The table was huge. It looked to be set for thirteen or fourteen people. I was glad that we got there early and hoped that we'd be gone before the group arrived. The waitress was one of those quick, friendly types who should be put in charge of training every other service person in the world. We settled back to drink our tea and wait for the food to arrive. I like quiet breakfasts so we always head down eat early. I was also about to do a session at the conference that started at 8:30 so I wanted to be fed and watered in plenty of time to get over there and get set up. I don't use any kind of audio visuals so getting set up is just getting in the room, getting my notes out and waiting while worrying. Fretting is such a useful way to spend time.
Before long the people started to arrive at the long table. The first guy I recognized from my session for self-advocates the day before. A fortyish guy with Down Syndrome. He waved when he saw me and said hello. His speech is far from clear but over the years I've gotten used to a variety of disability accents and I found him fairly easy to understand. In minutes there were six or seven people there at the table. A few minutes more and the table was full. Maybe one or two care providers at the most. The table was lively with laughter and discussion.
Our food arrived and Chantal, our waitress, headed over to take the order from the large table. Forgive me but I thought to myself, 'this will be fun to watch.' But it wasn't. She just took the order with efficiency and common sense. Several people had unclear speach but all she did was repeat what she thought they said, like she had with us, and when they nodded she wrote it down, when they shook their heads, she asked them to clarify. Some pointed at the menu, others had people order for them. Chantal went from person to person and communication mode to communication mode like she'd done it a thousand times before.
She managed to make everyone feel welcome and everyone feel competent. She had a natural grace about her that left people smiling in her wake. What a gift. I remember at church years ago taking a course taught by the pastor on 'discovering your gifts' and as all of us sat there in the class he went over the biblical gifts. The gift of 'hospitality' brought giggles of derision from all of us in the group. No one wanted that gift. What a wimpy gift. The gift of prophecy, or the gift of leadership, now those were gifts with muscle.
How wrong we were. Here was Chantal, with a biblical proportioned gift, who made the world kinder and smoother for those she came into contact with. When she brought us our bill I wanted to say something to her but everything that came to mind sounded goony. So instead I spoke to her manager, filled out a comment card and decided to write a blog about her.
I know that I do not have the gift of hospitality. But I'm glad that people do. I'm glad that Chantal does. Because, though she probably won't be remembered by many at that table, she made the day begin well for a group of people with disabilities. She bolstered the self confidence of some, the self esteem of others, God bless her.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
the next day
I'm sitting in a hotel in Edmonton. I'm up early. I can never sleep in on days I have off, that's something that my body wants to do on days I have to be up early. I live with conflict! As the room is quiet and as I wasn't able to connect to the web for some odd reason, and I didn't want to turn the lights on to read because Joe is still sleeping, I was at a loss.
With nothing else to do, I simply thought. The last few days have gone at such breathtaking pace that I haven't had the time to absorb all that went on. For two days in Kamloops and for an afternoon in Prince George I talked about rights with people with intellectual disabilities. In all, I would have been with over 200 people. As always happens, while we had fun, we laughed a lot, we also worked, hard. As each person put their hand up and talked about rights that they thought were important for people with disabilities, it would be written down, discussed and then we'd move on.
But this morning, some of them were coming back to me. Little snippets of memory. Images that now I could focus on. In the slowness of the morning, I could finally hear what people were saying.
One person wanted to write down "The right to have faith and practice your faith." There was discussion around care providers refusing people the right to go to church. Or forcing people to go to church. The freedom of religion, a basic human right, was being discussed in front of my eyes. My ears heard the words, but now, I get the implication. There is a loss of citizenship when people enter care. They become denizens of another land, a totalitarian state where others who 'know better' make decisions for you.
Another, "The right to talk on the phone without being listened to or montored." Even when writing this one down I was thinking 'what'? Many nodded, all agreed. The right to contact the outside world, without big brother listening in, taking notes, setting parameters of discussion. It's important to say that the person who said this was sitting quite calmly and appropriately and very definately without staff presence in the session. I say this because I know some reading will be thinking 'well sometimes we have to monitor calls because of a clinical issue, like a history of obscene or threatening calls' and I agree, that happens. But it's rare. Much rarer than the heads nodding yes in recognition of the issue.
The one that strikes me now. "The right to have rights." This has never come up in a rights session before and when we were talking about it I missed the point. They had talked, in the same breath about people not being able to read and therefore not knowing about their rights. That's what I heard and that's what I focussed on. Now in my memory I can see their faces looking at me, in disappointment. Of course they wanted all to know about the rights as written in the session.
But they wanted more too. They wanted to be understood as a 'people' as an oppressed minority as those whom the world considered below rights, underneath responsibility. They wanted to be seen as worthy of having the same rights as others, they wanted to move into the human community and be considered as members of a just society. It's all coming together in my head now, the woman waving her hand and talking about the surgery performed on Ashley. She wanted 'the right to grow up' written down. She wanted it to mean both emotionally mature but also to be allowed to grow with out surgery to eliminate adulthood. Another, wanting the right to love - without intervention of agency, of family, of state. It flew so fast about me that I missed it. The underlying message ....
WE THE PEOPLE WITH DISABILITIES DEMAND THE RIGHT TO HAVE RIGHTS.
To no longer be denied a voice as a person and a voice as a group.
It's an honour to do what I do and hear what I hear. I just wish, sometimes that I could hear in the moment, rather than during a quiet moment the next day.
With nothing else to do, I simply thought. The last few days have gone at such breathtaking pace that I haven't had the time to absorb all that went on. For two days in Kamloops and for an afternoon in Prince George I talked about rights with people with intellectual disabilities. In all, I would have been with over 200 people. As always happens, while we had fun, we laughed a lot, we also worked, hard. As each person put their hand up and talked about rights that they thought were important for people with disabilities, it would be written down, discussed and then we'd move on.
But this morning, some of them were coming back to me. Little snippets of memory. Images that now I could focus on. In the slowness of the morning, I could finally hear what people were saying.
One person wanted to write down "The right to have faith and practice your faith." There was discussion around care providers refusing people the right to go to church. Or forcing people to go to church. The freedom of religion, a basic human right, was being discussed in front of my eyes. My ears heard the words, but now, I get the implication. There is a loss of citizenship when people enter care. They become denizens of another land, a totalitarian state where others who 'know better' make decisions for you.
Another, "The right to talk on the phone without being listened to or montored." Even when writing this one down I was thinking 'what'? Many nodded, all agreed. The right to contact the outside world, without big brother listening in, taking notes, setting parameters of discussion. It's important to say that the person who said this was sitting quite calmly and appropriately and very definately without staff presence in the session. I say this because I know some reading will be thinking 'well sometimes we have to monitor calls because of a clinical issue, like a history of obscene or threatening calls' and I agree, that happens. But it's rare. Much rarer than the heads nodding yes in recognition of the issue.
The one that strikes me now. "The right to have rights." This has never come up in a rights session before and when we were talking about it I missed the point. They had talked, in the same breath about people not being able to read and therefore not knowing about their rights. That's what I heard and that's what I focussed on. Now in my memory I can see their faces looking at me, in disappointment. Of course they wanted all to know about the rights as written in the session.
But they wanted more too. They wanted to be understood as a 'people' as an oppressed minority as those whom the world considered below rights, underneath responsibility. They wanted to be seen as worthy of having the same rights as others, they wanted to move into the human community and be considered as members of a just society. It's all coming together in my head now, the woman waving her hand and talking about the surgery performed on Ashley. She wanted 'the right to grow up' written down. She wanted it to mean both emotionally mature but also to be allowed to grow with out surgery to eliminate adulthood. Another, wanting the right to love - without intervention of agency, of family, of state. It flew so fast about me that I missed it. The underlying message ....
WE THE PEOPLE WITH DISABILITIES DEMAND THE RIGHT TO HAVE RIGHTS.
To no longer be denied a voice as a person and a voice as a group.
It's an honour to do what I do and hear what I hear. I just wish, sometimes that I could hear in the moment, rather than during a quiet moment the next day.
Friday, June 15, 2007
His Hand
I couldn't take my eyes of his hand.
I mean, I knew, but still ... it shocked me.
The first thing you notice about Dale is that he has Down Syndrome. Talk to him for just a second and suddenly what is obvious is no longer all that important. I hadn't seen him for awhile so when he came into the BCACL annual conference here in Prince George I called him over. He's great to chat with but man, oh man, did he have a lot to say.
But, no matter what he had to say, it was tough pulling my eyes away from his hand.
Have you ever got one of those Christmas letters that left you feeling entirely inadequate. Well, that's what I felt like when listening to what he'd been up to. He told me about the Alaskan cruise he'd been on. About becoming involved with the Canadian Down Syndrome society and travelling on business for them. About meeting a famous actress and being invited down to L.A. for a wee visit.
But did you see his hand?
Then he told me that he was learning to add humour to his talks and was going weekly to toastmasters to practice his timing. He said that he was in the middle of reading a book on public speaking that he was enjoying and that he recommended to me. This guy was one surprise after another. A vital young man with a passion for life and a passion for his cause. Awesome.
But his hand.
His left hand to be precise.
To be even more precise, the ring finger on his left hand.
There is a gold band around that finger.
I knew he was married and I asked him how long he'd been married. He told me that he was coming up on his 10th anniversary.
10 years.
The gold band obviously meant something to him.
I realized as I was talking with him that I'd never seen a wedding ring on the hand of someone with Down Syndrome. I'd heard about them. Read about them. But it was all abstract. But there he was, Dale, talking to me with animation. His hand flying around as he described something. And when the light hit his ring it glinted gold.
We finished our chat and he headed off, as always with purpose in his step.
And a ring on his finger.
