When I finally got back to the Indiana School for the Blind, it felt like a weight had been lifted.
I was eligible to stay in B Dormitory, which meant living on campus with other students.
We had two house parents: Mr. Coleman and Miss Dixon.
Mr. Coleman?94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmlRCrdT26S
Cool as a cucumber. Chill, fair, and someone you could talk to.
Miss Dixon, on the other hand… was a jerk.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQDhDxpwfJa
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She ruled with an iron ladle, and most of us tried to stay out of her line of sight.
Mr. Coleman had the power to drop room restrictions like lightning bolts.
Basically, a fancy way of saying you were grounded… dorm-style.
My second night back at ISB, I was way past lights-out—94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfivWlKhJIH
We’re talking 11:00 PM, and I was supposed to be in bed by 9:00.
I should’ve been toast.
But Mr. Coleman spotted my "Love Jesus" T-shirt and paused.
He shook his head, almost smiling, and said,
“You’re lucky you’re wearing that. I’m not going to restrict you to the dorm.”
Then he pointed upstairs.
“Now get to bed. You should’ve been up there two hours ago.”
And you better believe I sprinted up those stairs like they were the stairway to heaven.
Now, the school didn’t have a chapel, but that didn’t stop some of us from gathering for Bible study here and there.
Even though technically it was against the rules, we found ways. When you’re hungry for the Word, you’ll find a way to get fed.
But Miss Dixon? She was on a whole power trip.
I remember one winter day—dead of winter, mind you—94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtuYlQxJLjP
A kid was trying to go home, and he went to grab his coat.
Miss Dixon stepped in like she was guarding Fort Knox.
“You left that coat here. It belongs to the dorm now.”
The kid yanked it out of her hands.
And instead of acting like an adult, she goes,
“Fine! I’m calling your mom. She’s gonna kick your ass anyway.”
Yeah. That’s the kind of energy Miss Dixon brought.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvsFVwRWcX7
Petty, controlling, and not someone you'd want on your morning shift.
But where there’s no chapel, the faithful will build one out of shadows.
We had something we called “the Underdark.”
No, not the Dungeons & Dragons one—this was a stairwell in F Building where a few of us would sneak off to read the Bible together.
It wasn’t official. It wasn’t allowed.
But it was holy.
We’d huddle on the steps, one of us reading, the others listening. Sometimes we’d pray. Sometimes we’d just sit quietly and feel God near in that dim space.
And then—inevitably—we’d get caught.
Someone would snitch or a staff member would find us.
So we’d just move to a different stairway.
Because when God’s truth is burning in your heart, you don’t let it go out just because the grown-ups say, “That’s against the rules.”
One time, during one of our secret Underdark gatherings, we got caught.
We froze. Bibles half-open, eyes wide, hearts thumping.
We were expecting Miss Dixon or some other staffer ready to hand out restrictions like Halloween candy.
But no.
It was Mr. Coleman.
And here’s the kicker—he wasn’t just a dorm parent.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzMpJ7PhoMV
He was a preacher.
He looked around at all of us and said,
“Now technically... I should tell y’all to scatter.”
We held our breath.
Then he smiled—just a little—and said,
“But I love what you’re doing. So I won’t.”
Then he turned and walked off like it was just another Tuesday night.
That moment stuck with me.
Sometimes God doesn’t part the sea—He just sends the right person down the hallway.
That night, we were deep in the Book of Matthew.
The part where Jesus lays it all out—blessed are the poor in spirit, the meek, the peacemakers.
We were just kids, sitting on cold concrete steps, reading words that had lit fires in hearts for over two thousand years.
And that’s when Mr. Coleman showed up.
We thought we were busted. We all just stopped, deer-in-headlights style, clutching our Bibles like they might shield us from getting written up.
He looked around at us and said,
“Now technically... I should tell y’all to scatter.”
We waited for the hammer to drop.
But instead, he smiled—just a hint—and said,
“But I love what you’re doing. So I won’t.”
Then he turned and walked away like a silent Amen.
