IAQCWMCDTYVM Syndrome

Mother was old, but strong old. Daughter was well past middle age and gracefully so. They gave me such hope. Real, down deep, personal hope. You see, I am never comfortable when being stared at. And yet, I've been stared at all my life. First just for being ginormously fat, second for being fat in a wheelchair. It bugs me. It irks me. It pisses me off. And if I told the absolute truth, it hurts me, a little bit, every time. I grit my teeth, I speak up - stop staring it's rude, and of course, internally, I hurt myself a little.

We are on vacation and staying at a lovely hotel in Gravenhurst. Mike and his family have a suite as do Joe and I. We start our morning by meeting in the lobby area where there is a hot, free, breakfast. I hadn't noticed mother and daughter at first as I pulled in to the table. I never look at people when arriving in a room. I wait after I've splashed into the social pool until the ripples of stares and comments die down. So when I looked up, I noticed that I wasn't the only person being stared at ... so I followed the gaze and found a woman dignified and gray, sitting at a table with her elderly mother. She had Down Syndrome, her mother had 'I Am Quite Comfortable With My Child's Difference Thank You Very Much Syndrome' otherwise known as IAQCWMCDTYVM Syndrome.

They had breakfast and chatted quietly with each other. I wondered, as I always do in these moments, if mother had any inkling of the quiet loving bond that would have them sharing time and space years later, when the child was born. But what struck me was the incredible quiet dignity that they carried themselves with. They knew of the stares and managed, like I have never done, to rise completely above both the intent and the inspiration for the stares. Their dignity was like a force field that had starers glance away embarrassed at their own actions. Like suddenly finding you have snot on your shirt when greeting the Queen.

I knew that years of hurt feelings brought them to this place of grace. I knew that stares once penetrated and hurt both, for different reasons. But here they were noticed and then in studied determination, not noticed. I want what they had. Grace and dignity, poise and composure - a force field of personal strength and integrity. I want that. Please can I have it? I'd like it wrapped as a gift but I think it can't be bought, it has to be earned through endurance.

Though I did not, myself stare, we did notice each other, mother and daughter and I. We nodded. Me from my island of difference. They from theirs. On their way out they stopped and said to Mike and Marissa: you have a lovely family. Their words of praise brought grins to all at the table. Mike said to mother, 'You do too.' She smiled and nodded, tears forming in her eyes. She took the compliment, tucked it in her purse and took it back to her room.

I'm guessing they're saving it until, in a weak moment should they still have them, they need it.

First Day of Vacation: Ruby's Realization

I knew she'd like it the moment I saw it. Joe and I had gone shopping for some fun games to bring on our vacation. I wanted games for laughing and games for learning. The laughing game we picked out right away. It's this pirate in a barrel, you stick in swords until you prick the pirates bum and he flies out of the barrel. It's hysterical and really, though it says it's for four year olds, wildly funny. Ruby took to it right away. Every time the pirate shot into the air she screamed with delight. We were playing the game.

Earlier we had checked with Mike and Marissa about their plans on the day we all leave. Two friends were planning on coming up and joining us for breakfast and we wanted to be sure they'd still be here, not leaving early. They assured us that they weren't in a rush to get back. Ruby listened to this conversation with fascination. She asked Joe, with no humour in her voice, 'You have friends?'

We both found the question very, very funny. Joe assured Ruby that we did indeed have friends. Then she wanted to know all about Belinda and Susan and we answered her questions. She was hoping that they were coming the next day because she was deeply curious about who these people were who were our friends. It was almost that she thought that our social world wasn't much bigger than her and her family.

As we were playing the game she asked me if my friends were in wheelchairs too. I told her that, no, neither Belinda or Susan used a wheelchair. 'Are you going to play this game with your friends?' she asked, sticking a sword into the barrel. 'I'm playing with a friend right now,' I said. Her eyes widened, 'Who?' she asked.

'Why, I'm playing with you and you are my friend,' I explained.

She looked at me gravely as she considered this new definition of our relationship, 'We're friends?' she asked unsure of this. I don't think she'd ever paused to think of who Joe and I are in her life. We are not related to her in the traditional sense even though she treats us and we treat her like grandparent and grandchild.

Finally she said, 'That's good. We're friends.'

Then, after the pirate had leapt from the barrel she asked, 'Are your friends little girls too?'

That struck me funny on so many levels but I simply said ... no, no, I don't think I'll tell you what I said.

Bone Deep

We only had a few items so we were in the 'less than' aisle of the grocery store. There was only one person ahead of us. I paid no attention to her as I dumped out items on the conveyor belt. Only when the bag was empty did I notice that she was busy with the clerk trying to send money through Western Union. The clerk hadn't done it very often and was taking a very long time. The woman wasn't from Canada and the clerk was suspicious of her Identification Card.

Finally Joe, who was standing behind me, leaned over and whispered, pass them over to me in the next aisle. I then saw that that lane was free so I picked the groceries up one at a time and handed them over to him and he then placed them on that belt. The woman looked at me and almost cried with frustration. I knew she felt bad about taking so long.

Now, in truth, I had been bickering in my head about this. I always get in the line with someone who NEEDS something and takes FOREVER. Why does this ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?? In truth, I was saying nasty things about the wait. Then she looked at me with apology in her eyes. In a second I managed to think, 'It's Saturday, you aren't in a rush, you are comfortably seated in your wheelchair, what difference does this time make?'

So I said, 'Don't worry, everyone has a right to get their business done.' She smiled a genuine smile. She then stepped back so I could drive by. I waited for Joe and then we wandered through the food court for a bit before deciding to have lunch at home. As I was leaving she rushed up to me and spoke.

"Thank you for your kindness. You don't know what it meant to me to be treated so nicely right then. You must be a truly wonderful man.' Then she, impulsively hugged me. I'm not a hugger. But I let her hold on to me for a second. I could almost feel the sea of despair around her. I felt strong, like a rock, and when she needed me no more she let go. Brushed tears from her eyes and ran off.

All the way home I kept thinking about how she thought I was someone I wasn't. I had thought of her with annoyance even though I spoke to her with kindness. I wished I was who she thought I was. I want to learn to be authentically kind all the way through - beauty may be skin deep but kindness goes to the bone.

I hope she's well.

Requiem For A Giant: Winifred Kempton

Customs was suspicious of her. I was working, many, many years ago for what is now called Community Living Toronto as an instructor in a day programme. It had been decided to offer sex education to the men of the programme. Yes, you read that right, to the MEN of the programme. A search for curricula turned up only one. Life Horizons by Winifred Kempton, it had therefore been ordered. However, Customs held on to it for a suspiciously long time. The curriculum was based on photographs turned into slides. The pictures were graphic, erections were erect, a big black arrow pointed to the clitoris. The pictures were not, however, in any way salacious. They were, though, for the time - a bit shocking.

Finally the kit arrived and I set about figuring out how to use a slide projector and practiced the script that went with the photos. I tried really hard to be mature but I was in my twenties and wildly excited about the opportunity to teach something of meaning. Amongst my other classes was the incredibly exciting 'numbers' class, replete with spongy puzzles and wooden cut outs. This, to me, was something meaningful.

I struggled through the class and the fellows bore with me. They managed to learn a bit about their bits. I managed to learn a lot about teaching. Together, we both benefited. I remember looking at the name Winifred Kempton and wondering who this woman was. This woman who created a curriculum that was clear and unashamed. This woman who had set the standard for sex education for people with disabilities at the very highest level. I never imagined that one day I would meet her.

After lecturing and writing on sexuality for some years, I was invited to a conference where many of the North American leaders in sex, sexuality and sex education for people with disabilities would be presenting. I was awestruck to be amongst their number. Winifred had continued, from that first curriculum, to write, to publish and to lead. Her path was, by then, already long. Her accomplishments, by then, enormous. We all met for dinner and Winifred was properly seated at the head of the table. I was seated at her right hand. She turned to me and spoke.

I heard her voice but not her words. All I could think was "Winifred Kempton is talking to me, this is Winifred Kempton talking and she's talking to me.' She paused and I knew that I was to say something. Finally I found my voice and said, 'I thought you were kind of like Betty Crocker, I didn't think you really existed.' She laughed and I followed up with, 'Can I touch you?' I reached out my forefinger and poked at her elbow. Luckily she was charmed not disturbed by my little outburst. I then told her about that class and about Canadian customs and about how much I admired her. It was a lovely, lovely, evening.

Over the years we met several times. We even shared the podium once and gave a talk together. She enjoyed my style and I enjoyed her substance. For a little woman, her words carried a great deal of weight. She told of her fight for the right of sexuality and sex education for a population denied the right to knowledge of their bodies, the power of their hearts and the depth of their souls. She understood exactly what sexuality was and exactly it's role in human development. Her wisdom shone even though her voice was beginning to fail her.

Once we were talking and she shared with me that her husband was beginning to have real trouble with his memory. She loved this man and her voice was full of what he meant to her. She said, 'He has trouble with his memory, mine works fine. I have trouble with my hands, his work fine. Together we make it, because together we are completely whole.' No wonder she understood love and the power of relationships. No wonder indeed.

We talked occasionally over the years but, as things happen, we hadn't spoken for a couple of years. She was busy with her life and I with mine. Life has a way of continuing as if there will always be time for one more conversation, one more meeting, one more moment together. But it's a pretence. Life does come to an end.

Winifred died on August 4th. I do not know why the sky did not fall. It should have. I do not know why church bells did not ring out across the land. They should have. I do not know why I had to find out in an email. I should have heard the news passed to me by a hundred thousand grieving lips. A woman who changed the world has died. A woman who had the courage to stand up to bias and bigotry has passed on. This world is forever different because Winifred walked upon it.

