Choosing Lessons

Ruby and Sadie had been on an expedition. We were staying at the Residence Inn up in Gravenhurst because I was teaching down in Barrie the first of two Summer School courses. The girls mom, Marissa, is taking the classes this year because she's thinking of a change in career. So for the rest of the month we'll all be bunking up there a couple days each week. The kids love the opportunity to be there, the grounds are lovely, the hotel staff friendly and Gravenhurst really is a summer playground for kids. During their trip to the beach, Ruby collected some small shiny stones that fully captured her imagination.

When we pulled up to the beach, where their Dad had taken them in the afternoon, they were in full play. The girls ran excitedly to their mom, returning from school and waved to us beckoning us to join them on the sand.

I don't do sand.

I don't like sand.

So I just waved from the safety of the car. As we were pulling out, leaving them to get on with their play, Ruby called out, "I found some gems and a seashell!!" Her voice was full of excitement and enthusiasm. I called back that she could show us back at the hotel. "OK!!" was the response and the deal was set.

Later we looked at what she'd collected. She was carrying them all in her swimming mask and carefully pointed out the sea shell first and then, with her voice full of tremulous excitement, the beautiful gems that she had found. The 'gems' were stones that had been polished over time by waves, by sand and by sun. They gleamed in the light. They were beautiful, she clearly has an eye that sees what other people step over.

At breakfast she had brought one of the stones with her. Though it was now dry, it still had the feel of something polished and the look of something cherished. I looked at it with her and she pointed out a line of white that ran through the stone. An older fellow coming by with a plate full of breakfast asked, in a friendly manner, what held our interest. Ruby held the stone out to him saying, "I found a gem." He looked at it and told her that it was beautiful.

Then he switched his gaze to me and said, "One day she'll learn the difference between gems and rocks, eh?"

Funny how adults talk about children, in front of them, as if they aren't there, or as if they can't hear, or as if they can't understand. Well Ruby was there, did hear and completely understood. Ruby, now a five year old with a voice of her own, simply said, "What if I don't want to learn that?"

He laughed as if she had made a joke.

What made me really, really proud, was that she, most definitely, wasn't joking.

Tagged

There is this commercial that played on television here in Canada a while ago. In it a child asks her mom, in an 'eeeew' kind of way, what a little bit of extra skin on her neck was. Her mother tells her, with the same tones that she would announce leukemia, 'it's a skin tag honey.' Then some miracle product that will rid her of the blight is promoted.

Well, I felt I was living that commercial. We were in the hotel room and both girls had been in 'the chair of death' four times, had played 'throw across the bed onto a mound of pillows' countless times, and were now into being tossed into the air. Ruby, just before a toss, noticed that I have one of those, admittedly a small one, beside my left eye. In an act eerily similar to the ad, she pointed and said, 'Dave, what's that?' Actually, I take that back, she didn't have the 'you have dog poo on your face' tone of voice of the commercial, she asked with curiosity.

I said, 'it's called a skin tag,' realizing as I said it that I only knew what it was called because of the commercial. If it hadn't been for the commercial I would have said, 'oh, it's nothing' because that's kind of what it is. Anyways, Ruby considered it for a moment and then said, 'So God put that there so Joe would know how much he had to pay for you.'

It was a wonderfully funny moment. Ruby has always been funny, often unintentionally so. But this was a full out Ruby joke, play on words and all. Later, we were telling her mother, who had been at work that day, about it over dinner. Ruby loves hearing 'Ruby stories' so she listened and laughed with us again. Joe made the remark, 'And 44 years later I'm still paying.'

I was about to make a remark about the fact that the price was high because he was being charged by the pound, and stopped myself. I looked at Ruby's face, laughing, enjoying having been the instigator of all this adult chatter. Suddenly I knew, deeply knew, that her joke was so completely free of 'meaness' that if I made the wieght remark and started to turn her lovely joke towards a judgement of who I was, it would betray her intent.

She had made a joke about me.

The Dave that she loves.

And that guy is valued.

So, I turned back the biggest bully I have in my life - my self - silenced the remark, and just laughed.

Something To Think About

Dinner was over. Ruby was a bit restless, Sadie was still in the washroom with her mother. We went outside and Ruby crawled up in my lap and we sped along Dalhousie Street going for a ride. It had rained, a wicked hard rain, earlier and the streets had that wonderful, fresh, just washed smell. We got to the corner, turned around and headed back. Ruby was chatting with me, she's a talker, and laughing as we veered around the broken concrete on the sidewalk.

I really like these moment of sheer abandon, doing something that means nothing at all. Ruby loves them too. Sadie is also a new convert to the joys of having a friend in a wheelchair. At times I look like a float with one on my lap the other riding on the back of the chair. It's wonderful fun these trips. Wonderful, wonderful fun. I know I'm lucky. I know it. But something happened that shook me, to the core, shook me.

As we were riding back, I noticed a man, sitting in the shade of the building on a small step. He had a frayed Tim's cup beside him with the word 'Coins' pencilled on the inside white of the cup. He was watching us. Not staring at us, watching us, there is a mighty difference between those two things. As I approached, he waved to Ruby who didn't notice him as she had caught sight of her parents and Joe having come out of the restaurant. I didn't want him to feel ignored, and I knew that wasn't Ruby's intent, so I nodded acknowledgement of his greeting.