The dawn is come.
I mean, I knew, but still ... it shocked me.
The first thing you notice about Dale is that he has Down Syndrome. Talk to him for just a second and suddenly what is obvious is no longer all that important. I hadn't seen him for awhile so when he came into the BCACL annual conference here in Prince George I called him over. He's great to chat with but man, oh man, did he have a lot to say.
But, no matter what he had to say, it was tough pulling my eyes away from his hand.
Have you ever got one of those Christmas letters that left you feeling entirely inadequate. Well, that's what I felt like when listening to what he'd been up to. He told me about the Alaskan cruise he'd been on. About becoming involved with the Canadian Down Syndrome society and travelling on business for them. About meeting a famous actress and being invited down to L.A. for a wee visit.
But did you see his hand?
Then he told me that he was learning to add humour to his talks and was going weekly to toastmasters to practice his timing. He said that he was in the middle of reading a book on public speaking that he was enjoying and that he recommended to me. This guy was one surprise after another. A vital young man with a passion for life and a passion for his cause. Awesome.
But his hand.
His left hand to be precise.
To be even more precise, the ring finger on his left hand.
There is a gold band around that finger.
I knew he was married and I asked him how long he'd been married. He told me that he was coming up on his 10th anniversary.
10 years.
The gold band obviously meant something to him.
I realized as I was talking with him that I'd never seen a wedding ring on the hand of someone with Down Syndrome. I'd heard about them. Read about them. But it was all abstract. But there he was, Dale, talking to me with animation. His hand flying around as he described something. And when the light hit his ring it glinted gold.
We finished our chat and he headed off, as always with purpose in his step.
And a ring on his finger.
The dawn is come.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
the bride
The role play had people in stitches. Two people with disabilities were playing the part of a couple telling her parents that they wanted to get married. Joe in the role of father was protesting that in no way would he support the marriage. The goal of the role play is to help people stand up to parents about love and relationships. They were going at it. She was demanding to be heard and Joe was shouting back. Suddenly Joe made the point clear.
"No way will I walk you down the aisle."
The woman with a disability came to a sudden halt. She covered her face and said, "That's exactly what my dad said. Exactly what he said to me."
She saw the look on Joe's face - horror that he'd brought a painful memory back - and she said, "No, it's OK. I just can't believe you knew what my father would say to me."
I asked her if she wanted to continue the role play and she was in for a penny in for a pound. So we went back to it and soon the room was exploding with laughter again as we dealt with a sensitive issue with humour and good will. The room was egging her on, wanting her to win the debate. Which, of couse, she did. When it was over, Joe reached out and touched her arm and I heard him say softly to her, "If I was your father, I would have been proud to walk you down any aisle, anywhere." Not for nothing is this guy in my life.
"That was a lot of fun." She said, having forgotten the intrusion of real world pain into a fun day for her.
"I'd like to do something, if that's OK with you," I said to her, flying by the seat of my pants - which is typically how I travel through my life. She agreed so I had people clear and aisle way through the front of the group. I asked her to take Joe's arm and suddenly she knew what I was going to do.
"Are you going to have me walk down the aisle with Joe playing my father," she asked incredulous.
"Yes," if you want to.
"I do," she said quietly.
I asked the group to hum the wedding march and the whole group joined in as the two of them walked together down the aisle. When the got to the end the room erupted into applause and she tipped her head back and laughed. A big throaty laugh. Unencumbered with pain, just a laugh of pure joy.
Joe was oddly quiet as we drove away from the day. I asked if he was OK. He is a man who likes to think there is only good in the world. He knows from our work together that that is not true, but while I look at the dark, he always sees the light. To have stood that closely to her painful memory would have been hard for him. So I was concerned.
He considered my question for a second.
"It shouldn't have been me," he said, "and it shouldn't have been pretend."
But it wasn't pretend. It was very real for everyone in that room. They all knew and understood what had happened to her. They all know what it is like to be victims of prejudice from society but even worse they know what it's like to hear prejudice come from the mouths of parents, siblings, care providers. They all wanted to be there with her and for her. It wasn't prentend at all. Something very real happened.
There is nothing more real than prejudice.
And nothing more real than pride.
"No way will I walk you down the aisle."
The woman with a disability came to a sudden halt. She covered her face and said, "That's exactly what my dad said. Exactly what he said to me."
She saw the look on Joe's face - horror that he'd brought a painful memory back - and she said, "No, it's OK. I just can't believe you knew what my father would say to me."
I asked her if she wanted to continue the role play and she was in for a penny in for a pound. So we went back to it and soon the room was exploding with laughter again as we dealt with a sensitive issue with humour and good will. The room was egging her on, wanting her to win the debate. Which, of couse, she did. When it was over, Joe reached out and touched her arm and I heard him say softly to her, "If I was your father, I would have been proud to walk you down any aisle, anywhere." Not for nothing is this guy in my life.
"That was a lot of fun." She said, having forgotten the intrusion of real world pain into a fun day for her.
"I'd like to do something, if that's OK with you," I said to her, flying by the seat of my pants - which is typically how I travel through my life. She agreed so I had people clear and aisle way through the front of the group. I asked her to take Joe's arm and suddenly she knew what I was going to do.
"Are you going to have me walk down the aisle with Joe playing my father," she asked incredulous.
"Yes," if you want to.
"I do," she said quietly.
I asked the group to hum the wedding march and the whole group joined in as the two of them walked together down the aisle. When the got to the end the room erupted into applause and she tipped her head back and laughed. A big throaty laugh. Unencumbered with pain, just a laugh of pure joy.
Joe was oddly quiet as we drove away from the day. I asked if he was OK. He is a man who likes to think there is only good in the world. He knows from our work together that that is not true, but while I look at the dark, he always sees the light. To have stood that closely to her painful memory would have been hard for him. So I was concerned.
He considered my question for a second.
"It shouldn't have been me," he said, "and it shouldn't have been pretend."
But it wasn't pretend. It was very real for everyone in that room. They all knew and understood what had happened to her. They all know what it is like to be victims of prejudice from society but even worse they know what it's like to hear prejudice come from the mouths of parents, siblings, care providers. They all wanted to be there with her and for her. It wasn't prentend at all. Something very real happened.
There is nothing more real than prejudice.
And nothing more real than pride.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Fire!
Under 30, they are kids. Under 20, they are babies. And they should behave themselves.
The fire alarm clangs waking us up from a sound sleep. We look at each other knowing exactly what had happened. Checking in we noticed that the hotel was full of teens. Oh rah. Fire alarms will go off and they will run through the hallways at all hours. We'd actually predicted it. I was closer to the phone so I picked it up to call front desk. I was informed that we needed to come to the lobby until the fire department had located the fire.
I've been travelling for years and I never, never go down when there is a fire alarm going off. I've never smelled smoke and it has always been a false alarm. I know I'm playing the odds. But this time I was on the first floor overlooking the parking lot. We could just hop out the window in an emergency. Besides, there were teens in the hotel, isn't that information enough. I told the clerk that we would just wait it out in the room.
She became agitated and demanded. That's demanded, that we come to the lobby. I immediately agreed thinking that maybe there was something else going on.
We had to get up.
Get dressed.
Assemble the wheelchair.
Get out the door.
The alarm stopped just as we were about to leave. I called the desk again and she said that we still had to show at the lobby. So, we did.
We were one room away from the lobby so we were there in minutes.
Alone.
Just us and the hotel staff. No one else had come to the lobby. No one else had to put in a demand appearance.
It's cause I'm in the chair. I knew it instantaneously. I wasn't allowed to break the rules like every other sucker staying in that hotel. I wasn't allowed to just roll over, curse the teens, and go back to sleep. Nope. Cripples need to follow rules. Do what they are told. I was mad.
Joe knew it and just whispered above me. "They won't get it. Let it go."
I looked at the faces of those behind the desk. Those who had used their power with me because they could and left everyone else alone - because they knew they'd be told to stuff it. They had a look on their face, when they looked at me, that I'd seen before. A thousand times. On the face of staff who made people with disability follow rules that they, their children, their children's children knew but didn't follow.
So there I sat, disgruntled, tired, pissed off. What was there about the state of being disabled that turned others into 'I know best, I know better' power hungry desk clerks?
When did I turn into the compliant, do what you are told, disabled guy?
Well, I haven't.
Now that I know what they are doing - I'll know how to respond.
I'm not giving into that kind of petty tyrany.
Lookout desk clerks, the decision will be mine, not yours, from now on.
I have become a behaviour problem because I just figured out the rules and have decided not to play.
The fire alarm clangs waking us up from a sound sleep. We look at each other knowing exactly what had happened. Checking in we noticed that the hotel was full of teens. Oh rah. Fire alarms will go off and they will run through the hallways at all hours. We'd actually predicted it. I was closer to the phone so I picked it up to call front desk. I was informed that we needed to come to the lobby until the fire department had located the fire.
I've been travelling for years and I never, never go down when there is a fire alarm going off. I've never smelled smoke and it has always been a false alarm. I know I'm playing the odds. But this time I was on the first floor overlooking the parking lot. We could just hop out the window in an emergency. Besides, there were teens in the hotel, isn't that information enough. I told the clerk that we would just wait it out in the room.
She became agitated and demanded. That's demanded, that we come to the lobby. I immediately agreed thinking that maybe there was something else going on.
We had to get up.
Get dressed.
Assemble the wheelchair.
Get out the door.
The alarm stopped just as we were about to leave. I called the desk again and she said that we still had to show at the lobby. So, we did.
We were one room away from the lobby so we were there in minutes.
Alone.
Just us and the hotel staff. No one else had come to the lobby. No one else had to put in a demand appearance.