I am not overstating this woman's importance to the field of intellectual disability. She is the giant upon who's shoulders we stand. People with disabilities owe her a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.

That first day of classes with those men in that darkened room, I began work that Winifred had made possible. Those men grew comfortable in their bodies because of a little woman with courage, a little woman with a lion's heart.

That first meeting where I poked her arm, I began a relationship that would lead to wonderful and sparkling conversations sprinkled over many years. That conversation has now ended.

Winifred.

Kempton.

I cannot believe that I had the privilege to meet her. The privilege to say ...

Winifred Kempton was a friend of mine.

On Waking

Today I woke with hope in my heart.

I woke believing in myself, my life and my mission. I woke believing that the tasks I had to do, I'd be equal to doing. I woke believing that goodness was at the core of humanity. It's a nice way to wake. Breakfast tasted tastier. The bus ride seemed somehow bus-ier. And because I had hope in my heart I noticed things.

The person, who for no good reason, was inexplicably kind to me. Kindness without pity. Kindness without expectation. Simply kind. I really noticed that act of generosity.

The smell of chocolate chip cookies, almost every morning I ride by an enormous bakery, and every morning the smell of cake perfumes the air. This morning, though, they were making chocolate chip cookies. I really noticed the difference in the air. It was crunchy with scent.

The dog who lost control and while his owner looked on horrified he leapt up on to me wanting to plant a big kiss on my cheek. I laughed like a baby as I gave him a hug and scratched his ears. We both ignored her. He, her entreaties to get down. Me, her apologies for a dog gone temporarily mad. What I really noticed was the feel of sun on his fur.

"Walk light is on for all crossings.' That mechanical voice that invites pedestrians to cross the street in any direction. We always time our trips wrongly so that we miss the opportunity to legally jaywalk from one corner to another. But today, we arrived and were welcomed to make 'all crossings'. So, though we were intending to go simply south to north, we crossed from southwest to northeast. And I noticed how much fun it was to change plans for no other reason than 'because'.

Her sunhat, fashionable still, flew in the breeze. She spun her electric wheelchair around, careening around the plants and the benches along the mall's laneway. She laughed as she went by, 'Don't you just love these floors?' she said. And I noticed how good it was to be noticed simply for sharing difference.

I woke with hope in my heart in the morning and my whole day was one of noticing. Noticing that there were little pleasures waiting to be savoured. Hope is like a corrective lens that lets you see the world differently, both in and with sharp relief.

The Neighbour

Today is the last day of work before vacation. I'm typing this about an hour before the bus comes to pick me up. I have a few things to do today that, if not done, will creep into my mind throughout the vacation and steal peace from me. I admit it I'm a worry-wart. More than that I take small concerns and turn them into giant catastrophes. I've learned then, to try to sweep up concerns with a very industrious broom and dump them into the 'finished with' bin.

Knowing myself isn't always a pleasant thing, sometimes it's like having an annoying neighbour whose habits are grating but, well, what do you do, they live next door and you can't avoid them. So, instead I develop coping mechanisms and end up talking to myself about myself in the third person, 'Get this done or he'll bug you about it for the whole holiday.' 'Make that phone call or he'll make you feel guilty about it for days and days.' This is probably a weird way to go about life but, it works. I get things done and avoid that carping inner voice who believes that nagging and guilt are a form of helping.

On Sunday we meet up with Mike, Marissa, Ruby and Sadie for the rest of the week. We were talking on the phone last night and Ruby came on to talk. I asked her if she was looking forward to the vacation. She said, 'Yep'. What was she looking forward to, 'When the water falls' she said referring to a huge bucket that dumps water at the water park. Do you have anything you need to do before you go, I asked thinking of all the packing and getting ready, 'No.' She was completely unconcerned and already ready though not a single item of clothing or a single toy packed.

Unconcerned.

My goal is to do everything I can that will shut the neighbour up and spend time looking at the world like a 4 year old girl who hasn't a care in the world. That and nap a lot.

POC

He struggled a bit. All of us got together to review what happened at Gay Pride. I suppose the meeting could have been called a 'debriefing' but it really was a 'celebration'. Vita Community Living Services marched in the parade for the first time this year and many of our members came to participate. We went to Pride with a message about diversity and respectful language. We handed out a card which asked the reader to think about language and think about how hurtful words could be.

We were unprepared for the reception we'd get. Thousands of cards were handed out, people read them, people asked for more, people cheered us and our intent. We all told stories about the day, about significant things that happened. About people who were touched and people who were changed. For the first few moments all of those who spoke were care providers of some sort. Most had come on their day off just to celebrate, all had a story to tell.

I did not know the member sitting beside me very well but I could feel him struggle. He was working up his courage to speak, marshaling his language into form and order. I am always impressed when those with a vocabulary limited both by disability and by educational apathy use monumental will to pull sparse language over large concepts, like pulling a threadbare blanket over very cold toes.

Finally he spoke. He talked about handing the cards out and hearing people tell him that he was doing something good. He had been taken aback by the positive reception, he has not had a lot of positive reaction in his life. He said, 'It felt good down in the bottom of my soul. It felt really good.' He talked about what it meant to him to be making a change, making the world different and better for others.

The room was very quiet as he spoke. We knew that he was working hard to ensure that we all understood that it was important to him that he work towards his own liberation. That he understood how the 'R' word felt more than any of us did. That he handed those cards out with a conviction that we could only guess at. He finished speaking, saying again, that the day had meant a lot to him, that having his message printed on the card so that he could easily pass out a demand for social change.

Then in a quiet room, he said, 'Now, who wants a piece of cake.'

Two Dudes and a D...

"Dude."

"Dude, Dude."

"Dude, Dude, Dude."

I found a parking spot beside two guys, both on scooters. We sat for awhile and I finally said, 'Nice ride.' The guy who looked the youngest glanced over and says, 'This baby tops out at 6 ... that's M. P. H.'

I said, '6!'

The other guy said, 'He got his tricked out.'

We laughed.

Then we chatted.

People came in and looked over. Their minds forming all sorts of impressions, most of them probably completely wrong. All we were were three 'dudes' ... well, two dudes and a 'dud'. My years of being a dude ended when I dropped a vowel that time I had that nasty spill last year. 'I've fallen and I can't get up without the help of 6 men and a winch with a dump truck'.

Most of the time we laughed, joking about the machines. They thought that the name 'Henry' for mine sucked. I thought the fact that neither had named their sucked. They said, 'Naming your scooter is gay'. I said, 'Who first?' Then they went into gales of laughter.

Joe came along and I called him over, they both waved.

'That's my bitch,' I said.

It took several seconds for the laughter to die down.

We cripples, such a sad lot.

Exciting Announcement!!

Hello Readers,

As a result of the post entitled, Ruby's Smile, wherein I spoke about a 2 year series of articles on teaching children with disabilities skills. (Right now we are working on the 10 skills you kid needs to learn in order to develop friendships.) I recieved an email from Exceptional Family and they have decided to offer blog readers a 5$ discount on a year subscription if you identify yourself to the subscription people. Here is the email I received:

Hi Dave!

Thanks so much for positively promoting Exceptional Family magazine! We are obviously very proud of our publication, and are always happy when we have the chance to meet new people are share the word about our work.

As gesture of thanks, we’d like to offer your readers a discount on a yearly subscription to Exceptional Family (which would bring down the very affordable price from 20$ per year, to just 15$). Please just write to me to identify yourself at juliek@miriamfoundation.ca (this is the correct address, sorry about the one from before!)


Julie Klucinskas

Marketing Manager


How cool is that!?!

Two Rooms / Many Thoughts

Joe and I have a membership at the Royal Ontario Museum and we try to use it fairly often. We go over for an hour or so and look at a room. We figure it will take us a long time to see the whole thing. This weekend we popped over to see the Caribana exhibition, knowing it was only there for a few days more. We rode to the second floor and found the exhibit. I was immediately disappointed because, though the room was full of wonderful painting, I had hoped that there would be some of the wonderful costumes that the celebration is famous for, but, oh well. We started to look at the artwork and immediately forgot any disappointment.

Then we turned a corner and there was a small doorway between this gallery and another, very small room. I stopped, feeling looked at. I glanced through the door and saw a remarkable portrait hanging on the wall. The eyes did not exactly, accuse, but they were not in any way, forgiving. I have seldom been arrested by an image or a picture so I waved to Joe letting him know that I was going to investigate the room and see what was the purpose of the photographs. Entering I saw the title of the exhibit House Calls. The pictures were taken by a doctor who brought his camera along on house calls to those were were shut in or house bound.

The show was very, very small but it managed huge effect. The stories of the individuals allowed us to understand the journeys that showed on their faces. The lined faces were like road maps, some showed paths to joy, others showed highways to despair. But the eyes. They were uncompromising. These were people who knew isolation and loneliness, abandonment and neglect. These were people who created society and then, suddenly, found themselves discarded.

We spent a very long time in the room. Many others came in, many others turned immediately and left. One woman, dragging a boy of maybe 10, said, 'I don't understand why they would subject us to this kind of thing.' In my heart, I responded, 'I do.'

Afterwards we went back into the Caribana show and I loved how several of the artists incorporated words into their paintings. One was of a proud woman with big hair. Words of power and encouragement were woven into her hair making it a halo of affirmation. Another had a child reading history, and words above the child exhorted him to learn of the kings and queens and warriors of the past and then know that he will be who he is meant to be. (I apologize, I didn't bring a pen or a pencil and I am writing from memory these are my words about their words, not quotes.)

