Here are some conversations I've had in the past two years. Some of them are unique. Some of them are close to exactly the same every single time I have them, no matter with whom I have them.
I.
Stranger: "How did you lose your leg?"
Me: "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where I left it."
*****
II.
Stranger: "What's wrong with your leg?"
Me: "Nothing. It works perfectly well."
*****
III.
Recently Hired Coworker: "How come you're limping?"
Me: "I always limp. I have a fake leg." [Look of disbelief.] "Really." [I knock on my plastic-encased thigh to prove it.]
RHC: "Oh, wow. I guess I'll have to be nice to you then."
Me: "Don't you dare. I'll kick your ass with my little rubber foot."
(Yes. Someday I will be fired from Whole Foods because of my mouth. Oopsie.)
*****
IV.
Stranger Child: "Where's your other leg?" [OR, pointing to visible prosthetic] "Why do you have that?"
Stranger Child's Parent: "Shhhh!!!"
Me [to parent]: "It's okay. It's an honest question."
Me [to child]: "My other leg got sick and had to be cut off. But look, it's not so bad; this one works just fine." [I demonstrate how knee works, maybe even do a little shuffle-ball-change.]
Child: "What's it made of?"
Me: "Do you have a bicycle? Well, it's made of the same stuff as your bicycle."
Parent [now openly interested]: "Carbon fiber or something?"
Me: "Yes, carbon fiber exactly."
Parent: "Oh! Wow."
Child: "[Does it/did it] hurt?"
Me: "Nope. It hurt before it came off, and the doctor couldn't make it stop. But now it doesn't hurt at all, and I still get to walk around. Pretty cool, huh?"
[Child nods approvingly, and parent thanks me, usually with a funny look on his/her face. Then they or I leave.]
*****
V.
Stranger in car: "Do you want a ride?"
Me: "No thanks."
SIC: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yes, absolutely."
SIC: "Do you have far to go?"
Me: "Actually, this is how I get my exercise."
SIC: "Well, God bless you!"
(Now, when was the last time you saw somebody in a car offering God's blessing to a power-walker or jogger? Hmmm... Considering how many get hit by cars each year, perhaps this is a practice that people inclined to give out blessings should adopt.)
*****
VII.
Perfect stranger walking in opposite direction up sidewalk, or being passed by me, or just seeing me while I'm wearing shorts or a skirt: [tearfully] "God bless you!"
Me: [confused] "Uh, thanks."
*****
VIII. Personal favorite:
Person in my way: "God bless you!" [Doesn't budge an inch. This was especially fun when I was still in a wheelchair or on crutches during the icy season and needed a ramp in which this person might be standing plumb in the middle.]
Me: "Uh, thanks. Excuse me." [moving forward toward where they're standing]
PIMW: "I mean, really! God BLESS you!"
Me: "Yeah, okay, thanks. Um -- could I please get through here?"
PIMW: "Aren't you something! God Bless You!"
Me: [under breath] [CENSORED (not "God Bless You, too!")]
*****
IX.
One or the Other of the Same Two Coworkers: [muscling up to me and totally getting in my way and in my space] "Let me help you with that."
Me: [carrying something heavy, e.g., a case of Gerolsteiner, five steps from the shelf to the customer's shopping cart, something I am well capable of doing -- unless someone gets in my way, in which case I'm likely to drop it] "NO. I'm fine. Thank you anyway."
OOTOOTSTC: "You should ask me for help with things like that."
Me: "Why?"
OOTOOTSTC: "Because. You shouldn't have to [lift that/push that/accomplish the same amount as other team members who maybe get paid even less than you do [because you're crippled]]."
Me: "If I need help, I will ask for it. Please don't interfere unless I ask for help."
OOTOOTSTC: "But I want to help you [because it makes me feel strong and superior, and meanwhile, after having your leg cut off, I can't believe you're still an adult able to accurately assess your own capabilities and ask for assistance if you require it, even though you still have your brain and you do ask for help and state your own limitations quite often, whenever truly necessary in fact, but I don't notice this because I'm really only paying attention to how I feel.]"