And we just sat there in the quiet, hearts racing, scripture open.
Reading the words of Jesus in a hidden stairwell, knowing we’d just witnessed grace in real time.
But let’s not paint the Indiana School for the Blind as if it were all roses and candy canes.
No, sir. We had our fair share of weird vibes and “what-in-the-world” moments.
Let’s talk about the food.
When I first got there, the gravy—and I wish I was joking—was green.
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I’m talking suspiciously, broccoli-colored, “who hurt this gravy” kind of green.
It looked like it had been exiled from the land of food and was plotting its revenge.
We joked about it all the time.
“You want gravy on that?”94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfGFmMAIvid
“Nah, I’m not ready to see God today.”
I mean, I was blind—but not taste-blind, okay?
Even the other students would poke it with a fork like it might come to life.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9d4a15I8k6
We never quite figured out why it was green. Maybe the kitchen staff were experimenting with alien cuisine.
All I know is: if you saw green gravy on your tray, you just quietly moved on to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and called it a day.
My teacher at the time was Miss Neubert.
She was pretty cool—not quite in the same league as Miss Kirkpatrick or Miss Lytle (those ladies were legends), but Miss Neubert had her own style.
The kind of teacher who kept things moving, didn’t take nonsense, but always had a sense of humor tucked under her sleeve.
One of my classmates, Andy Jones—now he was a character.
Andy had this habit of making what we called “funky Braille signs.”94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzXuT8p48je
We’re talking unreadable, lumpy, off-center dots that looked like Braille had partied too hard and passed out on the paper.
Every time he handed in an assignment, Miss Neubert would sigh, shake her head, and go,
“Andy... you made funky Braille signs again.”
And like clockwork, Andy would give her that goofy, innocent grin and say,
“Did I do it again, Miss Neubert?”
She’d nod, patient but firm,
“Yep. You did it again.”
Then she’d hand it back like a DJ returning a scratched record.
It was this running gag in the class, but it also showed me something: she had high standards, even when we were just goofballs trying to figure things out.
And yeah, I saw her again at graduation... but that’s a story for a little further down the road.
One time, Miss Dixon really cheesed me off. And I don’t mean mildly irritated—I mean full-on “Ma’am, you’ve crossed a line” levels of frustration.
I had decided to spend some quiet time practicing piano. You know, just me and the keys, working on something I actually enjoyed.
Midway through, Miss Dixon strolls by, arms folded like a school hallway security guard, and says,
“You're good. If you spent more time on the piano and less time on the computer, you might actually make something of yourself.”
Now I don’t mind a little constructive criticism—especially if it’s coming from someone who knows what they’re talking about.
But Dixon? She didn’t know me. She didn’t know my dreams, my plans, or what I was building behind that keyboard—digital or musical.
So I looked her dead in the eye and said,
“Just for that... I ain’t ever playing for you again.”
And I meant it. That piano wasn’t just an instrument—it was a piece of my soul. You don’t toss shade at someone’s soul and expect an encore.
Miss Dixon didn’t take my piano rebellion too well.
She slapped me with two nights of room restriction like it was supposed to crush my spirit. News flash: it didn’t.
I sat in that room with the peace of a monk and the attitude of a Baptist preacher on fire for justice. I told Grandma what happened—what I said to Dixon—and Grandma, bless her, just shook her head and said,
“Yeah... that was kind of a jerk move on her part.”
See, Grandma knew me. She knew I wasn’t some rebellious punk. I was a kid who loved computers and piano in equal measure. I was trying to figure out how to fit in without losing myself.
But Miss Dixon? She doubled down.
This was the same woman who once had the gall to call my Grandma and say,
“Your grandson stole the dorm’s copy of Super Mario Brothers!”
Excuse me? I had my own copy at home. Brand new. In the box. Dixon was out here acting like I was some kind of pixel-bandit when I had legit cartridges in my pocket.
If she was trying to win the award for “Quickest Way to Lose a Kid’s Respect,” she had my vote.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡutBkcm5Qmc
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Well, Grandma wasn’t having it. Not even for a second.