It was just to be a day of wandering and it turned into a day of thinking. About a room full of people lost and a room full of people found. Of community on one hand, of isolation on the other. We quietly left the museum thinking.

Thinking.

That's what museums are supposed to do, leave you with more than you came in with. Give you more than you expected. Have you journeying to parts of your mind and your heart and your soul that you needed to go.

And all this on a day off.

Today's Post Follows This One

Wow, it's early and already a couple of you have written for information about the series written for Exceptional Family magazine and wanting more information. Vita Community Living Services, has a 'personal development team' which I supervise as part of my role as the Director of Clinical and Educational Services. This team was created to design and or teach classes on subjects vital for personal safety or effective living. We offer, or are about to offer the following classes, Self Esteem, Anger Management, Abuse Prevention, Relationship Training, Boundaries Awareness, Rights and Responsibilities. Senseability: self advocacy for those with significant disabilities. These classes are offered both to Vita members and to those in the larger community. As a result of teaching, we have learned! Our teachers are like little mini experts in each of these fields.

We are working with Exceptional Family magazine to create a series of 8 articles (for those of you who are sharp eye'd counters, yes there are 7 classes but the Relationship Training class will cover two articles - one on relationship development and one on sexuality education.) The teams and I will work on the articles together. I will be the one constant in the articles, both because I find writing a joy and because then I can ensure a fairly consistent tone throughout.

It will take two years for all the articles to come out but our goal is to have them all written within the next several weeks. We've two down and scheduled two more, it's fun, it's exciting and I think the series will benefit parents, professionals and other care providers. Cause we're giving 'tips' and 'strategies' for teaching these concepts in everyday life - which is where the best teaching occurs.

Subscription information is found at the Exceptional Family website.

Ruby's Smile

It happened months ago and yet it's had a profound effect on me, my writing and my understanding. It was an innocent moment that touched me deeply. Ruby, now nearly four, was with us and in our care. She was trying to do something in the front room and she got frustrated. She said to herself, 'I'm just so stupid.' I was instantly upset and called her over to me. She came, being a fairly obedient child, with lip trembling with frustration. I took her by her shoulders and looked her in the eye. She knew this was serious. I said, 'You will never say anything about Ruby like that again, not here with me.' She said, with not a little bit of defiance, 'Why not?' I said, 'Because I love Ruby and no-one says anything bad about little girls that I love.' She reached up and gave me a big hug and was soon back at play.

Later on, she got frustrated again, this time she looked over at me and then a big grin spread over her face. Nothing was said but a lot was communicated.

This incident stayed in my mind. Germinating. When working with the self-esteem team at Vita on an article that is being written for Exceptional Family a Canadian magazine for parents, family and other care providers as part of a 2 year series on teaching children with disabilities skills to live in the real world, the idea made it's way in. Not just to the article but to our teaching as well. I mean why would you let your child say something about themselves that you'd not let a neighbour say, that you'd get litigious over a teacher saying? Why do they get a free pass for verbal abuse? It's not OK to demean someone I care about, and I care about you, so STOP IT.

From there, it's made it's way into my teaching. The first time I told the story of Ruby's frustration and our little confrontation, I saw eyes well up with tears in the audience. I'm thinking that this idea is way more revolutionary than I first thought. I wonder how many of those listening regularly verbally attack themselves, verbally harass and harangue their very being. I know I do. Regularly. Less regularly now. Less regularly since I had a conversation with a little girl.

I have worked really hard for many years towards the idea of safe places and safe harbours, of sanctuary. But what good is a safe place without when there isn't a safe place within? We live in the real world with real people, we are brought up with real parents with who have both skills and failings, we begin to take judgement from without and become judgemental within. Judge not lest ye also be judged may not be about eternal judgement but internal judgement. We may live a life in hell simply because we are not fit to care for ourselves, simply because we do not have the controls within that we try to exercise without. Perhaps we need to learn to treat ourselves with kindness - that is not to say that we should not have expectations of ourselves and engage in honest self evaluation. But who says that self evaluation need be cruel. Why can't failure lead to learning not lashing?

Ruby knows I love her and she knows that I will not allow her to badmouth herself. She's only 4 and at 40 she may not remember that moment and she may not remember me. But I hope she remembers the lesson and when she gets frustrated, I hope, really hope, she takes a break and then ... smiles.

The Car

For someone who spends much of his life paid to be in front of others, I don't much like being looked at. I think, maybe, because there is a huge difference between how I am perceived professionally, at the front of a room in a position of respect, and personally when living an ordinary life. In one part of my life, I am 'speaker' or even 'expert'. In another area of my life I am 'mutant' or even 'disgusting'. It sometimes gives me mental whiplash as I gear up or down between perceptions.

One thing I'm really peculiar about. I don't like to be seen getting out of a car. Because my legs and feet work differently than those of others, I have a convoluted way of exiting vehicles. I know it's graceless and I know it's awkward but I also know that it works surprisingly well. I have found that people outright stare at me while I perform my own little bit of personal gymnastics. They don't even attempt to conceal their odd interest. I get the sense of what it must have been like to be gawked at by those paying a nickle to see 'difference' in canvas tents at carnivals. It's, to me, personally painful.

It's one of those things I mentioned to Joe early on into my disability. After mentioning it, he also noticed the 'sideshow' mentality of those nearby. Without really talking much about it we've developed a kind of tag team effort to keep me safe and to frustrate the onlookers. If there is anyone around, Joe opens the door and then places himself as a block to the view of onlookers. Most of them don't have the moxie to then move around to get a better view of the 'event'.

I appreciate this more than I can say. Though I am not ashamed of my disability, I also do not want to live my life on display. Though I am not ashamed of moving differently, I do not want to perform for the interest of otherwise bored eyes. I like my privacy. I like being able to be different and unseen at the same time. I like to be seen on my terms, not to be defined on 'others'.

Getting out of a car.

Before I became a disabled guy, it was something I never thought about.

After becoming disabled, it's become something different. Something political. Something defiant.

It's like there is new meaning to movement. New meaning to what was once ordinary.

Disability - discover the nature of the new you, discover the nature of the cold stare.

Fresh: No One Was Paid For This Blog

The table sailed silently by. It followed the chair which had made it's way, on silent feet, to a nook just off the passageway. We had decided to go out for lunch to celebrate a wonderful morning. Several days ago I wrote a blog about a mitzvah, which is a term describing 'an act of kindness, goodness, or thoughtfulness given for the sheer joy of giving'. Because of chance and circumstance, I wasn't able to give that gift until Friday morning. It was well received. I was jubilant. Joe suggested that we go out for lunch to celebrate. We don't eat out much so we don't really know the restaurants in our area. Our local favourite is where we are hosting friends for lunch this weekend so we wanted somewhere, um, fresh.

Ah, ha, we decided that we'd go to Fresh. Ain't that too cute by half. This location is on the north side of Bloor just before Spadina. When we got there it was crowded with people sitting on the banquette just inside the door waiting for tables. Joe enquired within, explaining that I was in a power chair outside. We were told the wait would be about ten minutes. Joe came out saying, 'The tables are really close together, I don't know how this is going to work.' I said, 'Their website says they are completely accessible, let's try.' We 'but this'd' and 'but that'd' and ended up staying.

Once the banquette was clear, I came in and tucked myself right off the door. I didn't see how this was going to work. Then, quietly, the table sailed by. We were welcomed into the restaurant. There was an empty space beside our table, perfect size for me to pull into and the table was set for the two of us. With no muss, no fuss, we were seated. We ordered and then chatted, just like everyone else in the restaurant. The food was amazing and we both ate with abandon, often having to wipe our chins like kids losing control, excited at all the new flavours.

'Know what's Fresh?' I said to Joe, 'Coming into a restaurant and being made welcome without a fuss. Most of the other customers didn't even notice the furniture being shuffled around and me being guided in. I was able to arrive anonymously and was treated by the waiter as if nothing had been done, no problem was created and then solved, nothing 'special' had happened. It was weird. Good weird. Awesome weird. But weird nonetheless'.

I had to do it. I asked to speak to the manager and she came, as they always do, expecting the worst. I asked her to sit in the vacant chair and then told her how impressed I was. 'Accessibility is as much an attitude as it is form,' I said. I told her how nice it was to be able to have my needs met without noise, or FUSS. She said that my feedback meant a lot and that their goal was that everyone was treated with respect. 'That goal was met today,' I said.

It shouldn't be an anomaly to be simply another customer. But it is. It shouldn't be exceptional to be valued in the same way as others are valued. But it is. It shouldn't be 'fresh' to be able to participate without brass bands announcing your arrival. But it is.

You know what's really 'Fresh'.

Courtesy.

PS Should all things happen as they should ... the Mitzvah gift will soon be available on the web. I will inform.

Tired, Need A Snooze

Oh, man.

I'm tired.

I just finished teaching the 8th and last class of the Summer School Series, Behaviour was first, Sexuality was second. Both classes were wonderful in terms of students. They were all there keen and willing to learn. Questions were well thought out and showed real interest. I looked forward to the classes and was amazed how quickly the days flew by.

Occasionally I wonder if these classes really make a difference. On my way up today to teach the last class I took a call from an Executive Director who had a student in my Behaviour Classes. She was talking to that student and asking about the class he had taken. He excited explained that he was able to be a resource to others in his agency when discussing a situation because he understood some important concepts and was able to explain them. He said it was wonderful to be able to put the learning into use right away.