Me: "Listen. I have worked really hard to be as strong and capable as I am. I know my own limitations, though, and if I need help, I will ask for it. Meanwhile, what I don't know how to do, I must learn, and where I am weak, I must practice. Sometimes help isn't help, because it prevents me from building skills. On the other hand, sometimes offering to help, especially if you insist when I have told you I don't need it, demeans me by your refusal to acknowledge my competence and accomplishment. Oh, and by the way, when you do it in front of customers, it embarrasses me and makes them nervous."
OOTOOTSTC: "Okay, whatever." (Smiles patronizingly.)
One hour later...
OOTOOTSTC: (muscling up to me and totally getting in my way and in my space) "Let me help you with that."
And repeat, indefinitely.
*****
X.
Man seated next to date in movie theater with stadium seating: "Do you want some help?"
Me: [climbing stairs with crutches, not wearing prosthesis, feeling kind of obvious as many people are already seated, the lights are up, and the movie hasn't started, so I'm the entertainment 'til it does] "No, thanks."
MSNTDIMTWSS: [getting up] "Are you sure?"
Me: "Yes, thanks. Really. It's okay."
MSNTDIMTWSS: "Oh, come on. Let me help."
Me: [rather sharply now] "NO. Please sit down and leave me alone. You're embarrassing me."
MSNTDIMTWSS: [palpably miffed] "Sheesh. I was just trying to be helpful."
*****
What do all these conversations have in common? Yes, you're right. Awkwardness. And I'm not talking about how I walk.
Somedays it's all I can do not to scream, "Were you raised by WOLVES????" And then I remember that wolves are actually polite to each other, in their own way, with a very specifically defined social structure in each pack and clear rules about behavior that everyone must learn or fail to survive.
If I were a wolf, I wouldn't be an alpha wolf. I'd be an omega wolf, the one responsible for amusement of the pack. So instead of screaming, I usually smile and laugh. In the conversations where I answer questions I'm sick of answering (geez, folks, could you get to know me first, before you begin with the probing?), I usually don't leave it at the flip answer, but laugh and wink and then tell an abbreviated version of my story, ending with a true statement about how it's not so bad and I'm glad to be alive. This doesn't keep me from bitching privately to my friends.
A dear friend who is not an amputee and was raised to always be (or appear) nice and sweet, like any good, Midwestern Christian woman, hears me rant and can't help but admonish me. "You have a choice, you know. People mean well. It's up to you to accept their good intentions graciously."
At this point, I begin to splutter.
As I tell my friend, it is not my job to make anyone feel warm and fuzzy about the surgical removal of my leg due to cancer. Meanwhile, people may tell themselves that they mean well, but they don't, not really. People who don't create gratuitous drama around me just because I use unusual equipment to walk -- people who offer help and then politely and respectfully accept my "No thank you," people who get out of my way when politely asked, people who unhesitatingly do help me when I ask them to, in exactly the way I ask them to, and finally and best of all, people who (like my Midwestern friend) treat me the exact same way they treated or would have treated me before my old leg came off ('cause, let's face it, I've been the same person the whole time) -- these people mean well. The same is true of people who let their children interact with me like a human being, not a sideshow freak or a Subject of Great Sensitivity. These folks respect me, themselves and, where applicable, their children (who are naturally curious and deserve an honest answer that demystifies the topic and doesn't frighten them). People who objectify me do not, cannot respect me. People who cannot respect me cannot, by definition, mean well.
Of course, there are different levels of respect, and when I talk about respect in this context, I don't mean the kind of respect which, like loyalty, we have to earn from each other. There's a lot of talk, especially among people who were raised badly for whatever reason, about being due respect just because we breathe. And this is true, but not necessarily the way they mean. I won't look up to anyone just because s/he's breathing -- unless I know this person worked particularly hard to keep breathing. I want to be very clear that the kind of respect I'm talking about here is a respect for boundaries, for personhood, for each being's self-determination. This is the kind of respect we owe each other (and all living things) until one of us does something (like drive drunk or commit a violent crime) to forfeit that respect. This is the kind of respect where we see each other as alive and separate, and maybe even genuinely a little bit holy, as individual miracles happening all around us, but not as objects or, worse, receptacles, projection screens, tools for our own emotional and spiritual ends.
