Waking Up

Three young teens sat at a table with a smiling supervisor. Each was different. Long black hair spilled over the back of her wheelchair and a beatific smile of the whitest teeth greeted me as I entered the room. Her throat had a purple scar and when she said “Hello” it came out slurred as though she missed the “L’s”.

Beside her, a young chubby boy with thick black hair studied his work with deep concentration. Brown eyes sat deep back in the sockets and his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth. Using his good hand, he took the balloon and worked to affix it on top of the value. The supervisor was giving him undivided attention celebrating each time he was successful.

The last was a smaller boy with his back to me. His Red Sox cap was on backwards so I could see the dirty logo. His dirty jacket had the Patriots logo on it. He worked at lightning speed throwing completed balloons with values in the giant bag.

It filled me with emotion and moisture covered my eyes. I smiled back at the girl and told her “Hello.” Her smile grew bigger.

Later in the day I sat beside her at a table full of people with disabilities or self-advocates as they called themselves. With us were two parents and a few staff members of “The Triangle” near Boston.

“When I was growing up my mother would push me down the stairs,” a short plump girl with wild black hair explained, “she is a drug addict and calls me every day asking for money and I TELL HER NO.” The words came haltingly with the silence in between each word full of wet emotion.

A short man of perhaps 40 with a crew cut and eyes that looked in two different directions at the same time spoke in the voice of child. “My mother always protected me growing up and now I want protect myself.”

A young man who couldn’t sit still kept raising his hand then quickly putting it down again. His face remained devoid of expression and when he talked it was in a monotone voice and his eyes were looking past us into another universe. “What happened in the 4th grade will always stay with me,” and told us being attacked for simply being … different.

As each spoke the others at the table would smile and nod and mutter words of affirmation.

Then we walked into television production studio called “Ablevision.” Three people were working filming their own cable network show … One behind the camera, one at a computer working on sub-titles and the last holding the microphone talking. “We are people with ability,” he said in a loud voice.

And they are … in spite of the things that are wrong.

Finally we went into a cafeteria that reminded me of the Starfish Café that I helped to start all of those ago. Except this one was run by people with disabilities. Taking my tray down the service line each asked me with a broad smile what I wanted.

Soup? Sandwich? Salad? Cookie? Then the older man sat at the cash register at the end of the line. The room was filled with people, virtually all with … challenges that I don’t have.

Nine out of ten people with disabilities are abused in the United States. Sexual abuse is most common among the youngest of them.

I was there learning about amazing work being done teaching these folks how to be “self-advocates” and take care of themselves. They proudly demonstrated what they had learned. And I was doing my best to help them think through how to take all of this stuff to the next level.

In another meeting, a man in a wheelchair with one knarred hand spoke from a mouth that only one side worked. “There are two types of stories about us,” his slurred but passionate words informed us, “we’re either a sob story or we’re ‘Super-Crip’ throwing off our disabilities in a single bound.”

Throughout the day I kept grabbing my I-Phone to send messages to people about things that I was learning and that we’ll need as we establish an effort to help others make themselves better.

In the midst of this day something inside of me woke that’s been asleep for a while. I found myself missing … this.

And the passion that has driven me through my life is awake again.