I chatted a little more with the ED who was very positive about the training and the effect on her staff. I didn't tell her, and I should have, that her call meant the world to me. I really want to make a difference, both through my work directly and through my training generally. It was my hope that summer school would be a time of renewal and reflection for the students. And, I guess, it was.

So we're done for another year. Poor Joe had to drive home in silence because I sat beside him, quietly snoring, as he drove. I woke up even more tired than before the nap. Bed calls.

But I thought about that call and the student involved. It matters that it matters. I am so privileged to be able to teach these classes and to have the opportunity to effect change without being in the room.

Awesome.

I apologize for what may seem like totally self serving and self involved post. But hey, I'm human, I'm tired and, above all I'm pleased.

Here's to next year, the 9th annual Summer School.

May it be so.

An Ode to Peter Parker

"I'm just so quirky."

"I'm just so off beat."

"I'm just so wildly unique."

Many people love the idea that they are completely and amazingly different from others. I had a friend once who went to a psychologist with a concern, he was told that it was 'entirely normal'. He said that he left not feeling comforted but almost insulted. As if the mere idea that what he thought was idiosyncratic was just plain common had brought him down not up.

"I'm just like everyone else."

"We're all the same."

"Cut me, do I not bleed?"

Then there are those who are truly different, who want to be seen as simply normal. That they are, under the skin, the same as everyone else. That the difference they experience does not make them different as people.

I had another friend who summed up this dilemma for herself by saying, "When people focus on my disability, it pisses me off. When people refuse to note my disability, it pisses me off. I live in a constant state of being pissed off."

Am I different?

Am I the same?

Perhaps, then, its normal to be different. Maybe that's where all this intersects. All this so far is me trying to sum up my reaction when people use the term 'differently abled'. It's a term that makes me squirm. I really don't like it. I like the intent but not the outcome. What on earth does 'differently abled' mean anyways and what's wrong with the word 'disabled'. I'm totally OK with being a disabled guy. I don't even much like 'person first' language in every situation. I don't like hearing 'down syndrome kid' or 'that cerebral palsy guy'. But when it comes to the word disability it seems different. Like it's OK to followed 'disabled' with 'person'. We don't use 'person first' language constantly with anyone else. I've never heard someone say, of me, that 'he's a person who is gay'. I've never heard 'a person who is a woman.' It seems labourious. It also seems to suggest that 'personhood' needs to be attached to disability because it is just not readily apparent.

But, that's not what I want to write about. 'Differently abled,' rankles me. I read it on a blog recently that I visit in secret. It's written by someone who scares me because of the level of anger she expresses. She holds others to a standard that, I believe, she does not herself bother to maintain. No, I won't tell you. She used this term recently and I sat there wanting to make a comment but knowing I would be stalked and attacked. So I didn't. Ha Ha, I have my own blog and can say what I want. Ha Ha, I have readers that will discuss with me and who are not afraid to challenge me, but do not often bloody me.

I think what gets me about 'differently abled' is 'different from what' or 'different from whom'. The term assumes a norm and then gives that norm power. It isn't 'normal' to live without disabilities, it isn't a 'desired state' to which all aspire. I think one of the biggest problems is that the majority thinks that it's the norm. It ain't normal to be white, it's normal to have a skin tone. To think that 'whiteness' is normal is to make everything else in comparison to it, everything else valuing itself in relation to 'whiteness'. It makes 'whiteness' superior. To refer to someone as 'differently skin toned' would be, I believe insulting.

Too, my abilities are never much different than anyone else's abilities. They are just abilities. I may get to where I'm going in a different bus but when I get there I do what everyone else does. In my own way, in my own time but it's pretty much the same. I think Spider Man is 'differently abled'. I don't think I am. My abilities are pretty much in the 'normal' range no matter how much I like to think otherwise sometimes.

So here's me. Wanting to be different while living an ordinary life. Just like everyone else. I'm uniquely me while being pretty much the same as my neighbours. I guess I'm just ordinarily different. But what ever I am, I'm just not 'differently abled'. I don't think anyone else is either.

Except, of course, Spider Man.

Dog School

Riding on the WheelTrans system I get to meet a lot of different people. Well, maybe meet is a little strong as most people are closed in on themselves like transit riders all over the world. Some chat but most say hello and then look out the window. I understand that, I feel unsociable sometimes too. I happen to be a morning person though and would much rather chat then, on the way in, than out, on the way home. But besides people, I get to meet service dogs. Lots of them. They are amazing creatures. Wonderful loving and helping beings.

One of the transit riders really needs assistance from her dog. He does all sorts of things for her. He is constantly on alert should she want something. He opens the door for her to come out to the bus, when she parks on the bus, before being strapped in he gets her notebook out of her bag, sometimes on the trip she drops things and he will either give them back to her or put them back in her bag. I'm always nervous that the dog moves around in a moving vehicle, but he's very sure footed and never seems to be surprised when the vehicle brakes.

On the last trip after she got off, he waited for her. She then headed for the door of the building she had arrived at. She called for him to come. He looked at her, stopped, then turned around and sat down. He had his back to her. She called again and he did nothing. You could see him mentally taking out a sippy cup and having a coffee break. His companion broke into a grin and said, 'You deserve a break today!' We all laughed. A few seconds later he got up and went happily over to her.

I thought about that a lot. About the importance to take a break from care providing. To just have a moment or two for yourself. Forget the family, forget the dishes, forget the kids, just sit down and take a break. A moment for yourself. A moment where nothing is required but breathing. A moment that refreshes on one hand and re-establishes independence on the other. I'm your mom, I'm your care provider, but for this moment, this moment right here, I'm just me having a coffee.

I think one of most important skills that adults need to learn is when to just stop. Turn your back on demands and take a breath. The demands will wait for you, the needs will still be there, your hole in the world will not be filled by another. It's just nice to clear your mind, to free your heart and be completely unburdened.

I want to hire the dog for staff training.

Blog Announcement

This announcement is separate from today's post which follows. Several weeks ago I removed the need for word verification as many readers were having difficulty with it. In the last two days there have been an increasing number of spam comments on the blog. I remove them as soon as they appear. These are the only comments I ever remove. Those which are critical of me, my ideas or my writing, stay. They are valid comments and I would never remove them. Those which are selling things or are obviously 'placed' on the blog without respect to content, I remove. I do not wish to go back to work verification but might have to again for a short while. I apologize for that inconvenience but don't know other ways to keep spammers away. If others have better solutions, please let me know. Thanks.

God's Gifts: Sometimes Mistakes Are Made

She walked with confidence, as if she'd passed this way before. She looked dressed for a date in what would have to be called, 'a little black dress.' She set it off with pearls and a white cane. I don't know if the coincidence was planned or incidental but I hope it was the former. I like people who approach the world with confidence and grace. I've managed confidence, never mastered grace. She had both.

Most who saw her coming took a second look. First they noticed the cane, either hearing it's faint tap, or seeing it brush the air in front of her. Then they noticed her. She looked a bit like Madonna, blond hair, lean shoulders, strong stride, with wrap around sunglasses. I'm sure I heard the 'three blind mice' cheering as she passed by.

We saw it coming but were too startled to call out. A fellow, so important in the world that he couldn't but be connected constantly. A fellow, so important to himself that he needed to be encased in music. A fellow tapping messages into a cell phone, while listening to the screech of music through white plugs in his ear. He was walking rapidly. A man of importance. A man of action. A man with places to go. A man, on whom the fact that it's called TWIT-ter, would be lost. He was on a direct course with the woman walking, casually but at full alert, with the cane.

The crash was inevitable.

So, it happened.

He looked up after smashing into her. He saw her cane and said, stupidly, 'Sorry, I didn't see you.' Her voice was dry, 'Oh, you're blind too?' He quickly said, not catching her sarcasm, 'No, sorry, I was texting.' She, 'And God gave you eyes, what the hell was he thinking?'

I applauded. Actually clapped my hands together. She couldn't see me, I wanted her to hear me. Good on you sister! I'm glad you're on my team.

Comments

I do try to write a responsible blog. I apologize when I make an error. I do try to be sensitive with my language. Yesterday's post took me a lot of time. I considered almost every word. Many posts are published very little unchanged from the first draft. Yesterday's post, when finally published, looked markedly different from it's first incarnation. I considered, deeply, what I wanted to say.

When it was finally published the first comment was negative. Ouch. It asked if the word 'schizophrenic' was the one I wanted to use. Well, I thought, yes. I first heard the word 'schizophrenic' in relationship to 'living a lie' and the mental strain that came from the forced suppression of real lives and real feelings and presenting false lives and false faces to the world, it was used by a priest in a sermon. He, the priest, had done a lot of work with gay men with mental health issues. Since then, it made so much sense to me as a descriptor of a way of life that is ultimately harmful.

So, in writing the post I looked the word up and found two definitions, one about a diagnosis and the other about a situation: Schizophrenia: a situation or condition that results from the coexistence of disparate or antagonistic qualities, identities, or activities: the national schizophrenia that results from carrying out an unpopular war. The word seemed to mean what I wanted it to mean.

But I don't work much in Mental Health circles, so I did another search. I wanted to assure myself that there wasn't a campaign against the use of the word and I found no such campaign or really anything much written about the use of the word in literature or language. Then, I called a friend who works in Mental Health and read her the piece and asked for her advice. She felt the word was used both respectfully and correctly.

I used the word.

Because I took so much care in writing the piece and thought I had said something important, I was stung that the first feedback was about expression, not content. Further that the author of the comment did not identify themselves. Further still that the author did not comment on the content or context of the word. Finally that the author did not tell me what the issue was, why it was an issue or where I could find out more information.