When Miss Dixon called her and accused me of stealing the dorm’s copy of Super Mario Bros., Grandma came out swinging—verbally, of course, but trust me, it hit like a punch.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKnHkIkXoLO
She told Dixon,
“My grandson is not a thief. And how dare you accuse him of something like that without any proof.”
Then she did what Grandma does best: she reported Dixon to the school.
Now, most folks would’ve backed down, maybe even apologized. Not Miss Dixon. Oh no. She doubled down with the spite of a cartoon villain whose mustache was freshly waxed.
She said to me,
“You know what? Next year, I’m gonna let you go on to C Dorm, just so I don’t have to put up with you no more. Then I’m gonna watch when they send you back here… and I’m gonna laugh my ass off.”
Yeah. She actually said that. To a kid.
I remember thinking: Lady, you might wear a staff badge, but you just failed a test way bigger than any of mine.
That wasn’t discipline. That wasn’t structure. That was just bitterness wearing a name tag.
The next year came, and just like Miss Dixon predicted (or maybe threatened), I was moved to C Dormitory. Eighth grade. New year. New dorm. Same old me, just a little wiser—and maybe a little more tired of dealing with power-tripping adults.
But here’s the twist: she thought it would be her big “I told you so” moment.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡijUyc8MGcG
Except it wasn’t.
Mr. Odom and Miss King ran C Dorm, and let me tell you, they were a breath of fresh mercy. They didn’t treat me like a problem or a punishment. They saw me. They respected me. They liked me.
I had found favor—not just with them, but in the sight of the Lord. God had already gone ahead of me and laid the groundwork. He knew my heart. He knew what I needed. And just like He always does, He made a way.
Miss Dixon wanted to laugh me out of the dorm.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFEh1amNDgb
But God? God laughed last—and His laugh comes with blessings.
What really synced me and Miss King together wasn’t just dorm assignments or good behavior—it was Jimmy Cagney. Yep. That classic 1930s gangster voice, all grit and attitude. When I first started in C Dorm, I could do one heck of an impression. I'd scrunch up my face, point a finger like I was in some black-and-white crime film, and belt out:
“You dirty rat… you killed my brother… now you’re gonna get it—and get it good!”
Miss King nearly fell over laughing. That was it. From that moment on, we had a connection. It wasn’t just that I made her laugh—it was that she saw me. Not just another blind kid with a file folder, but someone with spark, humor, heart… and maybe a little old-school swagger.
Now, I’ll admit—I’ve lost a bit of that Cagney magic over the years. Time has a way of sanding down the edges. But maybe… just maybe, I’ve still got it.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyTUCEnTGEg
(Okay, maybe I still got it a little.)
It was the summer before, during the Indiana School for the Blind’s summer program, when I met someone who would become a lifelong friend—Valentino G. Hensley. Man, I miss that dude. We were thick as thieves that summer. Homies from the jump. We’d crack jokes, talk about dreams, scheme up little adventures—y'know, summer stuff with a visually impaired twist.
But like any good story with heart, we hit a rough patch.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRvMLypcwck
Valentino, bless his soul, made a rookie mistake. He went and told my girlfriend something he shouldn’t have. I don’t even remember what it was now—it’s not important—but at the time, it was everything. And suddenly, we weren’t talking. The air between us got cold enough to refrigerate meat.
But credit where it’s due—Valentino came to his senses. He realized he’d broken the sacred, unspoken law of friendship: the Bro Code. He apologized. No excuses, no dodging. Just straight-up took responsibility. That right there? That takes guts. And because of that, we were able to patch things up. We were boys again. Maybe stronger than before.
That’s how real friendships work. They don’t just survive the good times—they get battle-tested in the bad ones.
It was the summer before, at the Indiana School for the Blind’s summer program, when I met Valentino G. Hensley. At first, we clicked instantly—two peas in a pod, joking around, vibing, sharing the summer experience as best as two visually impaired kids could. He was my homie.