It's cause I'm in the chair. I knew it instantaneously. I wasn't allowed to break the rules like every other sucker staying in that hotel. I wasn't allowed to just roll over, curse the teens, and go back to sleep. Nope. Cripples need to follow rules. Do what they are told. I was mad.
Joe knew it and just whispered above me. "They won't get it. Let it go."
I looked at the faces of those behind the desk. Those who had used their power with me because they could and left everyone else alone - because they knew they'd be told to stuff it. They had a look on their face, when they looked at me, that I'd seen before. A thousand times. On the face of staff who made people with disability follow rules that they, their children, their children's children knew but didn't follow.
So there I sat, disgruntled, tired, pissed off. What was there about the state of being disabled that turned others into 'I know best, I know better' power hungry desk clerks?
When did I turn into the compliant, do what you are told, disabled guy?
Well, I haven't.
Now that I know what they are doing - I'll know how to respond.
I'm not giving into that kind of petty tyrany.
Lookout desk clerks, the decision will be mine, not yours, from now on.
I have become a behaviour problem because I just figured out the rules and have decided not to play.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Community Living
It's a standard part of the presentation. The audience was made up of people with disabilities from Kamloops although some had come from 100-mile-house a town a couple hours away. Today we were doing two different workshops, abuse prevention in the morning and understanding rights in the afternoon. During that workshop every person gets to answer the question 'who would you talk to if you had uncomfortable feelings'.
I like this part of the workshop because Joe takes over and he and one of the participants goes around and asks the question of everyone. As Joe and his assistant went around asking, I was hit by a memory. I've done work for the Kamloops Society for Community Living several times over the years and this was one of the first places I ever did the abuse prevention workshops for people with disabilities.
Looking around I could easily identify four or five people with disabilities who I knew were there in the early days of my attempting this training. They'd aged. I'd aged. Yet here we were all going through this again. It was a nice memory and a nice feeling. But then a word caught my ear ..."
"I think I'd talk to one of my kids."
This was followed by ...
"I think I'd talk to my husband."
"My best friend."
"My girlfriend."
"My fiance."
"My family."
One woman paused, thoughtfully giving the question due consideration. She lifted her hands and started counting off on her fingers, "I could talk to my mother, or my best friend, or my boyfriend, or my sister ..." and on she went. She used up almost every finger making the list of those she could talk to. Wow.
By the time they were done the question, "Who would you talk to if you had an uncomfortable feeling?" was answered with the word, "staff or helper" only twice. Forty people and only twice did care providers come up as an answer. This is a shocking changed. I talked with Deb Steele afterwards and asked if she noticed the list of people who were given as possible 'helpers' should life go wrong. I asked if she noticed how 'normal' that list was. I asked if she remembered the day when 'staff' was the only answer given.
The fact that staff were not given as a first choice is not a condemnation of service provision at all. It doesn't mean that staff aren't doing their job. It means that staff are FINALLY doing their job. Facilitating relationships, building networks, developing connections - who rah - these were people with disabilities who had lives deeply imbedded in the community.
It seems feeble to only be able to offer a bit of praise ... 'good job all' but it's all I have to give that's meaningful.
GOOD JOB! WELL DONE!
I like this part of the workshop because Joe takes over and he and one of the participants goes around and asks the question of everyone. As Joe and his assistant went around asking, I was hit by a memory. I've done work for the Kamloops Society for Community Living several times over the years and this was one of the first places I ever did the abuse prevention workshops for people with disabilities.
Looking around I could easily identify four or five people with disabilities who I knew were there in the early days of my attempting this training. They'd aged. I'd aged. Yet here we were all going through this again. It was a nice memory and a nice feeling. But then a word caught my ear ..."
"I think I'd talk to one of my kids."
This was followed by ...
"I think I'd talk to my husband."
"My best friend."
"My girlfriend."
"My fiance."
"My family."
One woman paused, thoughtfully giving the question due consideration. She lifted her hands and started counting off on her fingers, "I could talk to my mother, or my best friend, or my boyfriend, or my sister ..." and on she went. She used up almost every finger making the list of those she could talk to. Wow.
By the time they were done the question, "Who would you talk to if you had an uncomfortable feeling?" was answered with the word, "staff or helper" only twice. Forty people and only twice did care providers come up as an answer. This is a shocking changed. I talked with Deb Steele afterwards and asked if she noticed the list of people who were given as possible 'helpers' should life go wrong. I asked if she noticed how 'normal' that list was. I asked if she remembered the day when 'staff' was the only answer given.
The fact that staff were not given as a first choice is not a condemnation of service provision at all. It doesn't mean that staff aren't doing their job. It means that staff are FINALLY doing their job. Facilitating relationships, building networks, developing connections - who rah - these were people with disabilities who had lives deeply imbedded in the community.
It seems feeble to only be able to offer a bit of praise ... 'good job all' but it's all I have to give that's meaningful.
GOOD JOB! WELL DONE!
Monday, June 11, 2007
hurt by big turk
Since becoming disabled coming on to two years ago now, I've been coping well. Or so I thought.
I've been managing with the wheelchair and all that comes with it - curbs, attitudes, platitudes and both kinds of stares. Yep, I have no compunction about going out 'there' into the real world and getting done what I need to get done. I've been coping well. Or so I thought.
Making reservations for hotels and getting them to understand that 'accessible' doesn't mean 'being able to get to it' it means 'being able to use it' - that's old hat now. Talking to airline representatives to ensure that they understand what needs to happen and making it clear that when my wheelchair comes out of the belly of the plane it comes to me, not to baggage handlers. got it down pat. I've been coping well. Or so I thought.
With rare exceptions I have learned to speak up for myself when treated unfairly or in a discrimitory manner, and to do so with both force and dignity. So up until Friday night, in a hotel gift shop in Calgary, I had thought I was coping well. I thought wrong.
I rolled in to the gift shop to get some post cards, some pop for the room and to see what other novelties were interesting. And there, on the bottom shelf, it sat. If you had an ear placed on my chest you would have heard my heart crack. Pain shot through me, I handed the cards to Joe who was carrying the pop and swung round and left the store to be alone for a minute.
As beautiful as I remembered. And the memories were grand, stunning. I felt, for the first time in months, consumed with desire for my old life. My life ... before. Even so I had a decision to make. I swung my chair back round and looked at where it was. My face calm, my soul howling in despair - I decided to just go. Go back to the room. Leave this place of temptation.
So I left it there "Big Turk" the worlds best chocolate bar. The one with the rich chocolate on the outside and the odd purple filling on the inside. The chocolate bar that you ate with the sensuousness of foreplay. The chocolate bar in the red and white wrapping with the name BIG TURK in bold on the front. They are hard to find, these siren song singing succulent savories. I haven't actually seen one since being in the hospital dually being diagnosed with diabetes and fitted for a wheelchair.
Steadfastly, I've avoided chocolate bars, not having one since that day of diagnosis. NOT ONE. But I can avoid OH Henry and MR. Big ... they never meant much to me. It was Big Turk that I fell in love with. Bought a wack of whenever I found it. Savoured them knowing that it would always be awhile before I found them again. Rare exotic treat, that's Big Turk.
I went to my room and pouted. We had some sugar free cookies but really, no matter what anyone says, there is a profound difference between masturbation and sex. There is no substitute for Big Turk. No way to get around the loss.
So I checked my blood sugar in the morning and it was a little high.
I had thought having an affair with BIG TURK.
And was punished.
I've been managing with the wheelchair and all that comes with it - curbs, attitudes, platitudes and both kinds of stares. Yep, I have no compunction about going out 'there' into the real world and getting done what I need to get done. I've been coping well. Or so I thought.
Making reservations for hotels and getting them to understand that 'accessible' doesn't mean 'being able to get to it' it means 'being able to use it' - that's old hat now. Talking to airline representatives to ensure that they understand what needs to happen and making it clear that when my wheelchair comes out of the belly of the plane it comes to me, not to baggage handlers. got it down pat. I've been coping well. Or so I thought.
With rare exceptions I have learned to speak up for myself when treated unfairly or in a discrimitory manner, and to do so with both force and dignity. So up until Friday night, in a hotel gift shop in Calgary, I had thought I was coping well. I thought wrong.
I rolled in to the gift shop to get some post cards, some pop for the room and to see what other novelties were interesting. And there, on the bottom shelf, it sat. If you had an ear placed on my chest you would have heard my heart crack. Pain shot through me, I handed the cards to Joe who was carrying the pop and swung round and left the store to be alone for a minute.
As beautiful as I remembered. And the memories were grand, stunning. I felt, for the first time in months, consumed with desire for my old life. My life ... before. Even so I had a decision to make. I swung my chair back round and looked at where it was. My face calm, my soul howling in despair - I decided to just go. Go back to the room. Leave this place of temptation.
So I left it there "Big Turk" the worlds best chocolate bar. The one with the rich chocolate on the outside and the odd purple filling on the inside. The chocolate bar that you ate with the sensuousness of foreplay. The chocolate bar in the red and white wrapping with the name BIG TURK in bold on the front. They are hard to find, these siren song singing succulent savories. I haven't actually seen one since being in the hospital dually being diagnosed with diabetes and fitted for a wheelchair.
Steadfastly, I've avoided chocolate bars, not having one since that day of diagnosis. NOT ONE. But I can avoid OH Henry and MR. Big ... they never meant much to me. It was Big Turk that I fell in love with. Bought a wack of whenever I found it. Savoured them knowing that it would always be awhile before I found them again. Rare exotic treat, that's Big Turk.
I went to my room and pouted. We had some sugar free cookies but really, no matter what anyone says, there is a profound difference between masturbation and sex. There is no substitute for Big Turk. No way to get around the loss.
So I checked my blood sugar in the morning and it was a little high.
