye to see the board. I was delighted that Maria's disability would no longer interfere with her ability to learn. I knew that Maria felt the same way. I was wrong. I never saw the telescope or the magnifying glass again. I asked Maria about them every few days. She always had some vague excuse. This would have been a real crisis had she not been such an intelligent and highly motivated student. Still, I was
dismayed that she was not using the tools available to her to make learning with a disability easier. Then it hit me. I'd been down this road before. When my son's 3rd grade teacher felt that he displayed attention and organization problems, she suggested that I make an organizational chart for him to keep at school. I took Polaroids of his books, notebooks, and supplies , and
made a chart of what went where in his desk, what he needed to take when he changed class, and what he needed to bring home in the afternoon to do homework. The chart found its way into the trashcan the next day. My son did not want to be perceived by his peers as different or having problems. Maria did not want to be defined by her disability. An unfortunate source of amusement for my Mexican students is giving nicknames (always unflattering) to others.
Loosely translated into English, I've had Donkey, Fatty , Mr. Potato Head, and Priscilla (an
effiminate boy) in my class over the years. I don't allow nicknames, but they do slip out often enough for me to understand what is going on. Maria was getting along well with everyone. Even those thick glasses didn't seem to draw much notice. I'm sure that she knew what she was in for once she pulled out that collapsible telescope and held it up to her eye to see the board. I talked to her after class. "What are we going to do?" I asked her. She told me that if I could use black instead of colors on the dry erase board that it would help. She asked me to write bigger.
The other students didn't notice when I started using only black dry erase markers, or
when I doubled the size of the letters on the board. I stopped by Maria's desk frequently to make sure that everything was clear to her. She was a wonderful contributor to her group
when we did cooperative learning, and often the work involved a large chart or graphic organizer that she could see easily. Although life was not easy for her, she thrived academically and socially, and luckily, no new nicknames were created from this situation.