As I drove by, he spoke.

What he said was maybe the most profoundly sad thing I've ever heard.

"I was happy once too," he said.

Rudolph Guides More Than a Sleigh

"Do you want to talk to Ruby?" asked Mike. She had been watching 'Rudolf the Red Nosed Raindeer' on television and was willing to talk because the show was paused. I told him that I'd like to  and she came on the phone full of reindeer and reindeer games. She explained with the zeal of a scientist who'd made a discovery, that Rudolph was born with his red nose. We talked, and she occasionally sang, through the story. Then she said that most of the kids in her school like Rudolph because he helped Santa get through the storm and deliver presents.

In Ruby's view of the world, the important part of the song, isn't the end. "The other reindeer laughed at him, and called him names, they wouldn't let him play with them when they played their games!' she explained to me. "Just because his nose was different. They were bullies and they hurt Rudolph's feelings."

I'm afraid I didn't handle this discussion well, as I was unprepared for it and so I focused on the ending. "But in the end they all loved him, and shouted out with glee!" There was a pause, "But Rudolph will always remember that they called him names, he will always remember they wouldn't play with him. When that girl was mean to me, she likes me now, but I still remember."

I turned more serious and said, "Yes, it's nice that they came to see Rudolph as having something to offer, but he will always be different from them and will always remember what they did."

The conversation took a sudden shift. Ruby told me that she'd bought for her Dad a tall Rudolph decoration and it has a red nose. She said it wasn't Rudolph when he was a boy but when he's a Dad. "Do you think that any of Rudolph's children have red noses?" I asked, and she said, certainly, "No." And then the conversation trialed off.

Just before I hung up she said, "Um, Dave ..."

"Yes?"

"If Rudolph has a child with a red nose too, he'd have to love him a lot at home because he's going to get teased a lot at school, right?"

"Yes, Rudolph's little reindeer child would need to know that he was loved for his red nose and he'd need to understand why the other reindeer teased him."

"That's right!" she said.

After we hung up and I told Joe about the conversation, he said, "You know exactly where your next conversation with her will start, don't you."

I nodded.

It's time Ruby realized why bullies bully, and I'm ready for the question.

Ruby's Question

A few weeks back, last time we saw Ruby, she was sitting with me working on a colouring book. She asked me, quietly, if I loved her. I told her that I did, because, in fact, I do. She glanced at me and asked, 'Why?' I was a bit stuck for an answer. I'm not often lost for words, but this kid can do that to me, easily. I just grinned at her, gave her a hug and said, 'You know why.' She laughed but I knew she wasn't really satisfied with my answer.

It gave me pause to think. Why do I love her?

I don't love her because she's a 'good girl' ... because that would mean that I love her conditionally. That when she's 'good' she's loved, that when she's 'bad' she's not.

I don't love her because she's really pretty ... because that would mean that I love her, and value her, for something completely arbitrary.

I don't love her because she's smart ... because that would mean that I love her more with a good report card than with a modest one.

I don't love her for those reasons.

We are seeing her this weekend and I've been determined to remind her of the conversation and give her an answer. All the 'typical' answers just seem so wrong to me. They don't accurately sum up my feelings about her at all. This swam through my mind yesterday as a few people sat around in the 'warming area' for the International Day of Disabled people. We, strangers most, sat around in a small circle and chatted. We laughed. We shared information. We 'compared notes'. And I thought, a tiny little thought it was too, 'I love being here right now.'

Later, I thought about that. I loved, not what made us all the same, but what made each person different. It was exciting to talk of a commonality of experience from a diversity of differences. We, all, disabled people are not alike, not one of us. But in our difference is our commonality, in diversity is community.All this was swimming around in the stew of my mind and then suddenly Ruby's little question, 'Why?' popped into my mind.

And I know the answer.

I love Ruby for what makes her different.

Different from every other 5 year old girl.

I love the way one strand of her hair always falls across her face when she's working.

I love the way she pushes it back using her whole hand.

I love the way she always peeks in to see us before she tries to surprise us that she's here.

I love the way she always says 'um' before our names when she's going to ask a question. 'Um, Dave' or 'Um, Joe' is always the start of an interesting chat.

I love the way she kicks off her boots as soon as she can when she comes in.

I love the way she holds tight to the back of my wheelchair as I wheel around.

I love the way she asks me 'why' about things.

I love the way the 'whys' always make me think.

In a society that seems to loathe difference, I think it's interesting that on a tiny little level, the level of 'two' it is difference that makes the difference. But when two becomes four, or, more probably when four becomes eight - difference is greeted, suddenly, with hate. I don't know if it's math or alchemy, but what is loved in another becomes hated in all others.

But, I'm saying none of that to Ruby.

I'm just going to tell her I love her because of everything she does that makes her completely and uniquely Ruby. I'm going to tell her that I love her for everything that makes her different. I'm going to tell her that she's not like any other person I know, and I love her for everything that makes that true.