I had thought having an affair with BIG TURK.
And was punished.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
number 17
"I don't know how to stop abuse in agencies serving people with disabilities," Sobsey said in his workshop in Toronto on that issue. "But I have some ideas for things we can do," he continued. Then he gave just over 50 ideas for what we as individuals can do to make it less likely that abuse will happen.
As I had his powerpoint presentation photocopied and tucked away in the bag on the back of my wheelchair, I could just sit back and listen, think and then absorb what he was saying. I'd already had several 'ah ha' moments when the powerpoint projector moved to Sobsey's point number 17. When it appeared on the screen, my mind read it and read it and read it again. Before he said a word about what was written there I was taking in the huge implication of those words.
"The single most important thing that each of us can do is control our own behaviour."
Luckily Sobsey has a low key way of presenting his material because much of it would knock an audience reeling if he pitched too hard. This section of his presentation asked each of us, as I ask you now, to understand that every single one of us has moods and moments, thoughts and impulses that given free reign could turn us into an abuser.
The difference between an abuser and a non-abuser is not how we think or feel, it's that non-abusers manage to control their urges, stifle those moments. Thinking about slapping someone is not crossing the line, slapping someone is. If we want to stop abuse we begin first with ourselves. We begin by examining who we are, how we think, and learn to begin to reshape our natural impulses, to guard against those moments when we are angered or overwhelmed.
The end of abuse is located in our own mind our own body.
This is powerful stuff.
This is hopeful stuff.
This is difficult stuff.
After the presentation, Joe and I drove Dr. Sobsey to the airport and as luck would have it we were flying out at about the same time. Dick was flying to Edmonton and we were flying to Calgary. Our flights were to take off from adjoining gates. We had several hours more to simply chat and have dinner.
When we arrived in Calgary, I waited in the baggage area as Joe went off to secure the rental car. I was pushing myself by the baggage carousels - by the by, Calgary has one of the nicest airports in North America and even the baggage area is cool - headed towards where Joe and I would meet. A man approached with an odd gait and a big, big smile. As he saw me he gave a big wave. At first I thought we knew each other and that he had recognized me. This does happen, in Toronto waiting for our flight I ran into a woman who had heard me present in British Columbia.
I was about to wave back when I got it. He didn't recognize me. He was ... um ... odd. When I was close enough I did my quick assessment. Disabled or 'slightly off' and in an instant I could see that he was 'not quite like' everyone else but that he didn't have a disability. Inwardly I groaned, cast my eyes away and wished that I wasn't a magnet for 'those kind of people.'
Suddenly, instantaneously, I remembered ...
"The single most important thing that each of us can do is control our own behaviour."
I forced my eyes back and picked up my hand, I couldn't believe the struggle that was going on between mind and body, and waved back. My lips formed into a smile. His smile broadened at the acknowledgement and walked on by.
I didn't hurt that man yesterday.
Because I controled myself.
What power.
As I had his powerpoint presentation photocopied and tucked away in the bag on the back of my wheelchair, I could just sit back and listen, think and then absorb what he was saying. I'd already had several 'ah ha' moments when the powerpoint projector moved to Sobsey's point number 17. When it appeared on the screen, my mind read it and read it and read it again. Before he said a word about what was written there I was taking in the huge implication of those words.
"The single most important thing that each of us can do is control our own behaviour."
Luckily Sobsey has a low key way of presenting his material because much of it would knock an audience reeling if he pitched too hard. This section of his presentation asked each of us, as I ask you now, to understand that every single one of us has moods and moments, thoughts and impulses that given free reign could turn us into an abuser.
The difference between an abuser and a non-abuser is not how we think or feel, it's that non-abusers manage to control their urges, stifle those moments. Thinking about slapping someone is not crossing the line, slapping someone is. If we want to stop abuse we begin first with ourselves. We begin by examining who we are, how we think, and learn to begin to reshape our natural impulses, to guard against those moments when we are angered or overwhelmed.
The end of abuse is located in our own mind our own body.
This is powerful stuff.
This is hopeful stuff.
This is difficult stuff.
After the presentation, Joe and I drove Dr. Sobsey to the airport and as luck would have it we were flying out at about the same time. Dick was flying to Edmonton and we were flying to Calgary. Our flights were to take off from adjoining gates. We had several hours more to simply chat and have dinner.
When we arrived in Calgary, I waited in the baggage area as Joe went off to secure the rental car. I was pushing myself by the baggage carousels - by the by, Calgary has one of the nicest airports in North America and even the baggage area is cool - headed towards where Joe and I would meet. A man approached with an odd gait and a big, big smile. As he saw me he gave a big wave. At first I thought we knew each other and that he had recognized me. This does happen, in Toronto waiting for our flight I ran into a woman who had heard me present in British Columbia.
I was about to wave back when I got it. He didn't recognize me. He was ... um ... odd. When I was close enough I did my quick assessment. Disabled or 'slightly off' and in an instant I could see that he was 'not quite like' everyone else but that he didn't have a disability. Inwardly I groaned, cast my eyes away and wished that I wasn't a magnet for 'those kind of people.'
Suddenly, instantaneously, I remembered ...
"The single most important thing that each of us can do is control our own behaviour."
I forced my eyes back and picked up my hand, I couldn't believe the struggle that was going on between mind and body, and waved back. My lips formed into a smile. His smile broadened at the acknowledgement and walked on by.
I didn't hurt that man yesterday.
Because I controled myself.
What power.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Inappropriate Pride
I shouldn't feel it.
I shouldn't say it.
I certainly shouldn't write it.
But I'm going to.
Yesterday at Dick Sobsey's presentation about how to create safe places for people with disabilities to live and work, Vita's Personal Development Committee made it's public debut. Several weeks ago we met and I asked them to prepare to present at the Sobsey conference and they did as I knew they would, they greeted the challenge with enthusiasm and determination. An amazing group of staff.
The main reason I am working at Vita is to be part of a process and to observe a process of an agency going through changes to actively become a Safe Haven for those in care. I spent two months reading the literature and then coming up with what is simply called, Vita's Process for Change. From there it's been slightly over a year that we've made change after change after change in the agency. It's like we have shone a light on every aspect of our service and asked simply, can we make this safer.
One of the things we did was create a team of dedicated staff that work together, but with focus on three areas. Relationship Training, Abuse Prevention Training and Self Advocacy. We interviewed, then hired, then trained staff. Some (1) came from management but the rest comes from Vita's front line. Then they set about doing the work. It's been amazing to watch them learn and grow. As individuals. As a group. As a team.
As they prepared to present yesterday, I received from each team their speeches and questions about what they needed to include. I want to be clear here. Their work required little editting. Very minor suggestions about wording changes or things to add, but that's it. They could have done it without me and without my little contributions. But I was glad to be part of their process as they readied themselves for their first public presenation as a team.
It was arranged for them to go on after lunch. Each was nervous. Each wanted to do well, as much for Vita, the team, the people we serve as for themselves. You could see the pride that each person had in the work that they did. So they presented and each did brilliantly. They were alive. They were funny. They were informative.
And I felt a weird feeling.
One I shouldn't mention.
I felt a kind of paternal pride in their accomplishment. This is weird because we're all adults albeit that I'm way more adult than they are and I recognize that this was their accomplishment, not mine. But I felt it anyways.
For years I have worked independently as a consultant in a freelance capacity. In the last year, though, the nature of the work has had me working in teams and with others in a very different way. While I provide supervision and direction to the Personal Development Committee and while I am involved in the selection of team members, I didn't expect to have this deep sense of accomplishment and, paternal pride, that I did yesterday.
We humans are weird, and I'm amongst that group.
While driving to the airport to get Dick to his flight, he mentioned the presentation by the group. He said, "It heartening to see a group of young people who are committed and who 'get it' and who want to make a difference."
Tears welled up in my eyes and I looked out the window and said.
"You're right, Dick, it is."
I shouldn't say it.
I certainly shouldn't write it.
But I'm going to.
Yesterday at Dick Sobsey's presentation about how to create safe places for people with disabilities to live and work, Vita's Personal Development Committee made it's public debut. Several weeks ago we met and I asked them to prepare to present at the Sobsey conference and they did as I knew they would, they greeted the challenge with enthusiasm and determination. An amazing group of staff.
The main reason I am working at Vita is to be part of a process and to observe a process of an agency going through changes to actively become a Safe Haven for those in care. I spent two months reading the literature and then coming up with what is simply called, Vita's Process for Change. From there it's been slightly over a year that we've made change after change after change in the agency. It's like we have shone a light on every aspect of our service and asked simply, can we make this safer.
One of the things we did was create a team of dedicated staff that work together, but with focus on three areas. Relationship Training, Abuse Prevention Training and Self Advocacy. We interviewed, then hired, then trained staff. Some (1) came from management but the rest comes from Vita's front line. Then they set about doing the work. It's been amazing to watch them learn and grow. As individuals. As a group. As a team.
As they prepared to present yesterday, I received from each team their speeches and questions about what they needed to include. I want to be clear here. Their work required little editting. Very minor suggestions about wording changes or things to add, but that's it. They could have done it without me and without my little contributions. But I was glad to be part of their process as they readied themselves for their first public presenation as a team.
It was arranged for them to go on after lunch. Each was nervous. Each wanted to do well, as much for Vita, the team, the people we serve as for themselves. You could see the pride that each person had in the work that they did. So they presented and each did brilliantly. They were alive. They were funny. They were informative.
And I felt a weird feeling.
One I shouldn't mention.
I felt a kind of paternal pride in their accomplishment. This is weird because we're all adults albeit that I'm way more adult than they are and I recognize that this was their accomplishment, not mine. But I felt it anyways.