For a while I thought about changing the wording. Then I thought that I'd write this post instead. I'd already written today's post but bumped it to tomorrow. I wanted to ask if the word was misused, OK, I'm ready to learn. Tell me how or why it was misused in the context. Let me learn.

Rolling Around in My Head is meant to be a discussion about disability and family and life. It tries to be, though my hands, careful when being provocative. I fail sometimes, but give me credit for trying. I am an old friend of apology but I will not apologize for apologies sake.

I always try to remember my responsibilities as a blog author, please remember your responsibilities as a comment maker. Go ahead and disagree, even tell me off, I'm really OK with that. But don't leave me scratching my head wondering what you meant. Tell me.

The Terrifying Result of Silence

Sometimes I mourn the family I would like to have been part of. Joe and I, when we got together at 16, didn't know what to do with our relationship. It certainly couldn't be public, so it became very, very private. We built a life with walls. We built a life in secret. We built a life of truth, together, and of lies in the world. There was no 'gay pride', there was no 'tolerance' or 'acceptance'. People used harsh words like 'gearbox' and 'pansy' and 'fruit' and ... well, the list is endless.

We both wanted to be part of our families but didn't know how to be. We anticipated rejection, maybe unfairly, maybe with reason. Everyone thought we were the best of friends, and we were. Everyone thought we were a couple of poor university students sharing apartments, and rides, and groceries - they just didn't know we were also sharing a bed. Our silence caused, within us, a deep resentment. I watched my brother marry publicly, I watched the celebration, I watched society sanction, I watched the church, that I attended and he did not, bless. And I felt so alone in my cone of silence, it was hard, really hard, not to hate.

Our lives were schizophrenic. A public face, a private life. Everyone lives like that, I know, but the degree of difference between those faces usually isn't so dramatic. We lived a life with friends, we dived into the gay lifestyle with abandon, we created a family around us. A family that loved us back, all the while calling home to 'mom' and talking about work, about a life that must have sounded dull and lonely. Never being asked about Joe, always being asked about Joan - a dear friend from University. My heart breaking when hearing the faint hope that one day I'd talk about love and marriage to one of the fairer sex slowly die in that voice on the other end of the phone.

Slowly silence took over, chat became empty sound, spending time but investing nothing. Difference never spoken about is difference not accepted. Pretend normalcy smothers natural diversity. In the end, nothing lives but shame. And, of course, silence.

"I never speak to my son about his Down Syndrome."

"To me my daughter is normal, I do not see or acknowledge a disability."

I am sorry but I think though 'pride' and 'acceptance' are the message, neither are the source of this kind of statement. Shame is. Shame leads to silence and pretense. Shame believes that difference, that disability is wrong, and needs to pretend it away. And slowly lives diverge. Slowly relationships become about maintaining pretence rather than building bonds. People live in the same house with wildly different lives. People share space but never meaning. People see each other as needing protection more than love. So, love, dies.

Having Down Syndrome means something. Having Cerebral Palsy means something. Rolling not walking means something. Learning slowly not quickly means something. It doesn't mean what all fear, and what it does mean is as often cool as it is frightening. Loving someone, as is, out loud, is powerful. Loving out loud is defiant. Loving out loud is, perhaps, the most potent political statement that can be made. A statement with historical precedence. "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased." Even God needed to proclaim, out loud, love.

Every gay pride parade I am in or I watch, I cry. When I see 'I love my gay son.' 'I love my lesbian sister.' I cry. Love out loud. Love out of the closet. Love without reservation, without the need of pretense, without a longing for normalcy. Listen carefully and hear the death rattle in the throat of shame. Listen carefully and you can hear the distinct sounds of joy. These parents, these siblings, these families, NEED to proclaim their love. They were taught in different times to feel different things, but they are here now. And they will be seen, they will be heard, they will be identified. They say to the world, 'I claim my child,' they say to the child, 'I claim YOU.'

"I love my daughter with Down Syndrome."

Funny how many parents say that publicly on blogs.

"I love my son with Cerebral Palsy."

Funny how many parents say that to neighbours and friends.

"I love you, you my kid with disabilities, my kid with differences, my kid with extra chromosomes, my kid with his ass stuck in a wheelchair."

Funny how often that is not, quite, what is said.

Silence.

There is a terrifying result of silence.

Driving Home

On our ride home from the Sexuality Summer School up in Peterborough we realized that something special was going on. As we got closer to the city the overpasses on the 401 were filled with more and more people. Canadian flags flew by the hundreds. One some overpasses each of the provincial and territorial flags hung with somber reverence. We realized that just a few minute behind us the military procession carrying home the body of another Canadian soldier was making it's way along what's now been dubbed the 'Highway of Heroes'.

As a sign of silent respect, Joe turned off the music we were listening to in the car and travelled quietly along the route. We were both moved that thousands of people had come to salute the soldier who had given his life in service to our country and in service to our freedom.

We, remembered, as we always should, that the country that we love, quietly, and the freedom that we love, without notice, was purchased at a very high price. I can't imagine the sorrow of the family who's son was taken from them. I can't imagine the loss that his company feels as they go on with their business without a faithful comrade. I can't imagine what this country and my life would be without those who serve valiantly, those who serve and are only noticed when they take their final ride on the 'Highway of Heroes'.

We shared the road with a hero.

It's an honour we were not prepared for, but one we truly, truly, respect.

heart of hearts

"Squeamish." There is a word that describes me. I can't watch television doctor programmes that are too realistic when they show operations and the such. I get all light headed when someone describes an injury, of any kind, in detail. I just somehow 'ick out'. So it was that while sitting on the sidewalk outside YAI where I was to present, I watched a black SUV pull up at the curb just to my left. I was waiting for Joe to park the car and then join me on the trip in and up.

I watched in fascination when two grim faced medical types, one in green one in gray, got out of the vehicle. They opened the back door and pulled out this flat piece of metal that with a kick took the shape of a two tiered trolley. Then they reached in and pulled out these elaborate looking coolers. Each of them was clearly locked and each had a green light shining indicating, I guessed, that they were cooling their contents. Then I saw the word.

"Organ"

Three "organ" coolers were loaded onto the cart and then they were headed up towards me. I realized that I was sitting right at the disabled entrance and of course they would need to use that. As they approached I understood that there were body parts in those coolers. Hearts, eyes, kidneys, were locked up in the cold. I spoke to the woman who did not answer me, she asked in a harsh accented voice, for me to hold the gate open so they could pass by. There was no chit chat here.

I held the gates and the coolers passed within a couple of feet of my nose. My imagination was hideous. I got this horrible creepy feeling and my stomach did a flip flop. But I tried to keep my face passive and within seconds they were by me. I turned my wheelchair slightly and watched them carefully, very very carefully negotiate the passageway along the side of the building that I knew from experience would twist and turn until they were in the lobby.

Just as they turned I caught a glimpse of one of the coolers. I saw it's green eye. Instantaneously my heart opened. Someone had died. Someone had gifted from their life to another. Somewhere in the great USA someone else would live. The hugeness of the gift, which I had only understood with cardboard sentiment, struck me.

And I bowed my head and prayed for the soul of the person who's heart had passed me by. I thanked them for their gift. I thanked them for the generosity of spirit that had them think about others. I prayed for those who lost and those who would gain. I prayed to remember, myself, that every heart is a gift.

Those given once.

Those given twice.

A Daring Post

I, ME, Dave Hingsburger, was told that I was an old prude. A PRUDE!!! This story happened on the way down to New York City, we had stayed in a hotel on the Saturday night to make the drive down on Sunday shorter and therefore less arduous. I have been wanting to write the story but didn't have the courage to, wasn't sure I could pull it off well. It's a story that causes me great discomfort and I want to say it just right. I have the comfort of writing these words now and knowing that if I want I can just hit 'delete' and never tell the story or address the issue. If you are reading this, it means I've decided, 'Damn the torpedoes'. Here goes nothing ...

Our hotel was taken over by young boys and their families. They were there for some big soccer tournament. The boys were all between 14 and 15. There were signs up all over the hotel reminding everyone of the 'rules' of hotel staying. Congregate in the lobby not the hallways, keeping doors closed, not running through the floors. As a guest I appreciated these rules. Our room looked over the front parking lot and the lawn that separated our hotel from the one just cross the way. As it was a soccer tournament and as there were young men there, several of them gathered for an impromptu 'kick the ball around' game. These boys all showed the signs of manhood. They were strong and lithe and agile. One of the boys wore only loose fitting shorts. No shirt, no shoes. His body was already well defined. Though he was a boy, and a young one at that, he showed all the signs of coming manhood. I had to stop myself from thinking, 'Put your shirt on!' Working with offenders makes me hypervigilent. But boys, 15 or not, should not have to live their lives in fear of danger every second of the day. I knew the boy was attractive and I simply pushed that fact away. He's a boy. He should just be a boy. Let him be a boy for as long as he can. Adulthood, sexuality, all the rest of it ... let it wait. Life is long. Childhood is short.

We went downstairs in preparation for going out shopping for a few groceries. I was outside waiting for Joe to get the car and as such was only a few feet from the smokers area. There were two women there, they were both 10 or 15 years older than I was. They too were watching the boys play. By now I had firmly moved them in the children category and could watch them without noticing their physical beings. One of the older women said aloud, as if she wanted to be heard by the boy in question, 'Hubba, hubba, I'd take that one to bed.'

First, 'Hubba, hubba?'

Second, 'Stop it! Stop it! He's a boy!! A child still.'

