Lessons in parenting a blind child from two poorly educated children of migrant farm workers

My mother graduated from high school in Calexico, a small US town on the border between California and Mexico. My father had a sixth grade education which he probably received in Tijuana Mexico. They met because their families attended the same church in Santa Ana California. Both of them told similar stories of traveling between Northern and Southern California chasing fruit harvests as children.

After giving birth to my older sister, my mother seemed to have trouble conceiving again, but they both wanted another child. I imagine that someone must have suggested that they become foster parents, and so, in about November of 1969, they were given custody to one blind baby they called Rusty. After a year of fostering me, they adopted me. They chose to keep the blind child.

I mention that they were poorly educated because I want to point out that they didn’t know, or do anything special to raise me. They were not up to date on the latest techniques for sensory enrichment. They didn’t know anything about advocating for me. But they loved me.

Yes, they took advantage of every opportunity the foster system and the educational system offered, but aside from that:

My father and I spent time in the garage. He taught me how to use a crescent wrench as he worked on the car. He taught me how to use a hammer as he worked around the house. He taught me how to tie a tie as we got ready for church. As I got older, I spent time around his carpentry shop, and though he never was bold enough to teach me how to properly use powered saws, he gave me small jobs boxing furniture, and I would go with him to make deliveries, helping to carry beds and dressers in to homes.

 
My mother worried. But, what’s important about that is that she didn’t restrict me from learning about my surroundings. Maybe she knew something, intrinsically, about “LRE” least restrictive environment? She told stories about coming home and finding that I had climbed on to the roof of our house. I would run, at high speed, through the hedge of rose bushes between our yard and the neighbor’s. More than a few times she mopped the blood away and took me to have stitches after I ran in to a sharp table, or injured myself in some other way. But, she knew better than to lock me away where I couldn’t hurt myself.

Someone might see this as irresponsible parenting. I believe, however, that it was an act of love to teach me, their blind child, to take chances, to reach in to the unknown, to embrace the world around me even if I couldn’t see the  danger in it.