For years I have worked independently as a consultant in a freelance capacity. In the last year, though, the nature of the work has had me working in teams and with others in a very different way. While I provide supervision and direction to the Personal Development Committee and while I am involved in the selection of team members, I didn't expect to have this deep sense of accomplishment and, paternal pride, that I did yesterday.
We humans are weird, and I'm amongst that group.
While driving to the airport to get Dick to his flight, he mentioned the presentation by the group. He said, "It heartening to see a group of young people who are committed and who 'get it' and who want to make a difference."
Tears welled up in my eyes and I looked out the window and said.
"You're right, Dick, it is."
Friday, June 08, 2007
Knowledge is Power
A family of a young nearly 17 year old man with Down Syndrome is approached by neighbours concerned that he has not been getting the education that he needs. Indeed he has virtually been denied education. The family is convinced that one of the neighbours knows of a place where their son will be given education and a chance to learn, in spite of the fact that he has Down Syndrome. They give their child away trusting that he will have new opportunities.
A few days later, election day in Bagdad, the young man wanders alone into a polling booth. Someone outside dials a cell phone number and instantly a 17 year old trusting and innocent man with Down Syndrome hears a small beep from the bomb that had been strapped to his body and then the explosion tears his body apart as he becomes the first human bomb with an intellectual disability.
This story outrages me on so many levels. But the part that bothers me is that I didn't know it. If I hadn't been in a car talking about how the world has changed with Dick Sobsey, who is in Toronto to do a presentation on the abuse of people with disabilities, I would never have heard it.
It reminds me of doing a lecture a year or so ago and hearing of a young man with an intellectual disability being set upon by other teens in a park in Sarnia. They sprayed lighter fluid on him and then set him ablaze. He suffered burns all over his face and scalp. I sat in horror listening to this story. Angry that it happened. Angry that I didn't know about it. Didn't have a chance to respond.
This story was eventually told, with my help, on CBC television here in Canada. But my guess is that most of the readers of this blog knew niether of these stories. Set in different countries and different cultures, they have the common theme of disrespect for people with disabilities. They also have in common the fact that there is virtual silence about these issues.
Is there, out there, any source that my blog readers know, for news and information about people with disabilities. I want to know these things, no matter how much they upset me. I want an end to media silence about violence against people with disabilities. I want there to be organized outrage - but how can there be when we don't know.
So, please, someone tell me a blog or website that collects worldwide news about disability.
Anyone?
A few days later, election day in Bagdad, the young man wanders alone into a polling booth. Someone outside dials a cell phone number and instantly a 17 year old trusting and innocent man with Down Syndrome hears a small beep from the bomb that had been strapped to his body and then the explosion tears his body apart as he becomes the first human bomb with an intellectual disability.
This story outrages me on so many levels. But the part that bothers me is that I didn't know it. If I hadn't been in a car talking about how the world has changed with Dick Sobsey, who is in Toronto to do a presentation on the abuse of people with disabilities, I would never have heard it.
It reminds me of doing a lecture a year or so ago and hearing of a young man with an intellectual disability being set upon by other teens in a park in Sarnia. They sprayed lighter fluid on him and then set him ablaze. He suffered burns all over his face and scalp. I sat in horror listening to this story. Angry that it happened. Angry that I didn't know about it. Didn't have a chance to respond.
This story was eventually told, with my help, on CBC television here in Canada. But my guess is that most of the readers of this blog knew niether of these stories. Set in different countries and different cultures, they have the common theme of disrespect for people with disabilities. They also have in common the fact that there is virtual silence about these issues.
Is there, out there, any source that my blog readers know, for news and information about people with disabilities. I want to know these things, no matter how much they upset me. I want an end to media silence about violence against people with disabilities. I want there to be organized outrage - but how can there be when we don't know.
So, please, someone tell me a blog or website that collects worldwide news about disability.
Anyone?
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Go Ahead ...
"deaf kitty and fat man"
"fat sex"
"prostitute bars in manchester"
"deviant shoes"
One of the cool things about having a site monitor is that you can keep tabs on your blog at the push of a button. It's only recently I discovered that you could check out how people found your blog by clicking on 'referrals'. It's interesting to see what other blogs are linked - but it's even more interesting to see when the blog was hit due to a google search. The full search comes up.
Today, someone was searching "deaf kitty and fat man" and my blog came up as containing all those words. The other searches above have appeared, some more than once. I wonder what readers who are looking for "deviant shoes" think when they start reading "CTF" and discover that there are no shoes, little deviance but a lot of difference. (Deviant Shoes, if you are back and reading this, I wear Birkenstocks, sorry - but there is someone I could introduce you to ....)
Do they turn tail and run or do they stay and read a little bit. I hope that they are accidental visitors who read something that makes them pause a little bit in their day - before clicking on in search of their holy grail. I hope that they find something here they like. Something to think about.
Even if the conversation at work the next day is ...
"You know, I was searching for 'transvestite rent boys' on the web and I came across this site written by a fat guy in a wheelchair. Man I didn't even know that cripples could type ... but he had something to say."
That would make my day.
"fat sex"
"prostitute bars in manchester"
"deviant shoes"
One of the cool things about having a site monitor is that you can keep tabs on your blog at the push of a button. It's only recently I discovered that you could check out how people found your blog by clicking on 'referrals'. It's interesting to see what other blogs are linked - but it's even more interesting to see when the blog was hit due to a google search. The full search comes up.
Today, someone was searching "deaf kitty and fat man" and my blog came up as containing all those words. The other searches above have appeared, some more than once. I wonder what readers who are looking for "deviant shoes" think when they start reading "CTF" and discover that there are no shoes, little deviance but a lot of difference. (Deviant Shoes, if you are back and reading this, I wear Birkenstocks, sorry - but there is someone I could introduce you to ....)
Do they turn tail and run or do they stay and read a little bit. I hope that they are accidental visitors who read something that makes them pause a little bit in their day - before clicking on in search of their holy grail. I hope that they find something here they like. Something to think about.
Even if the conversation at work the next day is ...
"You know, I was searching for 'transvestite rent boys' on the web and I came across this site written by a fat guy in a wheelchair. Man I didn't even know that cripples could type ... but he had something to say."
That would make my day.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Wondering again ...
I wonder why I only ever know one or two words of the songs that get stuck in my head.
I wonder why neighbours who complain of group homes aren't just called bigots and ignored.
I wonder why half the ramps into buildings are so badly kept that they are no use at all.
I wonder why none of us say what we really think any more. I wonder why so many of us have given up thinking any more.
I wonder why people choose to work within the disability field and then resent the needs of people with disabilities.
I wonder why disphobia isn't seen as signficant as racism or homophobia.
I wonder why people who would never go in my wallet find it acceptable to reach into the bag on the back of my chair - without permission.
I wonder why the general public are often nicer than the professionals trained to assist.
I wonder why our neighbours dog always shits on our side of the road in the morning - training or just preference.
I wonder why the internet is so accessible and so many people's hearts aren't ramped.
I wonder if blogging will ever make a lick of difference in the real world.
I wonder why neighbours who complain of group homes aren't just called bigots and ignored.
I wonder why half the ramps into buildings are so badly kept that they are no use at all.
I wonder why none of us say what we really think any more. I wonder why so many of us have given up thinking any more.
I wonder why people choose to work within the disability field and then resent the needs of people with disabilities.
I wonder why disphobia isn't seen as signficant as racism or homophobia.
I wonder why people who would never go in my wallet find it acceptable to reach into the bag on the back of my chair - without permission.
I wonder why the general public are often nicer than the professionals trained to assist.
I wonder why our neighbours dog always shits on our side of the road in the morning - training or just preference.
I wonder why the internet is so accessible and so many people's hearts aren't ramped.
I wonder if blogging will ever make a lick of difference in the real world.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
The Voyage
It was mean.
It was unnecessary.
We were driving home from the movie laughing and talking about what we had just seen. The sky was darkening and a storm looked like it would hit. It felt cosy in the car and we looked out at people scurrying to get home.
The light in front of us went red and we pulled to a stop. It was at a stop light that is almost constantly red. It is right in front of a little mall that has a convienience store and a ice cream shop that is popular with kids. The light is one of those that is activated for pedestrians and goes red to stop the flow of traffic so that people can pass.
During the summer it is common to see hundreds of kids pass to and fro as they head over to the small plaza to hang with or to leave their group of friends. Pulling into the parking lot to shop there is like driving into one of Gulliver's travels - the land of children - it's a place where adults are looked at with annoyance. This is their ground.
We watched as three kids crossed. Each with a bike, each in a helmet, each rushing across the street. I smiled as I remembered being young and learning to cross a busy street. Cars seem dangerous, ominous, to me and my heart always sped up as it seemed that they could suddenly dart out and smash into me.
The two in front were boys. I'm bad at ages but maybe 11 or 12. Their faces were grim with determination to get by us and back onto the safety of the sidewalk. Immediately behind them was a girl also with her bike glancing back and waving to her mom, who had stopped to say hello to someone, to hurry along. Then her eyes swept by us in the car and she smiled. She had Down Syndrome and with that extra chromosone often comes an openness that the boys, her peers in age, had outgrown.
I don't know why I did it but I did. I waved. I know I shouldn't have. I slap my hand for doing it. I encouraged her to wave to a stranger which she did. The boys noticed and thus I smiled at them too. They said something which I couldn't hear so pressed the button to roll the window down.
"She's not with us," he said wanting to make it clear that though they were crossing together, they weren't part of the same group weren't friends.
Her face registered hurt. She hadn't pretended to be with them but she was suddenly shoved away. Not part of the group, not a member of the team, not wanted on the voyage.
I called back to them, "Why would she want to be?"