I said to her, 'Please, he's just a kid.'

She said, angrily, 'Don't be such a prude, if it were a bunch of girls the same age you'd be drooling.'

First, she couldn't be more in error.

Second, if that were true it would still be wrong.

I get so sick of the sexualizing of children. Advertising presents little girls and little boys as sexualized. The new commercial for denim diapers presents an INFANT as a young and 'hot' man. It outrages me. CHILDREN SHOULD BE CHILDREN AND ADULTS SHOULD KNOW BETTER. Yes, I noticed his attractiveness and I noticed his coming adulthood - but I AM AN ADULT, I KNOW TO WATCH MY MOUTH, WATCH MY BEHAVIOUR AND TO PROTECT NEARLY GROWN CHILDREN FROM ME, MY ACTIONS AND MY WORDS.

I don't know if that boy heard that woman's comments but I hope, really hope, with all my heart that he did not. I hope, really hope, that that day was a day of sheer joy of playing soccer with his friends, thinking about pizza for dinner, anticipating the game the next day - I hope that not for a second did he think about his body as an object of desire, that he simply enjoyed his body for the purposes of football, of play and of the last seconds of childhood.

Guessing Game: A blog written naked

Here was yesterday: get up and pack, go the lobby, load the car, get in car, drive to work, get dropped off on sidewalk, watch car be parked around the corner, go up to lecture hall, lecture for day, go downstairs, wait on sidewalk, watch car get picked up, load lecture stuff into trunk, get in car, load wheelchair, drive 500 miles home, get home, go upstairs, take care of work emails while car is unloaded, go to bed. This will explain why, at just after 6 in the morning, 5 hours sleep, I am up and sitting, naked, at the computer writing my blog. No, the only thing that will truly explain that is that I've got this weird compulsion about keeping the promise I made to you via myself to keep a daily blog.

There was no way I could have written a blog last night after getting in. I had talked all day, dealt with the anxiety of giving a lecture that I'd only give once before, rode all through the afternoon and evening home, after making sure my work emails were done. I've told my staff and my agency that my commitment was that no more than 24 hours would ever pass without my responding to emailed questions and concerns. Yesterday was rare, people had to wait more than 12 hours. After doing that I opened my blog to write. Then I closed the blog and padded down to bed and collapsed.

The blog therefore has become a big part of my life. Joe's too as it turned out, on the way home, with about an hour to go, he asked me what I was going to blog about. I said, 'I don't know, why?' He said, 'Sometimes I like to guess what you are going to blog about.' I thought that was kind of cool and told him so. 'But nothing much happened to blog about,' I said. 'Nothing!' he said with surprise.

He brought up two things that were, in his mind, in contention.

1) the hotel room. Again we had booked a hotel and again we called to tell them I was a wheelchair user and that I needed a wheelchair accessible room. Again I was told it was accessible. Again we arrive to find the the hallways were so narrow I had to take the footrests off the chair in order to get off the elevator and to make the turn into the room. The room was so small that the wheelchair could get inside the room and then had to be parked. If I sat on the end of the bed, Joe would have to crawl over the bed to get to the other side. The bathroom was lovely and large but you had to fold the wheelchair up and manoeuvre it around to get it in.

2) At duty free we stopped to pick up some stuff. Usually I wait in the car but, um, we'd driven from New York City and I had to pee. We got up to the building and there was a fairly steep slope up to the door but no door opener. It was wildly difficult to get through the door. I couldn't take my hands off the wheel or I'd roll back, Joe had to try and get the door open and I had try to get up near enough to get hold of it without losing balance. We got in but it was tough. After going to the bathroom we went into the store and instead of shopping I asked to speak to a manager. Now this was close to midnight. I'd gone a fair bit into the process of turning into a pumpkin. The manager comes and I told him of the struggle and how inaccessible the building was. He rolled his eyes and started to talk. I interrupted him. I said, 'Listen, I don't expect anything's gonna happen with this complaint, I don't expect that anyone really cares about my concerns, I expect that people just want me to get the hell out of the store and take my complaint with me, I've been disabled for years, I get that, but I figure I gotta make the complaint. You're the manager, you gotta take the complaint, you can at least pretend you care.' He shook his head so all those words would fit in and then said, 'I've made that concern clear to corporate but corporate doesn't care.' I looked at him in shock, firstly he doesn't realize that if what he's saying is true, it's a horrific thing to say. Secondly, if he's just trying to shrug the responsibility away from him caring guy he is, to an anonymous 'corporate' then he is doing a poor job of it. I looked at this guy, barely out of his teens, wearing his manager role like Ruby wears a Princess dress, and thought, 'And this is my Knight, this is my champion, THIS is my advocate?' I simply shook my head and wheeled away.

I said to Joe, 'Nah, I can't write about those incidents.'

He asked, 'Why?'

I said, 'Cause I've written about hotel rooms too much, I've written about inaccessible buildings and attitudes too much, people will be bored by it.'

We drove in silence for a long time.

Then Joe spoke up.

This is what he said: It's a sad thing that discrimination that leads to inaccessibility and a lessening of participation in life becomes so routine that it's a cause for boredom, not outrage. A sad, sad thing.

As we were driving up Yonge Street, I said, "I know what I'm going to blog about." Joe said, 'Oh, what have you decided?'

I said, 'You'll have to guess.'

Mitzvah!

Today I am not at all depressed. Yes, I'm still on the medications that cause depression, still taking the buggers four times a day - talk about feeding your depression. Even so, I'm not depressed. Haven't been since yesterday at about 11:30. We were driving down to NYC where I'll be presenting for a couple days and Joe was listening to his classical station on satellite radio. As a piece was playing a slowly forming idea was taking shape in my head. I do not have 'flashes' of inspiration, I have slowly growing, slowing forming, images in my mind that then lead to an 'ah ha, I have an idea' statement.

By the time we got to the Delaware Gap, one of the most beautiful areas in the States to drive through, the idea had taken shape. Next, I evaluated it, saw that, with help, it was possible. The cool thing about the idea is that it would sure to be a wonderful surprise, a gift of joy, to someone that I care about. Tee Hee and Giggle Giggle. I love giving gifts, and I really love giving something that means something and matters. I also love the bit of tension from the back of the mind worry, 'what if I got it all wrong.'

We got to the hotel room and I pulled out the notes I made on the road, made a bunch of calls, organized a bunch of stuff I'd need. Next up it was tea with a friend over at the Port Authority - the only accessible area around our hotel. It was there I sprung the idea and asked for big time help. She agreed, kindly, to help me. So maybe, just maybe, I can pull this off.

Through it all I kept imagining my friend getting the surprise and loving the surprise. I kept in check the idea that my friend might go,'What? Really?' That's the tension that gives the joy in getting it right.

And then I noticed, all this focus on the surprise, the gift, my friend ... wham, no more depression. I remember hearing about Mitzvah Therapy ... a Mitzvah is an act of human kindness, an act that has you focus, not on you, on someone else. Well gosh, golly, and gee-willikers, it worked.

Maybe I'll spend the next two weeks trying human kindness as an antidote to antibiotic depression. What's the worst that can happen, people like me better, I like me better, the world is a slightly better place. There's side effects I can understand.

A Letter

"I know you've been feeling down these last few days so I thought I'd send you a story about my son,' read the email. I was pleased that my inbox read re: Hey Dave, It's Not Spam. I often worry that I erase emails that are actually for me in my rush to avoid requests for help in distributing 50 million Pounds. The email was from a regular blog reader, a woman without a blog to post stories, and she wanted to cheer me with a story. I love stories and settled back to read. After finishing I asked her if we could talk on the phone. She said, 'Sure'. During our call I got all the details of the story and then asked her if I could write it here. I am writing in her voice, I don't often do that but that's how this came out. She's approved the story. Here's what she told me:

My son is now just 14 years old. He has cerebral palsy and we've been sure from a very young age that he understands that he has a disability and we've answered every question he's ever asked. We've never said, 'You are just like everyone else'. We've never lied to him about his difference. At the same time we've let him know that his disability is just one part of him. That we still expected him to be our son and that there were expectations that came with that role. His brothers still expected him to be their brother and that there were things that he had to do to keep up his end of the bargain. Sure he has a disability, let's not kid about that. Sure his world is different than our other kids, let's not kid about that either. But he's still him and he still has a unique role in our life and in the world.

Over the years there have been frustrations on his part, on our part on the part of our other children. We've never downplayed them or pretended they didn't matter. We've never said to our son, 'Don't feel that way.' We've never said to our other children, 'You shouldn't feel that way.' We figured that we'd all best be honest and real with each other and the situations we find ourselves in. We've been criticized for some of our parenting strategies but as we were, for the most part, a happy family we let the criticism slide.

Here's the point of the story. Our son went for an appointment to talk to someone about his future. Job interests, vocational planning, that kind of thing. One of the questions that he was asked, probably to get at his interests, was 'What do you think you would have done if you didn't have Cerebral Palsy?' My son, we were told, stared blankly at the woman doing the testing and then after a long pause said, 'Nothing?' She was surprised and said, 'Nothing?' He said, 'Yes, because then it wouldn't be me.'

She talked to me later with concern because she thought he had begun to limit himself in some way. I, however, was thrilled. I asked her if she would ask a black kid what he would be if he were white and she was horrified. I told her that the question she had asked my son was equally horrible. She was asking himself to see his disability as a burden, something that he should shuck off if he could. It would be a way of thinking that would have him perpetually, in his mind, as a victim.