How do I know people are objectifying me? Well, my dears, for decades I have been a large-chested blonde woman in America. People have been objectifying me for a long, long time, and I even bought into and encouraged this for awhile, until I learned better. I have had all sorts of things projected onto me just because of my looks, things which had nothing to do with who I really was. I can recognize certain signs.
One of the most obvious is where people look first when they look at me, sometimes openly, sometimes furtively. I'll give you a hint: It's not my face.
So hallelujah! I finally have something to draw eyes away from my chest, which used to be where people would look first. Yet I have the same thing to tell people now that I used to when I was younger and hotter: My eyes are up here.
Yes. I had a face when you were looking at my breasts. I still have a face now that I also have an artificial leg and you can't decide whether to stare at that leg or my breasts.
The only difference between now and then is that more women and children now recognize me by parts other than my face. It's still the same syndrome, though. And you know what? I expect it from children under ten. I don't expect it from you.
You need to see me, not my leg. It's okay to notice my leg; who wouldn't? It's okay to notice I'm blonde and have big breasts. Again, who wouldn't? It's not like I wear hats and overcoats all the time. The first thing you should notice about me, though, is that I'm a human being. The next thing that should be clear is that I'm not you, not any part of you (except insofar as Gaia theory might apply, but I digress). I'm not a living, breathing love doll, your fantasy come true. I'm not your path to holiness. I'm not something for you to pity or feel superior to. I'm not a naked need walking down the street. The fact that I'm walking down the street, with or without cane or crutch or sometimes sidewalk -- or driving down the street, or tap dancing across the floor -- should tell you that much.
It might surprise you to discover that I don't think of myself as crippled or handicapped. Surgically altered, yes. Getting about with different equipment, yes. But fully able, too. Yes. Fully. As in able to make my own choices. As in able to achieve my own self-determined goals. And as in able to ask for help when I need it. As in able to say no to you all by myself and for perfectly valid reasons which I do not have to explain to you.
As you may recall, the little night job I hold at Whole Foods to support my art career is in Customer Service. Mostly I cashier. Sooner or later, I see and somehow serve everybody who comes through our doors. Several of our regular customers use motorized wheelchairs. I don't know why. I don't ask. I think the most obvious of these has cerebral palsy or something and that he's had it a long time. And yes, I have noticed the wheelchair and the wizened, not completely controllable limbs. But you know what? When I see him, I smile into his face and he smiles back into mine. I have never asked him what's "wrong" with him. He has never asked me about my leg. We ask him how he wants us to pack his stuff and where he wants us to put it, and whether tonight he would like help to his car (because occasionally he does), and we accept his direction, respectfully, without any "Are you sure?" Of course he's sure. He's in his forties. We are pretty sure he knows his own mind by now.
Why don't I ask him about his condition? Because I don't know him. We aren't friends. I only know his name from his credit card slips. I am sure he gets asked all the time by people who don't know him, but I'm not going to be one of them. It's not polite. It's not polite because it's disrespectful.
Why is it disrespectful? you may ask. Here's why. Because it's presumptuous. Because it's nosy. Because it might pop his bubble.
I don't know what this guy's life is like. I can only tell you of my experience, so here it is. Except when I'm creating one of these blog entries or giving advice to someone else, I spend less than ten percent of each day thinking about my leg. I would like to think about it even less, and expect to as years pass. The point of finding, developing and having adaptive tools has been to just pick up my life where I left off and keep going.
Every time you, a stranger, stop me and ask me about my leg, you interrupt the stream of my real life. You intrude yourself upon my progress. Now what entitles you to do this? That's right: nothing.
I don't think of myself as an amputee most of the time. Most of the time, if I'm not down with the plague or being battered about by my female biology or something, I just think of myself as Sara, going about my day, doing my stuff. I usually see myself as capable and strong. Sometimes, when I'm conquering a new skill, I think about how well I'm doing and how proud of my own achievement I am -- and how excited I am by the possibilities this new skill opens up for me.