They looked startled. Like they expected to be immediately understood. Like they had talked 'normal' to 'normal' with implicit understanding of the desire to be separate from one of those. Like they had been funny. They saw in my face anger. They didn't notice her hurt, she was inconsequential to them. They rushed away from me.
Mom, seeing the light about to change, dashed across the street and saw her daughter crying. "I wouldn't have left you here alone," mom reassured her. She grabbed her mom and hugged her.
"But she is here alone," I thought.
The light turned and we drove home into the storm.
It was unnecessary.
We were driving home from the movie laughing and talking about what we had just seen. The sky was darkening and a storm looked like it would hit. It felt cosy in the car and we looked out at people scurrying to get home.
The light in front of us went red and we pulled to a stop. It was at a stop light that is almost constantly red. It is right in front of a little mall that has a convienience store and a ice cream shop that is popular with kids. The light is one of those that is activated for pedestrians and goes red to stop the flow of traffic so that people can pass.
During the summer it is common to see hundreds of kids pass to and fro as they head over to the small plaza to hang with or to leave their group of friends. Pulling into the parking lot to shop there is like driving into one of Gulliver's travels - the land of children - it's a place where adults are looked at with annoyance. This is their ground.
We watched as three kids crossed. Each with a bike, each in a helmet, each rushing across the street. I smiled as I remembered being young and learning to cross a busy street. Cars seem dangerous, ominous, to me and my heart always sped up as it seemed that they could suddenly dart out and smash into me.
The two in front were boys. I'm bad at ages but maybe 11 or 12. Their faces were grim with determination to get by us and back onto the safety of the sidewalk. Immediately behind them was a girl also with her bike glancing back and waving to her mom, who had stopped to say hello to someone, to hurry along. Then her eyes swept by us in the car and she smiled. She had Down Syndrome and with that extra chromosone often comes an openness that the boys, her peers in age, had outgrown.
I don't know why I did it but I did. I waved. I know I shouldn't have. I slap my hand for doing it. I encouraged her to wave to a stranger which she did. The boys noticed and thus I smiled at them too. They said something which I couldn't hear so pressed the button to roll the window down.
"She's not with us," he said wanting to make it clear that though they were crossing together, they weren't part of the same group weren't friends.
Her face registered hurt. She hadn't pretended to be with them but she was suddenly shoved away. Not part of the group, not a member of the team, not wanted on the voyage.
I called back to them, "Why would she want to be?"
They looked startled. Like they expected to be immediately understood. Like they had talked 'normal' to 'normal' with implicit understanding of the desire to be separate from one of those. Like they had been funny. They saw in my face anger. They didn't notice her hurt, she was inconsequential to them. They rushed away from me.
Mom, seeing the light about to change, dashed across the street and saw her daughter crying. "I wouldn't have left you here alone," mom reassured her. She grabbed her mom and hugged her.
"But she is here alone," I thought.
The light turned and we drove home into the storm.
Monday, June 04, 2007
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Years and years ago, the first time I went to lecture in Nova Scotia, I met Jim and Deb. We had powerful things in common and got on right from the start. As things happen in a world where everyone is too busy the only contact I had with them was when I visited them in memory. This often happened when people spoke to me about policies regarding sexuality and I told people of the work that had been done in Halifax - the work that had brought the three of us together.
So on Friday, when lecturing in Halifax, I arranged to have lunch and catch up with both of them. Even though the time was brief, it was nice to just sit and chat a bit. During that lunch a woman with an intellectual disability came up to speak to me. I had noticed her in the audience and I was pleased to see that a number of disabled folks had come that day to that talk. It was a talk on self esteem and I told a number of stories about how people establish self esteem through the relationships they cultivate - including the relationship with success, with establishing themselves against all odds in the community at large.
I saw her listening intently to my talk and though she laughed along with the audience, hers was a thoughtful face in the crowd and I could see emotions play across a face that seemed to typically look placid. I was in the middle of telling a story to Deb and Jim at lunch when she arrived at the table. She was extremely polite and stood waiting for me to finish. Instead I stopped and looked to her.
She told me that she liked how I spoke, she liked the stories and she liked the humour. I could see that this was not easy for her, that she had coaxed herself to come up to speak to me. I knew, then, that she really had something to tell me. In few words and a gentle tone she told me that she lived in the community.
She paused.
Let it sink in.
She was one of the free.
She then told me that she had a place that she lived in and that she liked living there. There was deep, deep pride in her face as she let me know that - like the people in my stories, she had risen above expectations.
"I think," she said, "that if you can live on your own, you can do anything."
I agreed with her and thanked her for coming up to speak to me. She smiled, almost relieved that she had managed to come and tell her story, and then turned and walked back to her table where she had had lunch. Something I had said must have moved her deeply, made it so that she wanted to share her success with me, let me know that she understood what it was to make good, get home, surprise everyone.
Small town eyes
will gape at you,
In dull surprise,
When payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
This verse from the song, 'At Seventeen' by Janis Ian came to me unbidden as I watched her take her seat in the auditorium after lunch. Then I looked and saw the others with disabilities arrive and take their seats and look expectantly up at me. Waiting for the next part of the talk, the next story. And I was in awe of them. Because their stories, stories I didn't know, were triumphant stories. They were all of the age when 'at seventeen' they would have been diminished, disrespected and dismissed. But here they were, equals in an audience of equals. Hearing my stories of others with disabilities differently - as stories from within community.
I think her name was Mary.
I apologise to her if I got it wrong.
But this Mary was quite contrary - because she beat the odds, defied expectations, and became a woman, living freely in Halifax, relying on herself.
After the lecture she would go home.
Who'd have thought that was possible.
At seventeen.
So on Friday, when lecturing in Halifax, I arranged to have lunch and catch up with both of them. Even though the time was brief, it was nice to just sit and chat a bit. During that lunch a woman with an intellectual disability came up to speak to me. I had noticed her in the audience and I was pleased to see that a number of disabled folks had come that day to that talk. It was a talk on self esteem and I told a number of stories about how people establish self esteem through the relationships they cultivate - including the relationship with success, with establishing themselves against all odds in the community at large.
I saw her listening intently to my talk and though she laughed along with the audience, hers was a thoughtful face in the crowd and I could see emotions play across a face that seemed to typically look placid. I was in the middle of telling a story to Deb and Jim at lunch when she arrived at the table. She was extremely polite and stood waiting for me to finish. Instead I stopped and looked to her.
She told me that she liked how I spoke, she liked the stories and she liked the humour. I could see that this was not easy for her, that she had coaxed herself to come up to speak to me. I knew, then, that she really had something to tell me. In few words and a gentle tone she told me that she lived in the community.
She paused.
Let it sink in.
She was one of the free.
She then told me that she had a place that she lived in and that she liked living there. There was deep, deep pride in her face as she let me know that - like the people in my stories, she had risen above expectations.
"I think," she said, "that if you can live on your own, you can do anything."
I agreed with her and thanked her for coming up to speak to me. She smiled, almost relieved that she had managed to come and tell her story, and then turned and walked back to her table where she had had lunch. Something I had said must have moved her deeply, made it so that she wanted to share her success with me, let me know that she understood what it was to make good, get home, surprise everyone.
Small town eyes
will gape at you,
In dull surprise,
When payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
This verse from the song, 'At Seventeen' by Janis Ian came to me unbidden as I watched her take her seat in the auditorium after lunch. Then I looked and saw the others with disabilities arrive and take their seats and look expectantly up at me. Waiting for the next part of the talk, the next story. And I was in awe of them. Because their stories, stories I didn't know, were triumphant stories. They were all of the age when 'at seventeen' they would have been diminished, disrespected and dismissed. But here they were, equals in an audience of equals. Hearing my stories of others with disabilities differently - as stories from within community.
I think her name was Mary.
I apologise to her if I got it wrong.
But this Mary was quite contrary - because she beat the odds, defied expectations, and became a woman, living freely in Halifax, relying on herself.
After the lecture she would go home.
Who'd have thought that was possible.
At seventeen.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Bart's Breakthrough
Yikes.
We drove from Halifax to Montreal, a 13 hour drive, and are just now in our hotel room. It's a long drive but it was a beautiful day and besides that we took a university course along the way. A couple years ago we discovered that you could buy cd's of lectures given at places like Oxford. So we took the 'Ideas That Shaped Mankind: A Concise History of Human Thought' class taught by some guy named Felipe Fernandez-Armesto. As we drove through the widerness of New Brunswick and Eastern Quebec he wove a history of thought.
Then he said something that made me really sit up and take notice.
He was talking about the Spanish invasion of South America and the wholesale destruction of cultures and peoples. Some guy, a Dominican Friar named Bartolome de Las Casas had an intellectual discovery, and according to the good professor was the first to say it, or write it down anyways. Up until this guy, humanity had no concept of ... well ... humanity. We were tribes, nations, races ... we were us ... and anyone else was them. The universality of the human condition did not exist as an idea or a thought.
So Bart, if he doesn't mind me being so casual, wrote something spectacular.
"All the peoples of the world are human."
This was an intellectual bombshell that set off a whole new way of thinking. His writings were tremendously popular in their day and helped shaped human conciousness in radical new ways. I sat in the car reeling from the simplicity of that statement. But then the lecture, as it had to, went on and we sank into the horrors of Social Darwinism, Nazi ideology and eugenics. The message of the good Friar was lost somewhere along the way, although the professor maintains there are still echos of the sentiment of the concept of the humanity of humans in our day to day discourse.
Would that some other great thinker come along to push the boundaries of Bart's thinking. He was talking about indigenous peoples.
But shouldn't we think of people with disabilities and differences as also being indigenous to the human condition? As being discovered precisely where we belong? As being a people?
