Lately, conversations at the Trinidad and Tobago Blind Welfare Association have often turned to the importance of mentorship for blind children and young adults. Every time they do, my mind drifts back to my years at the School for Blind Children in Santa Cruz.
Not because I wish I could go back. I don’t. I spent years looking forward to writing SEA so I could attend mainstream school, and when that day finally came, I embraced it wholeheartedly. Going home every afternoon, spending my teenage years with my family, and learning alongside sighted classmates was everything I had hoped it would be.
So no, this isn’t an argument against inclusive education. I benefited from it myself. It is, however, a reflection on something I didn’t fully appreciate until I became an adult.
I was five years old when I first arrived in Santa Cruz.
Before I ever learned to read Braille quickly, I learned what it sounded like. If you’ve never been in a room full of blind children reading, it’s difficult to describe. Fingers glide across thick Braille pages, someone turns a sheet with a practiced flick, and every now and then a Perkins Brailler bursts into life somewhere else in the building. Those sounds became part of everyday life.
To my five-year-old self, the older students seemed impossibly grown up. They could read Braille faster than I could imagine, move confidently around the compound, and do all the things I couldn’t wait to learn. I desperately wanted to play draughts, but I was told I was too young. That only made me want to learn even more. I watched the older students learning to type, convinced that one day it would be my turn. As it turned out, computers arrived before I ever touched a typewriter.
Like any other child, I climbed the jungle gym in the savannah across the road, learned about blind cricket, earned my yellow belt in judo, and eventually discovered exactly where those famous pillars in the middle of the main hall were. There was always music somewhere too. A piano sat at the edge of the hall, and every so often someone would sit down and play. At the time, none of it felt remarkable. It was simply childhood.
As much as I remember the Braille, the music, the jungle gym, and yes, even those pillars, when I think about Santa Cruz now, it’s the people I remember most.
I grew up surrounded by blind children, older students, and blind adults. Back then, we didn’t think of the older students as mentors. They were just the big children. We wanted to read as fast as they did, travel as confidently as they did, and learn the things they already knew.
The adults around us were teachers, houseparents, instructors, musicians, office workers, and leaders. They weren’t trying to prove anything. They were simply living their lives, and in doing so, they quietly showed us what blind adulthood could look like.
It wasn’t until I entered mainstream education that I realized not everyone expected as much of blind people as we expected of ourselves. People were often surprised that I could type quickly, use a computer, navigate my environment independently, or do well in school. They meant well, but I never quite understood the surprise. After all, I had spent my childhood surrounded by blind people who expected those things of themselves too.
Working where I do now, I meet blind and visually impaired children and young adults who remind me of myself. They are just as curious, funny, determined, and full of potential as my generation was.
At the same time, I also meet young adults who have had very little opportunity to become independent because everyone around them has tried so hard to protect them. Not long ago, I met a young woman who was almost 19. She was bright and engaging, but as we spoke, it felt as though nobody had really expected her to become independent yet.
A few days later, I heard about a mother who asked, “Who are the sighted adults who’ll be there?” when her son was invited to attend an event with a group of blind adults.
I know she didn’t mean anything unkind by the question. She was just being a mother. But it made me stop and think, because we are the adults. Her son will soon be one too. And maybe that’s exactly why mentorship matters.
Inclusive education gives blind children opportunities that previous generations never had, and I would never argue against that. But alongside inclusion, they also need opportunities to know other blind children, learn from blind adults, and see people who are living the lives they hope to live themselves.
That’s what Santa Cruz gave me without ever intending to. And if today’s blind children are tomorrow’s blind adults, who is helping them dream beyond what they’ve already seen?
This column is supplied in conjunction with the T&T Blind Welfare Association
Headquarters: 118 Duke Street, Port of Spain, Trinidad
Email: ttbwa1914@gmail.com
Phone: (868) 624-4675
WhatsApp: (868) 395-3086
