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, living on campus with other students.
We had two house parents: Mr. Coleman and Miss Dixon.
Mr. Coleman? Cool as a cucumber. Chill, fair, and someone you could talk to.
Miss Dixon… well, she was a jerk. No polite way to put it. 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—a fancy way of saying you were grounded, dorm-style.
My second night back at ISB, I was way past lights-out—11:00 PM, when I was supposed to be in bed by 9. I should’ve been toast. But Mr. Coleman spotted my "Love Jesus" T-shirt, paused, 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.”
I sprinted up those stairs like they were the stairway to heaven.
The school didn’t have a chapel, but that didn’t stop some of us from gathering for Bible study. Even though it was technically against the rules, we found ways. When you’re hungry for the Word, you find a way to get fed.
Miss Dixon? She was on a whole power trip. One winter day, a kid went to grab his coat to go home. 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. She snaps:
“Fine! I’m calling your mom. She’s gonna kick your ass anyway.”
Petty. Controlling. Not someone you'd want on your morning shift.
Where there’s no chapel, the faithful will build one out of shadows. We had the “Underdark”—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, reading, praying, or just sitting quietly, feeling God near. Inevitably, we’d get caught, 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 night, during an Underdark gathering, we got caught. Bibles half-open, eyes wide. We expected Miss Dixon or someone ready to hand out restrictions. But it was Mr. Coleman.
“Now technically... I should tell y’all to scatter,” he said.
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 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 about the poor in spirit, the meek, the peacemakers. Just kids, sitting on cold concrete steps, reading words that had lit fires in hearts for over two thousand years, and witnessing grace in real time.
But ISB wasn’t all holy stairwells. The food was… memorable. When I first got there, the gravy was green. Not a nice herb-green, either—suspiciously broccoli-colored, plotting its revenge.
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“Nah, I’m not ready to see God today.”
Even the other students poked it with a fork, like it might come to life. We never figured out why it was green. I moved on to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—life’s little survival tactic.
My teacher at the time, Miss Neubert, was pretty cool. Kept things moving, didn’t take nonsense, had a sense of humor tucked under her sleeve. One classmate, Andy Jones, had a habit of making “funky Braille signs”—lumpy, unreadable, like Braille had partied too hard. Miss Neubert would sigh, shake her head, and go:
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“Did I, Miss Neubert?”380Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4msbD1lmlS
“Yep.”
It was a running gag, but it also showed her high standards, even with goofballs like us.
Miss Dixon, on the other hand, loved to push buttons. One time, I was practicing piano, just me and the keys. She strolls by, arms folded, and says:
“You’re good. If you spent more time on the piano and less on the computer, you might actually make something of yourself.”
I looked her dead in the eye and said,
“Just for that… I ain’t ever playing for you again.”
She slapped me with two nights of room restriction. News flash: it didn’t crush my spirit. I sat there with the peace of a monk and the fire of a Baptist preacher. Grandma shook her head and said,
“Yeah... that was kind of a jerk move on her part.”
Miss Dixon once called Grandma accusing me of stealing the dorm’s copy of Super Mario Brothers. Excuse me? I had my own copy at home. Brand new. In the box. Grandma came swinging:
“My grandson is not a thief. And how dare you accuse him without proof.”
She reported Dixon to the school. Dixon doubled down, threatening to laugh at me the next year. She predicted I’d move to C Dorm—eighth grade, new year. Same old me, just a little wiser.
C Dorm? Mr. Odom and Miss King ran it—a breath of fresh mercy. They didn’t treat me like a problem. They saw me, respected me, liked me. God had gone ahead, laid the groundwork.
Miss King and I bonded over Jimmy Cagney impressions. I could scrunch my face, point my finger, and belt out:
“You dirty rat… you killed my brother… now you’re gonna get it!”
She nearly fell over laughing. That moment set the tone. She saw me, not just a blind kid, but someone with spark, humor, heart… maybe a little old-school swagger.
That summer, during ISB’s program, I met Valentino G. Hensley. We clicked instantly. Thick as thieves. Then came the betrayal—he told my girlfriend something he shouldn’t have. Cold air between us. But he apologized, owned it, and we patched things up. The problem wasn’t between us—it was Renee. She’d been two-timing both of us. We double-dumped her. Coordinated. Precision heartbreak.
Then there was Nathan—“Nutter Nathan.” Weird, hyper, zero filter, loved touching people randomly. We had to enforce personal space like a mini SWAT team.
Tino (Valentino) and I got into our fair share of mischievous trouble. One plan: sending a letter to Fox, threatening them if they canceled X-Men. Spoiler: it didn’t work.
And Burt Snap… my wingman, my homie. He died just two years after graduation. Broke my heart. Christ-like, sweet, goofy. Called everyone “kitty cat” in the most innocent way. Blind, yet beat me at Killer Instinct in thirty-six seconds. A legend.
Here’s to Burt—the blind gamer who saw more than most, the kitty-cat charmer, the holy prankster, the guy who taught the gospel in pixels and pain. Night City ain’t got enough chrome to shine like he did. Rest in power, choomba.
You see, Burt was a special little dude. He had cancer. But you’d never know it from the way he carried himself. He never yelled, never cried. He just… was. One day, something in me said, go check on your homey. And when I got there, I found his aunt hitting him—making him crawl, make his own bed, and battering him with his own wheelchair. My blood ran cold. I ran and grabbed his house parent. She told his aunt,
“You can’t come here anymore. I’ll call his dad and tell him about this.”
His aunt snapped, “Fine. I didn’t want to bring him anyway. It’s his damn fault for missing the bus.”
Burt… he deserved better. Always.
That’s why I wrote “Rest in power, choomba.” He would have loved today’s video games. I can picture an alternate timeline where he’s cured, laughing at Minecraft builds on Discord, or arguing about anime, and I’m right there with him. I miss my little wingman.
Burt was more than just my friend—he was my homie, my partner in crime, my gaming rival. He was Christ-like in how he treated people: kind, goofy, sweet, with a soul that could soften even the hardest days. He called all the girls his “kitty cat”—not in a weird way, just his own goofy charm. And he gamed like a legend. Totally blind, and yet he beat me in Killer Instinct in thirty-six seconds. I’m not exaggerating. Thirty-six seconds flat. It was like playing Daredevil with a vengeance and a Game Genie.
A few years after he died, after I had graduated, I went through a dark time. The devil was messing with my head, playing tricks, making me think it was Burt’s spirit asking for help. He whispered awful things—that his aunt had killed him by giving him cancer, that certain poisons could act like cancers. Those lies ate at me. I became despondent in my faith. I even considered Wicca, thinking maybe if God wouldn’t give me answers, something else might.
But my friend Melven said, “No, Jeremy. Don’t give up your faith.”
And somehow, those words cut through the fog. It was like someone lit a candle in the dark.
Burt was my wingman in life, in games, in everything. Losing him felt like a piece of my own story was ripped out. But the memory of him—the joy he carried, the kindness he radiated, the sheer brilliance of his spirit—keeps lighting the way.
So here’s to Burt. The blind gamer who saw more than most. 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.
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and then Add to home screen.