And, therefore, the statement ...
"All the peoples of the world are human."
... applies ... we just need someone to remind us - every now and then - of that fact.
We drove from Halifax to Montreal, a 13 hour drive, and are just now in our hotel room. It's a long drive but it was a beautiful day and besides that we took a university course along the way. A couple years ago we discovered that you could buy cd's of lectures given at places like Oxford. So we took the 'Ideas That Shaped Mankind: A Concise History of Human Thought' class taught by some guy named Felipe Fernandez-Armesto. As we drove through the widerness of New Brunswick and Eastern Quebec he wove a history of thought.
Then he said something that made me really sit up and take notice.
He was talking about the Spanish invasion of South America and the wholesale destruction of cultures and peoples. Some guy, a Dominican Friar named Bartolome de Las Casas had an intellectual discovery, and according to the good professor was the first to say it, or write it down anyways. Up until this guy, humanity had no concept of ... well ... humanity. We were tribes, nations, races ... we were us ... and anyone else was them. The universality of the human condition did not exist as an idea or a thought.
So Bart, if he doesn't mind me being so casual, wrote something spectacular.
"All the peoples of the world are human."
This was an intellectual bombshell that set off a whole new way of thinking. His writings were tremendously popular in their day and helped shaped human conciousness in radical new ways. I sat in the car reeling from the simplicity of that statement. But then the lecture, as it had to, went on and we sank into the horrors of Social Darwinism, Nazi ideology and eugenics. The message of the good Friar was lost somewhere along the way, although the professor maintains there are still echos of the sentiment of the concept of the humanity of humans in our day to day discourse.
Would that some other great thinker come along to push the boundaries of Bart's thinking. He was talking about indigenous peoples.
But shouldn't we think of people with disabilities and differences as also being indigenous to the human condition? As being discovered precisely where we belong? As being a people?
And, therefore, the statement ...
"All the peoples of the world are human."
... applies ... we just need someone to remind us - every now and then - of that fact.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Enough
Today 300 people gave me a standing ovation at the end of my lecture day. Person after person came up and said nice things to me. My whole experience with people here in Nova Scotia has been one of constant affirmation for what I've done, the work I've accomplished and the ideas I have generated. All day today I felt in complete sync with 300 people. It's an awesome experience.
Why isn't it enough?
Spending a childhood being called 'stupid,' 'clumbsy,' inadequate,' 'unfortuate,' and 'ugly' ... having to answer the question 'Who do you think you are ..." at least twice a day ... with 'nothing, no-one' has left me unable to really believe that people are being anything but nice. Instead of feeling 'full' of the praise of others I feel like I've somehow cheated them, fooled them, tricked them into seeing something in me that doesn't exist.
A woman came and held on to my hand and cried saying that the two days had changed her. She thanked me deeply. It seemed like she was telling the truth.
Why isn't it enough?
"He'll never amount to much."
"I don't know what we did to deserve a kid like that."
"Even the dog doesn't like him."
Old news. Heard often in the past, never in the present, the words still stay with me.
The power of words. Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will really hurt m. The roar of past criticism drowns out present acknowledgement. It's not fair. For heaven's sake, I'm over 50, shouldn't I also be over those first few years of assault and abuse?
I understand all those people with intellectual disabilities that I meet that are praise dependant. The guys who ask all the time, "I did a good job, right?" and then look desperately for approval. The women who search your eyes as they ask, "Friends, right?" I know that desperation. Years of failure to please, years without parental pride, years lived with shame of not being quite good enough, each day of each of those years digs a deeper hole of need. For affirmation. For confirmation. For validation. I understand.
Maybe next time, I'll hear the praise.
Maybe next time, I'll believe it.
Maybe next time, it will be enough.
Why isn't it enough?
Spending a childhood being called 'stupid,' 'clumbsy,' inadequate,' 'unfortuate,' and 'ugly' ... having to answer the question 'Who do you think you are ..." at least twice a day ... with 'nothing, no-one' has left me unable to really believe that people are being anything but nice. Instead of feeling 'full' of the praise of others I feel like I've somehow cheated them, fooled them, tricked them into seeing something in me that doesn't exist.
A woman came and held on to my hand and cried saying that the two days had changed her. She thanked me deeply. It seemed like she was telling the truth.
Why isn't it enough?
"He'll never amount to much."
"I don't know what we did to deserve a kid like that."
"Even the dog doesn't like him."
Old news. Heard often in the past, never in the present, the words still stay with me.
The power of words. Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will really hurt m. The roar of past criticism drowns out present acknowledgement. It's not fair. For heaven's sake, I'm over 50, shouldn't I also be over those first few years of assault and abuse?
I understand all those people with intellectual disabilities that I meet that are praise dependant. The guys who ask all the time, "I did a good job, right?" and then look desperately for approval. The women who search your eyes as they ask, "Friends, right?" I know that desperation. Years of failure to please, years without parental pride, years lived with shame of not being quite good enough, each day of each of those years digs a deeper hole of need. For affirmation. For confirmation. For validation. I understand.
Maybe next time, I'll hear the praise.
Maybe next time, I'll believe it.
Maybe next time, it will be enough.
Friday, June 01, 2007
A Stick Up The ...
"The stick's up my back."
He'd broken into my reverie. I was sitting on the sidewalk on Argyle Street in Halifax having a cup of green tea. Joe had gone to park the car and deposit the groceries to the room. I had noticed this spot when we got here last night and I loved the idea of just sitting outside and having a quiet tea.
After the day's presentation I was exhausted. Haligonians are a terrific audience, willing to both think and laugh, but I was still tired. We did a few chores after the day, banking, getting groceries, making a couple calls ... but then I asked Joe if he'd let me off at the coffee bar and let me go in and get a cup of tea and just sit quiet for a moment.
I don't stare at people, I stare into the distance but sometimes people come into my gaze. I never see them, I'm looking but not seeing. So when he spoke to me, I was startled.
"Pardon," I asked.
"The stick's up my back." He said, grinning.
"I don't follow." I was confused.
"You were staring at the way I was walking so I thought I'd tell you I've got a rod up my back." No hostility, he had light in his eyes.
"Oh, sorry, I wasn't staring, I was just looking into the distance." I was embarrassed.
"I know, I know," he said, "I saw you sitting here in your wheelchair lost to the world so I thought I'd say Hi."
"What's the thing with the rod up the back?" I asked warming to this friendly stranger.
"Oh, everyone says I look like I've got a stick up my ass and I correct them, it's actually up my back. I have a rod that supports my spine. It works but I walk ... well ... like I've got a stick up my ass."
He noticed a friend and waved, we chatted a couple minutes more and he said, "I'm getting a sense that there is more and more of a disability community. Like you can just chat like we did because we have common ground. Do you feel that way?"
I said, "I'd like to think that we're headed in that direction but I meet so many people who really don't want to be associated with another disabled person."
"Pity," he said.
"Really, I said.
But he's inspired me. I'm gonna start just chatting to others with disabilities just because we're part of the same community. And just because - we should act like it.
He'd broken into my reverie. I was sitting on the sidewalk on Argyle Street in Halifax having a cup of green tea. Joe had gone to park the car and deposit the groceries to the room. I had noticed this spot when we got here last night and I loved the idea of just sitting outside and having a quiet tea.
After the day's presentation I was exhausted. Haligonians are a terrific audience, willing to both think and laugh, but I was still tired. We did a few chores after the day, banking, getting groceries, making a couple calls ... but then I asked Joe if he'd let me off at the coffee bar and let me go in and get a cup of tea and just sit quiet for a moment.
I don't stare at people, I stare into the distance but sometimes people come into my gaze. I never see them, I'm looking but not seeing. So when he spoke to me, I was startled.
"Pardon," I asked.
"The stick's up my back." He said, grinning.
"I don't follow." I was confused.
"You were staring at the way I was walking so I thought I'd tell you I've got a rod up my back." No hostility, he had light in his eyes.
"Oh, sorry, I wasn't staring, I was just looking into the distance." I was embarrassed.
"I know, I know," he said, "I saw you sitting here in your wheelchair lost to the world so I thought I'd say Hi."
"What's the thing with the rod up the back?" I asked warming to this friendly stranger.
"Oh, everyone says I look like I've got a stick up my ass and I correct them, it's actually up my back. I have a rod that supports my spine. It works but I walk ... well ... like I've got a stick up my ass."
He noticed a friend and waved, we chatted a couple minutes more and he said, "I'm getting a sense that there is more and more of a disability community. Like you can just chat like we did because we have common ground. Do you feel that way?"
I said, "I'd like to think that we're headed in that direction but I meet so many people who really don't want to be associated with another disabled person."
"Pity," he said.
"Really, I said.
But he's inspired me. I'm gonna start just chatting to others with disabilities just because we're part of the same community. And just because - we should act like it.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
purpose
He approached me with a huge bag of pop tabs and a big grin on his face. I'd just finished doing a workshop for people with disabilities and was getting ready to have a meeting with the self advocate committee of Summer Street Industries. He let me take hold of the bag of tabs and I was astonished at how much they weighed.
Meet Archie Kontuk like I did. A man with a mission who has for 25 years being raising money to buy wheelchairs for those who need help in getting one. Others gathered round to help tell Archie's story and he himself handed me a brochure that he'd had made up to explain what he was doing. It turns out that Archie had been in a wheelchair for twelve years and through grit, determination and physio he strengthened his legs such that he could walk. But he never forgot how the wheelchair gave him the ability to move.
Years later he heard of a family with a little girl who had Spina Bifida and were in need of a wheelchair for her. Someone told him that you could raise money to buy wheelchairs by collecting pop can tabs. Archie was on his way. That little girl recieved the first of 11 chairs that Archie would help buy. Even now he collects tab and his fame has travelled far. He gets donations of pop tabs through the mail, some coming in sandwich bags, some in trash bags.
