Wordless play, wordy explanation

To fully appreciate the context of this post, I recommend reading the two previous blog posts first.

That same year, the year I regained my ability to see divergent individuals, my first nephew was born. He arrived prematurely, with spastic cerebral palsy and partial blindness. He was seated in a wheelchair, attended special education, and had to endure never-ending, and certainly non-miraculous treatments.

My nephew was a cherished child. He could say single words like “Daddy,” “Mommy,” “Grandma,” “telephone,” and “Coca-Cola,” his one-and-only drink. He laughed often, sometimes cried, shouted loudly, and behaved with all his might. Still, despite this unmistakable expressivity—so easily understood, my nephew, like Moria from the previous post, was labeled “non-speaking.”

Grandma Tzipi, a remarkable special-education teacher, asked me once: “How do I play with him? Can you teach me?” "Sure!" I explained: "run his wheelchair faster and faster and then stop suddenly with a screech; sing silly songs he loves most in funny voices; do something joyful and surprising—like... "BOOOOO!" even pop a balloon suddenly. He will burst into rib-cracking laughter, and everyone around him will instantly, wildly share this joy.

"But really, to understand this boy, your grandson," I continued this wordy explanation, "If you really want to know what’s fun for this boy, you must listen with all your might to all of him. And you must talk to him as if he were your own kind, your own size. You must speak with your whole being, and you mustn’t listen for words, not expect merely language, but attend to the mimic and hands, the torso and the legs, the muscle tone, breath, the timbre of his voice, the music of his motion — And you must answer with your whole self, entirely, fully, simply and with force.

Only then will you understand, will he be aware, only then can you play together, equally.

That’s what I told my mom back then