I really want her to understand this.

Because one day, while we are still two, she will be eight.

And by then I want her to love me, and all my differences, because, and precisely because of those differences.

At eight I don't want her to see me and my differences and wonder, why, just a few years before she loved me, and loved me true, and wanted to know why I loved her too.

A Sermon from Ruby

For those of you who do not like posts with faith based content, this may not be a good one to read. It's a Ruby story that I really want to tell.

She was in the back of our car on the way for a McDonald's breakfast. Her parents and Sadie were in the van following. She loves to ride with us and TALK!! She's a chatterbox, but luckily, one with things to say. She was telling us about driving into the city the night before and seeing the CN tower. "It goes all the way up to the clouds," she told us excitedly. We were captured by her excitement and told her that the next time she came to town for a few days, we'd take her up the tower. "Sadie, too," she said, fiercely protective of her little sister. "Yes, of course, Sadie too," we reassured her.

She said that she wanted to go up the CN tower and be in the clouds to, "talk to God". It seems that God lives in the clouds so it just stood to reason that He'd be up there waiting to chat with 5 year old girls. I asked her what she would say to God. Here's the conversation that followed:

"I'd tell him I love his kid."

"Oh, and who is God's kid?"

She paused, horrified that we didn't know, "Jesus," she said simply.

"Oh, OK," I said.

She thought for a second and then, deciding that since we didn't know who God's kid was, she'd better fill us in on the rest of the story, "God came down to earth, this was before I was born, and walked around and stuff."

She actually imparted this information to us as if it was indeed, "Good news."

"Why did God come down to earth?" I asked.

Only a slight pause and then, "To see if we were taking care of everything right."

Our chat ended there and I called our friend Belinda who is a woman of deep faith because I knew she'd enjoy chatting with Ruby about God. So we asked Ruby if she'd like to talk to our friend, she nodded gravely. I dialed the number and then Belinda and she chatted for a bit. It was terrific hearing their second had conversation.

I wondered how God would indeed feel, if he dropped in to check and see how well we were taking care of things, taking care of each other, taking care of our responsibilities. I didn't go too far with those thoughts because they would have been unproductive. I wondered further, how well was I taking care of my responsibilities and my relationships and my requirements. On good days, I think I'm trying hard, on bad days, I just think I'm trying.

Over the next few weeks, I'm going to have all sorts of opportunities to be tried ... did you notice that 'tried' is an anagram for 'tired' - there is a reason for that I think ... and I hope I remember that I'm called to 'take care of things, of people and of moments.' Here's to remembering that in moments are the opportunities we have to make a difference. And here's to trying hard to remember that one of the jobs we have as humans is to take care of the things we were given and the people who come our way.

Costume Drama

She was excitedly telling me about being out trick or treating in her Princess Amidala costume. They had gone the the mall, full of thousands of kids and parents, and were having a blast. Ruby loves dressing up to look like a princess so she was over the moon with her fancy dress. "Everyone liked my costume," she said excitedly, "they were all looking at me ..."

Suddenly, she stopped.

Just stopped.

Now Ruby is a talker and when she is into a story, she is INTO a story. It is unusual for her to abruptly stop mid sentence. I stayed quiet on the other end of the phone and waited. I knew she must be thinking. We were both quiet for a moment and then she said, softly, "they were just looking at me, not staring so it was OK." That clarified, she went on to describe the rest of her evening.

I found it interesting, though I didn't comment on it to her, that she wanted me to understand her experience properly, that she wanted to make it clear that she understood the difference between being looked at and being stared at, that she had learned - and I guess from being with me - that one is good, that the other is not.

I felt sad inside a little bit. Sad that she, at so young an age has had to learn the ways of discrimination and of social cruelty. That she, by being with me, is subject to 'second hand staring' and the violence of 'second hand judgements'. That she, by virtue of a relationship that she did not choose, is exposed to both the best of people (for surely she sees kindness too) and the worst of people (she hates how I am sometimes treated and how her association with me is not always greeted kindly). It makes me sad that she has had to learn this, it makes me sadder that the world she is growing into is marked as much by intolerance and hatred as it is by warmth and welcome. Sad indeed.

A few weeks ago, Ruby was approached by the Junior Kindergarten teacher to see if she, all the way up in Senior Kindergarten, would come and spend time with kids who had just started and were having difficulty adjusting to being in school and away from home. She eagerly went and showed the new kids how cool it was to be in class and to get to play and have fun. Last year she won the citizenship award for her kindness to others in the classroom. Her tradition of caring has continued.

And she showed it again, in conversation with me. I've never really talked to her about those who stare at me. I've never pointed it out. I've just hoped that she didn't see it so that she wouldn't have to deal with it. But, of course, she sees what's around her. And she must see that sometimes it hurts me. This is why, I believe, she stopped and assured me that she was being 'looked at' not 'stared at' and that she was OK. She wanted to be careful to describe her experience by putting it into context, not the context of discrimination but the context of delight.

She's five.

Just five. Fresh five. And she knows that staring is hurtful.

So why.

Really why.

Don't those who are fifteen and fifty and fifty five seem to know?