We pulled up next to a building, which resembled a cross between a hospital and a school. Almost seventy students emptied our two busses and stood outside the main entrance of Lakeview School for Children with Multiple Disabilities watching countless wheelchair busses and an ambulance unload their students. I can’t speak for the others on the trip, but as I got closer to the building, the more anxious I grew. We were lead through the main hallway to an outdoor patio, where we chatted quietly amongst ourselves until an official from the school came over. The first thing she asked was if any of us had ever been to the school before. One student raised his hand. Oddly enough, the fact that we were, for the most part, all on the same boat calmed some of my nerves. She proceeded to ensure us that our drab and somber expressions would soon fade into those of joy and gratification. I didn’t exactly believe her, but only because the anxiety that brewed within me felt too powerful to be subsided. She then informed us that these students “aren’t any different than any of us” and that we should treat them just as we would any other person.

Once the orientation concluded, each group was escorted to their assigned classroom, uncertain of what was awaiting them behind the door. Room 15 was my assignment. My two friends and I walked in and heard “we’re going to art class,” which immediately made me feel significantly better. That’s when I looked up and saw 4 children in wheelchairs, all being tended to by their individual aid. The teacher came over, introduced herself, and quickly went around the room pointing to each child and saying his or her name.

I felt my head spin a little. I couldn’t look away from the tube going into her throat. But nevertheless, I continued to smile. I tried to convince myself that this will be easy, but hundreds of thoughts raced through my head. I waved to the young girl whose wheelchair tray was labeled 'Kelly'. She made no movements. So I waved again, smiled and said “Hi, Kelly.” Still, there was no movement. It wasn’t until I heard the vacuum-like sound emanating from her tracheal tube that I decided to direct my attention elsewhere. I shifted my focus to the back of the classroom where a young boy was lying still on an angled table. Unsure of what was taking place, I once again decided to avert my attention, but this time to something unrelated, as to eliminate the possibility of me offending anyone. The teacher’s voice telling my friends and I to follow her to art class came at the right time.

So the three of us did just that. I kept my eyes on the ground, worried that I would see something that I was not used to. As we sauntered into the art room, I began looking around. A good amount of my anxiety was pacified by the fairly familiar surroundings of the classroom. Covered in colorful works of art, it was certainly indicative of any typical elementary school art room. As we awaited the arrival of the students from Room 15, we were each asked about our plans for the future. Small talk always calms me down.

One by one, three students were wheeled in and each placed at one of two tables. I sat opposite Justin, Junior, and their aids. The art teacher passed out the projects that the children worked on throughout the school year, just as my art teachers have done every year during the final class. While waiting for the rest of the students to join us, we were introduced to the story of Laurel Burch, an artist who struggled with her health. She was born with the rare disease of Osteopetrosis. As we were discussing Burch’s life, four more students joined the class. I now sat aside a young girl, Alise. At this point, I felt confident that I knew what to expect from the following 2 hours, making me feel content and much less susceptible to the anxiety, which I had felt earlier.

Each student had a picture of a cat placed in front of them and was instructed to use the materials on the tables to decorate the cat however they pleased. Confused as to why I received the cat rather than Alise, I naturally assumed that my job was to design the cat in a way that Alise would like. Completely unaware of Alise’s abilities and inabilities, I asked her what her favorite color was. No response. So I asked her aid, to which she responded “Uh, pink and purple.” I thought that response on it’s own was a bit peculiar, but payed little mind to it. I reached for the bowl of scrap paper and began to place pieces of pink and purple paper onto the cat in a mosaic like fashion. Not sure how to include Alise in the project, I began to speak to her. Her aid interjected and told me that she can’t speak and both her auditory and optical senses are rather weak. In addition, she had very little control over her limbs. So in an attempt to make the project as interactive as possible, I faced Alise and tried to look up as often as I could to smile at her, even though she couldn’t really see me.

Once art class was over, we were led back to Room 15. Upon walking in, I noticed the plastic toy bowling pins that covered the table everyone was sitting around. I sat next to Kelly and Alise. The game itself was similar to hot potato, but instead of losing the game, when the music stops the person with the ball must try to knock over as many pins as they can by throwing the ball. The concept of the game sounds simple enough, yes? I thought so­­­­ until I saw that all of the students were incapable of even holding the ball. This pained me to see. Watching as each child struggled was beyond difficult. I didn’t want to hurt them or move them in a way that they may find uncomfortable, but I kept hoping that even just one of them would be able to grip the ball. Of course, it wasn’t possible, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish, just for one of those children to have full control of one limb, the ability to see, hear, speak, eat, or breath.

Countless times the ball was passed from aid to volunteer, while brusquely coming in contact with a child’s hand. As Alise and I waited, I reached my hand out to touch hers. She did nothing, as I expected. But then something beautiful happened. Alise gripped my finger. That’s all it took. Gentle human contact was all Alise needed. Alise didn’t ask anything of me. But when she felt my hand touch hers, she found the power to thank me. That was the most genuine and adorable sign of gratitude that I could ever imagine receiving.

She was right. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Spending the day at Lakeview School was not only fulfilling, it was life changing.