Later I asked my son about the interview. Deep in my heart I really wanted to know if he ever wondered, ever asked himself 'that question'. As I spoke to him I think I saw him for the first time. A young man who knows who he is. A young man who wishes to be no one else. A young man that I love with every bit of my heart.

When I told my husband about what happened he wanted to walk straight over to that woman's office and give her a piece of his mind. His son, the one with cerebral palsy, should never be put in the position of apologizing for who he is and wishing he was someone else, he said. "Don't you ever ..." I began asking my husband, and he said, 'When he was little yes, sometimes, but once I really met him, never again.'

***

The email and call did cheer me. In fact, writing the story brightened my whole day. There is much here. Much to think about. Instead listening to me ... I'd like to listen to you. What say you to the mom who told me this story.

Summer School

How quickly it flies by. I've already finished teaching the four day Behaviour Summer School classes! Next week I start the four day Sexuality Classes and when they're done the eighth annual Summer School classes will be done. Every summer seems to go faster than the summer before.

All those years ago I went to York Simcoe Behaviour Management Services with the idea of offering Summer School. The idea was to bring together just enough students to cover costs and run the classes from 9:30 to 2:30. This would mean a small group of people would have the opportunity to learn AND relax at the same time. They'd be given the opportunity within the reduced hours to think and reflect rather than rush and race. We all thought it would be a hard sell and for the first couple of years it was. After that, it kind of took off. Agencies reported that they're staff came back renewed and revitalized. Cool.

I was chatting before class a couple days ago with two students who had arrived early for the class. They each said that they had found themselves doing some real self evaluation in light of what they had learned. In that they found themselves motivated to change but, oddly, didn't feel like they'd been put through an emotional grinder. They couldn't have pleased me more. People need to realize that 'self evaluation' isn't the same as being 'self critical'.

I begin to think that people fear reflection because of a fear of painful realization. I'm not sure where the idea came from that reflection and realization are always and necessarily painful. Some of the realizations I've had are joyous, some are funny, some are embarrassing, very few have caused me real pain and regret. I'd love it if those of us who work with people spent more time in insightful self evaluation. We are, after all, half of each interaction we have. We are, after all, given tremendous power in the lives of others. We should be REQUIRED to sit down and face ourselves at a regular basis.

So, the conversation pleased me.

Then I got home and there was an email waiting for me from one of the students who thanked me for the class and for what she had learned both professionally and personally. I remembered her easily. She was a woman with a quick wit and a ready smile. Both Joe and I had joked with her and, as such, she lodged into memory. I was touched that she bothered to write and bothered to say thanks. Tells me much about what she brought into the class and what hopes I had for what she took out of the class.

So, the email pleased me.

Soon we'll be planning the 9th annual summer school, deciding where it's going to be, deciding the dates of the class. My summer would not be the same without these classes. I like them because I learn through teaching, I get inspired through listening.

Reciprocity - ain't it great.

Reflection - ain't it grand.

Calling Dr. Ruby

Ruby was really excited.

Her dad had called her to the phone to chat with me after he and I had finished talking. She came giggling onto the phone. 'HI, DAVY,' she said being the only person in the world who has ever called me 'Davy'. I said, 'Hi, Ruby!' I asked her what she was doing and she said that she and her dad were going to go out with her Princess bike to ride with her friends.

'Do you have anything planned for the weekend,' I asked knowing she, her sister and her mom were going away for a few days.

'Yes,' she said excitedly.

'What,' I asked breathlessly.

'I'm going to ride my bike with my friends and then I'm going to sleep, then I'm going to ride my bike with my friends and then I'm going to sleep, then I'm going to ride my bike with my friends and then I'm going to sleep ...' At this point she handed the phone over to her dad and he came on the phone laughing. We both agreed that in essence she'd caught life.

'Do stuff. Sleep. Do stuff. Sleep.'

The difference is, at nearly four, she finds the routine exciting and comforting all at the same time. She eagerly looks forward to doing what she does in the day and then resting up to do it again the next day.

After we'd hung up, Joe and I began to talk over the next several days. We have a long stretch in front of us with lots of things to do, lots to be accomplished. On top of that I'm still dealing with medication related depression.

But that call helped in it's wee way.

Cause I still get to ...

Do stuff. Sleep. Do stuff. Sleep.

There is excitement there. There is security there.

I need wisdom from a nearly four year old every now and then.

A Side Order of Effects

Probably because I've been fat my whole life, I don't have a lot of problems carrying the weight of responsibilities that come with living my life. I'm OK with being an adult, OK with having expectations, OK with doing what my hands were created to do. Really. I am.

But the last few days have been so difficult for me. I've felt tired and resentful, angry and moody ... flat out depressed. I'm someone prone to depression, know the warning signs of it's approach and have strategies to pull myself back from the edge. As a result, I'm seldom actually depressed. This time, though, it caught me completely unawares. No triggers were noticed therefore no strategies were used. Hmmmm. I began to wonder if the antecedents to depression were changing as I got older.

I did some serious and sober second thought. In the midst of this bleakness and darkness, I could find none. I've never been debilitated by depression. I still go to work, I still give lectures, I still do what I'm supposed to do - I just hope that people don't pick up on the fact that my eyes are a darker shade of green.

Yesterday I went to the doctor to review what's going on. I'm fighting a minor infection and have been on anti-biotics (pre-prescribed and available whenever an infection sprouts up) for 10 days or so. These happen, less and less often thankfully, and though they annoy me - they aren't (or haven't been) the 'snap' that sends the avalanche on it's way.

At the end of the visit with the doctor, Joe and I went home and he went over to pick up some more anti-biotics. When he got home he said, 'The pharmacist told me something interesting.' I looked at him listlessly. He continued, 'Did you know that one of the side effects of this medication is depression?'

I perked up, shucking off listlessness, and asked, 'Say that again.'

Joe threw the bombshell again.

Oh.

So that's it.

Now that I know that I'm chemically depressed not actually depressed, I'm somehow better. I know that it will go away when the pills are done - the sun will shine again.

So if you note a bit of a 'down turn' in my posts, a bit of bleakness sneaking in, just shake your head and realize that this ...

0 this is my brain.

O( is my brain on drugs.

Linda's Smile

She really frustrated me.

The 'artistic' wannabe me.

I was working in an ADP years and years ago. Linda was a woman with Down Syndrome who needed a fair bit of support. She was a short, squat woman, who always wore bright summer dresses. I remember finding her face remarkable. She was what was then considered to be elderly for someone with Down Syndrome and her face had developed fine crepe paper wrinkles. I loved looking at her when she was engrossed in a task. She focused and her face became a study in concentration, in involvement in life. She looked serious and wise.

I had seen some photographs taken of people with disabilities in a book that I'd purchased and I thought that I'd like to have a 'forever record' of Linda's face. I'm not a photographer, didn't own a camera then and don't know where ours is now. But I determined I'd get a good shot of Linda.

Around this time a huge study was going on regarding Down Syndrome and Alzheimer's. A big bus pulled up beside the ADP and Linda was hustled out for testing. I sat with her as she took the test. It was clearly a test of memory and as much as I willed, with all my might, for Linda to pass the test, it was clear that she struggled to remember what was where, which went with what. Her face, showed disappointment, she knew that the test meant something even though she was told it didn't. That face, I wanted to have a picture of that face.

A camera was purchased and I took it with me to work. I snuck it in knowing that many of those there had orders that pictures could not be taken. I didn't want to publish the picture, I didn't want anything but a reminder. I didn't ask for permission of anyone but Linda. When I asked her if I could take her picture, she looked up and me and said, 'You want a picture of me?' There was astonishment in her voice as if she never imagined for a minute that someone would want a picture of her. I told her I did want a picture of her.

I don't have a single shot of her now. Even though I took a roll of film, I didn't develop them. It was so frustrating. I couldn't get a shot of her concentrating. As soon as the camera went to my eye, she looked at it and smiled. Though Linda had no teeth to speak of, her smile was charming. I didn't want charming. I didn't want another picture of someone with Down Syndrome smiling. I wanted a picture of someone engrossed in life, in learning, in living. Linda would not oblige. She smiled and smiled and smiled some more. She had this uncanny knack of knowing when I lifted the camera and she'd sit up and smile, broadly.

I asked Linda to try and not smile. She said, 'You smile for the camera.'

Linda came to my mind yesterday. I wasn't feeling great. My sense of self seemed under attack - by no one but me. Even so, when I got on the bus to come home and the driver said 'how was your day'. I smiled.

When greeted in the lobby of the building I live in, I smiled.

When chatting with someone on the Internet I :)ed.

Because Linda was right, 'You smile for the camera.'

Suspended

It stole my peace from me.

A quiet dread.

A growing fear.

A gnawing anxiety.

I keep changing the locks, but insecurity always has a key. Over last weekend, I had a growing dread. I began to feel moments of panic. I began to question my abilities. In my mind's eye, I stood and watched hope for my future die.

I couldn't talk about it.

It would sound silly.

I couldn't brush it away.

It stuck like a burr to my sense of self.

I couldn't think of a single strategy.

Except to endure in silence.

I woke in the morning having slept but not rested. I knew that I had to face my concern, I had to go on as if it was any other day.

'Are you alright?'

A question asked in caring made me angry.

It meant that my act had been seen through.

It meant that my weakness had been discovered.

'I'm fine, now leave me alone.'

My shoulders tightened.

My stomach clenched.

And I waited for the axe to fall.

This moment, long in coming, had been presaged. 'Who do you think you are?' 'When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it.' 'Ugly is one thing, stupid is another.' This moment, a moment of discovery. Wounds given in daylight, fester in darkness. And it was here. And ...