And then you come along and see me as a cripple and tell me so. "God bless you," you say out of the blue, as though I need this, as though (if God exists) I haven't already been blessed. You see me as broken and struggling. I see myself as repaired and moving on. You pretty much pop my bubble. How dare you!
By interacting with me as a cripple, not a woman, you force me, a reasonably polite person, to see myself for a moment as you see me in order to respond "correctly." You have not thought about how to interact with me correctly, yet somehow it is my duty to respond graciously. You've just called me less than what I am, and yet it's on me to be gracious. This is insulting and unkind.
Don't do it anymore. I mean it. Stop it. I know you think you love me as another of God's beautiful children, and that by offering me God's blessing you are offering me something precious. You're not. You're reveling in the drama of my situation to feed your own self-righteousness. You're also presuming to distribute on God's behalf what has clearly already been distributed, a fact you would see if you would really look at me and not just your own set of expectations and vain desires as symbolized by my fake leg.
If you're not blessing me but offering me practical help, accept my thanks, but also accept my "no, thanks" when that's what I give you. Don't make me say it more than once. Yes, I'm sure. I'm not stupid. I didn't actually misplace my leg. It's not lost, and it didn't house my brain.
If you're just curious about what happened to me, think about why you're curious. Do you know me? Do you care about me? Will you be at my bedside when I'm dying? Will you feed my cat when I go on vacation? Then why do you deserve to know? Why do you deserve this much attention from me? Why should I divert my own attention from my work, my day, my own thoughts shallow and deep? You can find out everything you want to know about amputation on the internet. Look, you can even read about mine! You don't have to ask me! You don't have to interrupt my day, pop my bubble, bring me down from being an artist and a gardener and, yes, a freaking grocery store cashier to the level of being a curiosity. A curio. An object.
Children are different. They get to ask me anything they want, as long as they're not malicious. They are learning the world and genuinely need to know that humans with artificial limbs are still humans, that things happen to people which start out scary, feel bad while they're happening, and look strange afterward but aren't ultimately horrible or insurmountable. They don't know about boundaries or bubbles yet. Telling them the truth about one part of my situation, including that it's really not such a big deal, is a duty I take on willingly, because it will help them when they encounter other people with obvious physical differences, and it will help them if they ever have to go through something like this themselves. Being raised to treat everyone the same, whether pretty or ugly, movie star or janitor, or missing a limb vs. missing a hairline, but as human first has certainly made my life easier, and has helped me as I grapple on my own with the larger concept of compassion.
A beloved ex-boss of mine once told me about something she'd read in the writings of Ram Dass, a popular guru in the 1970s, something about how if you really want to learn to be compassionate you first have to learn to see the "God" in everyone, the divine spark, the thing inside us all which, whether you believe in one god or many or none at all, is undeniably miraculous, bigger than any of us and all of us, no matter who we are, and no matter who we're looking at. Only after this, says Ram-Dass-according-to-Wendy-as-I-remember-it, can you really see another person, and only after that can you learn how to really serve others, which is a worthy goal, one of the very best.
This is a profound basis for learning what it really is to mean well, and from there, to genuinely behave well. I'm no one's Emily Post, but if you are inclined to bless strangers you see as suffering but maybe not get out of their way, to ask people about things you haven't considered that they might not even like to think about, seeing as how there's so much else to think about in the world and in their lives, to feel rejected or like a failure if you don't forcibly remove other people's burdens from their hands even if these are chosen burdens, in other words, to see an infirmity where you should see a human being, I urge you to meditate on the meaning of all this, on what is genuinely compassionate thought and behaviour, on what is genuinely helpful. I think respecting other people's humanity before jumping to conclusions about them, their pain and their needs is probably a great first step.
Go ahead. Try it. If you really mean to mean well, try it. Once you start seeing people -- all kinds of people in all kinds of situations -- as themselves first and then showing them genuine respect and courtesy, they might genuinely start to thank you, and not just to be gracious.
On the other hand, you might never hear a word. Deal with it. Every person alive at this moment has problems and needs help from time to time. Every person, even you. No one, though, has problems just so you can feel good about yourself, so don't try to use them that way. Ever.
Thanks.
You have articulated this so well. I think it's a universal statement that all of us need to hear over and over again.