He's done the math, it takes 3032 pop tabs to make a pound and he gets 50 cents a pound. It then takes 3,032,000 pop tabs to get a wheelchair. Remember he's bought 11 (eleven) chairs.
As it turns out, Archie is having trouble with his legs again and it's possible that in the future he may have to use the pop can tabs to help him get his own chair. He says, "I'd get a good one."
If you want to save your pop tabs and send them to Archie, you can email him at pop.tabs@hotmail.com or call him at 902-755-1745. You can join people from around North America who send Archie pop tabs.
One of the best things about travelling is that I get to meet cool people. Archie is cool. He has a passion for living and a passion that carries him through life on the wings of meaning. Talking about giving back. I'll always remember the weight of those pop tabs in that bag. But I'll really remember the grin on the face of Archie when I handed them back to him. He held them as if they were precious. As if he could see into the future and see the wheelchair he was buying for another person.
If that's 'disabled' we could all use a touch of it.
Meet Archie Kontuk like I did. A man with a mission who has for 25 years being raising money to buy wheelchairs for those who need help in getting one. Others gathered round to help tell Archie's story and he himself handed me a brochure that he'd had made up to explain what he was doing. It turns out that Archie had been in a wheelchair for twelve years and through grit, determination and physio he strengthened his legs such that he could walk. But he never forgot how the wheelchair gave him the ability to move.
Years later he heard of a family with a little girl who had Spina Bifida and were in need of a wheelchair for her. Someone told him that you could raise money to buy wheelchairs by collecting pop can tabs. Archie was on his way. That little girl recieved the first of 11 chairs that Archie would help buy. Even now he collects tab and his fame has travelled far. He gets donations of pop tabs through the mail, some coming in sandwich bags, some in trash bags.
He's done the math, it takes 3032 pop tabs to make a pound and he gets 50 cents a pound. It then takes 3,032,000 pop tabs to get a wheelchair. Remember he's bought 11 (eleven) chairs.
As it turns out, Archie is having trouble with his legs again and it's possible that in the future he may have to use the pop can tabs to help him get his own chair. He says, "I'd get a good one."
If you want to save your pop tabs and send them to Archie, you can email him at pop.tabs@hotmail.com or call him at 902-755-1745. You can join people from around North America who send Archie pop tabs.
One of the best things about travelling is that I get to meet cool people. Archie is cool. He has a passion for living and a passion that carries him through life on the wings of meaning. Talking about giving back. I'll always remember the weight of those pop tabs in that bag. But I'll really remember the grin on the face of Archie when I handed them back to him. He held them as if they were precious. As if he could see into the future and see the wheelchair he was buying for another person.
If that's 'disabled' we could all use a touch of it.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
angry
Right now I'm sitting here in New Glasgow fuming. My blood is boiling. And I'm mostly mad at another nameless, faceless disabled guy. I checked into the hotel, assured myself that the room was accessible and then got to a room with NOT ONE ADAPTION for someone with a disability. NOT ONE. The door to the tiny bathroom is too narrow for a chair, there are no grip bars by the toilet or grab bars on the shower, and the toilet was made, I'm sure for kindergarten kids. NOT ONE ADAPTION.
Now, you don't need to know this but I have to tell you for the story to make sense, I need an accessible toilet. It's manditory.
So I call the front desk and say, 'There is a mistake, I need an accessible room."
"That is our accessible room," I'm told.
"What?" I exclaim.
"There are no stairs, it's accessible," she says.
"But, but, I splutter, there is nothing in the washroom to make it accessible."
"Another guy who used a wheelchair stayed there and didn't complain." She says to me.
I guess I'm the ungrateful crip who wants to actually use the washroom at least once, maybe twice during my stay. I guess I'm not grateful for the fact that there are no stairs to get into the room. I wonder why they don't call all the rooms on the main floor accessible then but forget to ask because I'm upset.
So, I call every other hotel in town and they are all full.
I'm stuck.
Angry. At the hotel for booking me an accessible room even though they don't have it.
Furious. At the guy who stayed here before and was polite - he coulda thought of me and any other disabled person that would want to be able to stay.
Well they know now. They know that this is one angry crip in their hotel. And that's not ok.
Just as I'm finishing this the front desk calls, "Do you want us to go to the drug store and get an insert for the toilet so you can use it?"
"Um, yes," I say, "But don't ask me to be grateful or say thanks, cause that I can't do."
"No, no, we'll get it to you around six."
So the room has a tiny adaption. I feel like I've done my job for the next guy. They promise to 'explain' the room to anyone else who books it with a disability. Uh, huh, I'm sure.
But at least they will be able to go to the washroom.
And it's over. I'll spend the night and get out of here.
Funnily, I'm more exhausted by this exchange than I was from the days work.
Lifting yourself up from 'lesser' to 'equal' in the eyes of another takes a lot of energy and mental muscles that can't ever be left to atrophy.
Now, you don't need to know this but I have to tell you for the story to make sense, I need an accessible toilet. It's manditory.
So I call the front desk and say, 'There is a mistake, I need an accessible room."
"That is our accessible room," I'm told.
"What?" I exclaim.
"There are no stairs, it's accessible," she says.
"But, but, I splutter, there is nothing in the washroom to make it accessible."
"Another guy who used a wheelchair stayed there and didn't complain." She says to me.
I guess I'm the ungrateful crip who wants to actually use the washroom at least once, maybe twice during my stay. I guess I'm not grateful for the fact that there are no stairs to get into the room. I wonder why they don't call all the rooms on the main floor accessible then but forget to ask because I'm upset.
So, I call every other hotel in town and they are all full.
I'm stuck.
Angry. At the hotel for booking me an accessible room even though they don't have it.
Furious. At the guy who stayed here before and was polite - he coulda thought of me and any other disabled person that would want to be able to stay.
Well they know now. They know that this is one angry crip in their hotel. And that's not ok.
Just as I'm finishing this the front desk calls, "Do you want us to go to the drug store and get an insert for the toilet so you can use it?"
"Um, yes," I say, "But don't ask me to be grateful or say thanks, cause that I can't do."
"No, no, we'll get it to you around six."
So the room has a tiny adaption. I feel like I've done my job for the next guy. They promise to 'explain' the room to anyone else who books it with a disability. Uh, huh, I'm sure.
But at least they will be able to go to the washroom.
And it's over. I'll spend the night and get out of here.
Funnily, I'm more exhausted by this exchange than I was from the days work.
Lifting yourself up from 'lesser' to 'equal' in the eyes of another takes a lot of energy and mental muscles that can't ever be left to atrophy.
Blind Date
We stopped for something to eat on our way from Halifax to Port Hawkesbury as we were just trying to extend the weekend feeling. It was just a little cafe but they had a couple of things we, as vegetarians, could eat. We sat down at a table near the window and watched as another couple got out of their car. At first we thought the husband was just gallant but then we noticed that his wife, wearing stylish dark sunglasses had a white cane folded up and hanging by a strap off her arm. She placed her had lightly on his arm and they made their way into the restaurant. They took a table a couple away from us as they didn't want to sit in the sun.
Joe and I placed our order and returned to our chat, which was really just gossip as we were catching up on a phone call Joe had made to a mutual friend. The waitress was magnificent she brought the couple both menus and spoke to both of them equally. Hubby took up his menu and began a chat with his wife. He didn't read the menu for her at all. Instead he talked about what he was going to have and seemingly puzzled over the choices.
"Hmmm, I'm not sure about the appetizers, I don't want one, do you?" She shook her head and then he continued by going through the menu like he was thinking out loud. "The burger looks good, but I'm not sure if I want that or, maybe the ribs, but look here, they have ..." And on he went touring the menu, talking about the items. She listened intently to the audio menu, smiling often at her husband's asides about the food.
When the waitress came they both ordered.
Classy.
He helped her out in such a natural way, it was like they had figured out a way to deal with the world made for sighted people - as a couple. It was awesome to see them together and supporting each other so naturally.
When we were done and getting ready to go, I backed up from the table and Joe reached down, without thinking to put down my feet flippers. I picked up our stuff and out we went. It struck me then how we have just adapted to my disability and we each do stuff to make things go smoothly and easily. Done in ways where power doesn't shift and respect doesn't waiver.
So it's possible to support with class, it seems to begin with genuine care and profound thoughtfullness.
Hmmmm.
Joe and I placed our order and returned to our chat, which was really just gossip as we were catching up on a phone call Joe had made to a mutual friend. The waitress was magnificent she brought the couple both menus and spoke to both of them equally. Hubby took up his menu and began a chat with his wife. He didn't read the menu for her at all. Instead he talked about what he was going to have and seemingly puzzled over the choices.
"Hmmm, I'm not sure about the appetizers, I don't want one, do you?" She shook her head and then he continued by going through the menu like he was thinking out loud. "The burger looks good, but I'm not sure if I want that or, maybe the ribs, but look here, they have ..." And on he went touring the menu, talking about the items. She listened intently to the audio menu, smiling often at her husband's asides about the food.
When the waitress came they both ordered.
Classy.
He helped her out in such a natural way, it was like they had figured out a way to deal with the world made for sighted people - as a couple. It was awesome to see them together and supporting each other so naturally.
When we were done and getting ready to go, I backed up from the table and Joe reached down, without thinking to put down my feet flippers. I picked up our stuff and out we went. It struck me then how we have just adapted to my disability and we each do stuff to make things go smoothly and easily. Done in ways where power doesn't shift and respect doesn't waiver.
So it's possible to support with class, it seems to begin with genuine care and profound thoughtfullness.
Hmmmm.
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