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

And I learned again.

Fear is a liar.

Why don't I remember that?

Ever?

Please Stop

Falsely attributing qualities or behaviours based on an unrelated fact or feature about a person annoys me. (It took me a long time to write that sentence.) It really does. Perhaps it even fits into the 'pet peeve' category. Let me give an example:

I was at church listening to a sermon on 'non-violent protest' that was given, at least partly, because of the violent outbursts in Toronto during the G20 summit. The sermon was well thought out and well preached. The minister took care with her research and made global connections to what had happened here locally. I enjoyed it. I learned from it.

Afterwards in the church hall, I relaxed with a cup of green tea. The minister, after having shook the hands of those departing the front of the church, came to the hall for more of the 'meet and greet' that is the stuff of her job. When she came to me, I introduced myself as I am not a regular member of that church. I told her I liked her sermon and her face looked like what I imagine my face looks like when given a similar compliment.

Then I launched into a 'Show and Tell' pulling out the 'Words Hit' cards, both the LGBT and regular version of the card. I explained about the issue of the 'R' word and how we were working to eradicate the word. She said all the right things about the word, explained how it was that she came to be of the opinion that the word is the social equivalent of other hateful words used to target other minorities.

Then she said, 'I can't imagine that any intelligent person still uses that word.' I bristled but said nothing. After all, in this moment I was the preacher and I wanted the message to get across to her. She asked for the cards and I gave her some of each. She thanked me and was on her way.

Why did I bristle?

I don't like it when people attribute to 'intelligence' attributes of kindness and fair play and compassion and grace and good will. It's just eugenics in soft colours. It's assuming that those gifted with intelligence are better, purer, citizens and therefore, unspoken, is the message that the dumber you are, the coarser you are. There is a belief that those with less intelligence are those who are less likely to be citizens and more likely to be criminals.

The fact that someone doesn't use language that hurts doesn't make them intelligent, it makes them kind. The fact that someone doesn't seek out to hurt those who are vulnerable doesn't make them smart, it makes them moral. The fact that someone considers the feelings of others doesn't make them clever, it makes them compassionate. It's about action, 'I do' is more important than 'IQ'

So stop it.

Some of the nastiest people I've ever met have been full of intelligence. Some of the most devious, the most dishonest, the most vile people I've ever met had lots of letters after their name. Intelligence IS NOT THE SAME as moral. It can be, maybe often is, but there isn't a direct correlation.

I didn't say anything then, because it would have turned the discussion in a direction I didn't want to go ... and besides, I have a blog where I can rant.

Down Syndrome, Off The Clock

They make, if not the best, a very serviceable eggplant parmigiana. We don't go there often, but when we do, we each always get lunch from the same vendors. As they are at the start of the food court, we grab a table right at the entrance. It's perfect for people watching, eavesdropping and is almost always the source for amusement. The parmigiana comes from the vendor right at the start of the court, Joe gets soup from the vendor next door but one. I grabbed a table just two in, with a chair removed, there is enough room for me to pull in and be out of the way.

We'd just sat down for lunch when we both heard that pronunciation of the word, 'Mother' that communicates so much. 'Muhhhhh-therrrrrr'. I glanced up and saw a frustrated and harried woman, carrying packages from the Bay and her son, a young man with Down Syndrome who was in his pre-teens.

Of course, I listened.

(Realize that I would have listened irregardless of the boy's Down Syndrome. I would have listened if it was a couple having a spat, if it was a businessman mumbling to himself, if it was someone having an animated conversation on a cell phone. That's what I do.)

So, aside, aside, I listened.

It seems that the mother wanted to go with him to get his food and then have him go with her to get her food, then they would eat together. Son, thought this was silly. Why doesn't she get hers, he get his, then they meet for lunch. She did an admirable job of keeping herself calm. I did an admirable job of just listening, not judging. Who knew what kind of experiences she'd had that led to this arrangement? They had been standing arguing and just before she moved again towards the court he said something that had a profound impact on me as a listener and she as a mother.

'Trouble is you think I have Down Syndrome all the time and I don't,' he said with real frustration.

She stopped again, 'What?'

'I only have Down Syndrome sometimes, when I'm learning something new or if the words are real hard. I don't have Down Syndrome the rest of the time when I'm doing what I know how to do.'

'And you don't have Down Syndrome now?' she asked.

'No, I know how to get my lunch, I buy my lunch at school all the time. I don't have someone with me all the time you know.' he was frustrated, he didn't even realize he'd said something of real importance, to me and to his mother.

'So,' she continued looking at him hard, 'you don't feel like you have Down Syndrome all the time.'

'No, most times I don't even think about it,' he said.

She said, her tiredness seemed to be gone, 'Go ahead, we'll find a table after we've got our food.'

They disappeared from view.

Joe and I looked at each other. I said to him, 'That kid should teach classes to parents of kids with Down Syndrome.'

On our way home, chatting about just stuff, I realized that at that moment I didn't feel disabled, it wasn't part of my consciousness. I knew that everyone saw me in my wheelchair but what they saw, what they thought, didn't impact what I felt. I'm only disabled sometimes, when things are out of my reach, when aisles are too narrow, when a curb blocks my way. The rest of the time I'm just - me.

huh?

It was a bizarre argument.

Truly, completely bizarre.

We went to gas up the car, Joe always gets out even though there is a gas jockey there to pump it for him. They chatted and I heard part of the conversation. The jockey was asking Joe what it was like to be retired. Joe assured him that he was at least ten years from retirement. Then he jokingly added that he'd bought a lottery ticket and that would speed up the retirement process right quick.

Then, as he always does, Joe said, 'So if I win the millions, what kind of car do you want me to buy you.'

The young man said, 'I don't want a car, I want a house.'

Joe said, 'I'm not gonna buy you a house!' and laughed.

The young man said, 'What are you going on about buying me a car, I'm saving for a house.'

Joe said, 'OK, no car.'

The guy, after a pause, said, 'What about the house.'

Joe said, 'I'm not promising a house.'

The guy, 'But I don't want a car.

And on and on it went.

Really.

What the guy didn't realize, probably, was that if Joe had won the millions he would have bought him the car. Now, he gets nothing.

When Joe got in the car I said, 'Did I hear that right.'

He was still annoyed, 'Sometimes I just don't understand people.' Then he shook his head and I knew that we were never talking about this again.

Responsibilities Never Get Old

Joe and I were reviewing the next couple of weeks. I don't ever want to know what I'm doing months from now, that's Joe's worry, but I like to have a clear picture of the upcoming days. Joe was telling me about how we pick up a rental car next Wednesday and then keep it for a week and a half. Seems we do Summer School next week up in Peterborough and then on the weekend drive down to New York City were I am training some staff and then we hop in the car and drive back to Peterborogh and then, finally, go home.

We reviewed what I remembered about the topics chosen in New York City and what we need for handouts and equipment. Summer school next week and the week after would also have to be fully co-ordinated as we won't have time to get things done in between all the travel. Joe was driving so I made notes and by the time we got home we both knew what was coming and what was expected.

I got up into the apartment and spent an hour doing emails from work, reading reports and programmes and answering questions. Joe took the car back to Avis and then picked up some spinach on the way home. In amongst the other stuff, we'd planned to have veggie steak Caesar salad for supper.

Joe set right in to frying up the steak strips and I asked him a couple of questions while finishing off the email. By the time supper was done, so were we. We could relax and watch television without worry that something was undone, some part of the next two weeks unplanned.

Joe seemed a bit quiet so I asked him what he was thinking. He said, 'I thought we were supposed to be getting older, I thought you were supposed to be disabled. Aren't we supposed to be slowing down and getting doddery?'

I knew what he meant, sometimes it seems like we keep on doing what we've done since we were young men. 'That's coming,' I said. 'But the pace hasn't really changed,' he said.

'Joe,' I said, 'It's Friday evening. End of a work week. We are in our housecoats at 4:30 and we'll be in bed by 8:00. We haven't closed a bar in years. Last time we stayed up until 10 we paid for it for two days. If it wasn't for the news, we wouldn't listen to the radio. To us, Lady GaGa sounds like the name for an amateur porn star.'

Joe smiled and said, 'You've got a point there.'

Canadian Tire

There's something about mechanics.

Something very cool.

A couple of years ago when in Ireland for the Down Syndrome Association I lost the rubber off of my wheelchair. We pulled into a garage near the hotel and the mechanic and rough guy with black tattooed around his fingernails quickly and easily put the rubber back on the wheels. He waved away payment and sent us on our way. His manner was brusque but his action kind. I put that memory away in my head.

My power wheelchair, Henry, has a design problem. The big tires, the one's that need air, has the 'air filly thingy' in such a position that it's impossible to get at. To fill the tires we have to go over to Canadian Tire on Yonge street. Go downstairs in the store, outside into the parking lot and then drive down a deeply sloped road and turn into the garage. I've now been twice.

Both times we've had a mechanic who, almost without speaking, grabs the air and then fills the low tire. Both times the mechanic insists on balancing the two tires and then sends us on the way, without payment, without even wanting thanks. Again, gruff guys, kind spirits.

I think that what makes them cool, or at least cool in my eyes, is that they are helping me and not taking payment - not out of pity, but out of a sense of 'it's the right thing to do'. There is a huge difference between those two things.

It's taken me a long time to figure out why I was never bothered by their refusal of payment and their dismissive way with my thanks. When I realized that the source of their actions was 'values' rather than 'pity' ... I understood something very new and for me, very deep.

So if you see me in the chair realize that I'm riding on Canadian Tires.