But then came the betrayal.
He didn’t just talk to my girlfriend.
He took her.
Just straight up took her. No warning. No conversation. Just one day, she was mine—and the next, she was holding hands with my so-called friend.
It felt like a knife in the back and the heart at the same time. That wasn’t just some summer crush either. It meant something to me. And Valentino? He broke the Bro Code, the Friendship Pact, the basic human decency clause—all of it.
We stopped speaking. I iced him out, and honestly? I thought that was the end of our friendship. Some things, you don’t come back from.
But time passed. Maybe he grew up a little. Maybe I did too. One day, he came up to me—not with excuses or fake apologies—but with real regret in his voice. He owned up to it. Told me he knew he’d messed up, that it had cost him more than just a summer fling—it had cost him a real friend.
And little by little, we found our way back. Was it ever the same? Nah. But it was honest. We rebuilt something out of the rubble, and that something lasted.
Eventually, Valentino and I had one of those moments—you know, where the fog lifts, the world makes sense again, and you realize the problem wasn’t between you... it was Renee.
Turns out, she was just a two-timing little heartbreaker, playing us both like flutes in the school band. Once we compared notes, we realized we’d both been fooled. So we did what any pair of respectable young men would do in that situation:
We dumped her. At the same time.
That's right—double dump. Like a coordinated tag-team breakup. She didn’t know what hit her.
And where did Renee go after that? Straight into the arms of the dorm’s local wild card—Nathan.
Now, I called him Nutter Nathan, because at the time I thought he was completely off his rocker. I mean, this dude had energy for days, conspiracy theories for weeks, and zero filter. Looking back, maybe he was just a little misunderstood... or maybe he was actually just nuts. Jury’s still out.
So Tino and I became thick as thieves again—partners in crime, partners in everything. But Nathan... well, Nathan was a whole different story.
He had this weird habit of wanting to touch people in certain spots—not in a creepy way, but just because he liked the feel of skin. Yeah, I know—it sounds kinda gross, right? Like a human Velcro gone rogue.
A lot of us weren’t having it. We straight-up called him out on it, told him, “Dude, hands to yourself!” It was like we were running a personal space enforcement squad, and Nathan was our toughest case.
So Tino and I? Oh, we got into our fair share of Ms. Deeds kind of trouble—things we probably shouldn’t have done but did anyway, because hey, teenage logic.
One time, we cooked up this brilliant plan to send a letter to Fox. Yep, Fox—the big TV network. The letter basically said, “If you cancel X-Men, we will shut you down and boycott everything.”
Yeah… spoiler alert: that’s not how you handle cancellations.
I learned real quick that threatening a giant corporation is a fast track to nowhere. Especially when you’re just a couple of kids with too much time and way too much passion.
And then there was Burt Snap—my little wingman, my homie through thick and thin. We had each other’s backs like peanut butter and jelly.
When he died, just two years after he graduated, it broke my heart in ways I didn’t expect. Losing him felt like losing a part of my own story—like a chapter suddenly ripped out.
Burt was the most Christ-like person I knew in school. He was friendly, endearing, and had this gentle soul that could soften even the roughest days. He called all the girls his “kitty cat”—not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, innocent, goofy way that only Burt could pull off. He treated everyone with respect, even the ones who didn’t treat him the same.
Burt was a gamer before being a gamer was cool. And I don’t just mean he played video games for fun. Nah, he lived them. The man was totally blind—and still, he beat me in Killer Instinct my sophomore year in thirty-six seconds. I’m not exaggerating. Thirty-six seconds flat. I still don’t know how he did it. It was like playing against Daredevil with a vengeance and a Game Genie.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8vl2hIZ9qM
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Here's to Burt. The blind gamer who saw more than most. The one who beat killer instincts with killer instincts. The kitty-cat charmer. The holy prankster. The guy who taught you the gospel in pixels and pain.
Night City ain’t got enough chrome to shine like he did.
Rest in power, choomba.94Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg7maaWfibn
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and then Add to home screen.