Posted by: Melissa | March 23, 2006 at 01:40 PM
Midwestern friend is highly amused!
yeah, let ME tell you stories about walking with Sara! ha!
Posted by: Diva | March 23, 2006 at 01:58 PM
Thanks, ladies.
Melissa (who is also Midwestern), yes, I know you know what I'm talking about.
Diva, dear, I'm glad you're highly amused. :) And I can only imagine what stories you would tell, given half a chance.
I just want to add that, when I say people should think before they ask about my amputation, I don't mean people who know me and I don't mean here. I mean strangers encountering me out in the world. I set this blog up just about a year ago with the intention of creating a resource for amputees, a place where there would be detailed, honest discussion of the experience and a compilation of solutions to various challenges, even stupid little challenges like socket farts. Questions addressed within this context about my and other people's experiences as amputees are always welcome.
Posted by: Sara | March 24, 2006 at 06:14 PM
It's funny because I don't even notice people looking at me any more. My friends and boyfriend do though. I've been lucky because most people don't ask questions, and when they do, they are very polite. I can't say that I've ever had someone try to bless me on the street or insist on helping me after I've refused. I do threaten me friends by telling them I will take my leg off and beat them with it. That will always get an interesting reaction.
Posted by: Jodie | March 27, 2006 at 06:52 PM
I am so glad that you put this into words. I was born with club feet and have blonde hair and a large chest, so basically I get you on all counts here.
While I can walk now, when I am tired (or lazy) I limp badly. People are always invading my space asking about it and then feel betrayed when I tell them the real reason. It is as though they should have known all along, because, you know, I should have bared all to them.
I am a first time reader, but wanted to share that your words made a difference to me.
Thanks and work that strength!
Posted by: Stephanie A. | March 28, 2006 at 10:59 PM
I bet you really do throw people off kilter -- when they can't decide whether to look at your boobs or your legs! That was funny. This is a great post. Your message and writing is very strong and true. I'm glad Sugared Harpy linked this to her site.
Posted by: Lisa B | March 29, 2006 at 11:37 PM
Thanks, ladies.
Jodie, I don't actually care if people stare at me (though sometimes it's fun to mess with them when they do; I'll explain further down.) Truth is, like you I mostly only notice when they also do something to interfere with me, like talk to me in a condescending manner or impede my progress. And that's just unacceptable.
Stephanie, glad to be of service. Meanwhile, limp shmimp! Isn't it great to be able to walk at all, tired or not? :) Too bad it makes other people think they have a license to get in your face.
To salve your frustration over having to explain it constantly, I recommend checking out Bonnie's shop, http://www.cafepress.com/amputeehee. She has a shirt there that reads "Leg Story: $10." She'll happily customize. Maybe you can have her make you one that says "Why I Limp: $10." Or maybe "How's my walking? Call 1-800-BUZZ-OFF." heh heh
Just a thought.
Lisa, yes, I do throw people off kilter, in all sorts of ways, but mostly by the things I say. The problem with where to look is, of course, worst in the summer when I tend to wear things that make all my most visually compelling attributes quite obvious. Admittedly, though, some of this problem has thankfully reduced as I've gotten more -ahem- matronly looking with age. People get super confused, though, when I wear things like miniskirts and diminutive tops -- nothing inappropriate for my age or weight, just your basic hot weather clothes. I see them, especially teenaged girls, look at me and each other with this expression which telegraphs, "Uh...does she somehow not know what she looks like?" It's hilarious. I always smile at them quite brightly and sometimes even say "hi" as I pass. Freaks 'em out, totally.
Posted by: Sara | March 30, 2006 at 08:24 AM
This post is great. I broke my arm a lot when I was young, and the two things that most annoyed me were, "What happened to your arm?" and "Let me help you with that."
I have a scar from the last time I broke my arm. For a while it was pretty obvious. Once, someone told me that maybe I should wear long-sleeved shirts. If I had been a little faster on my feet, I would have told her that maybe she should wear a bag over her head. Probably best that I didn't.
Anyway, keep on rocking.
Posted by: Andrew Turley | March 30, 2006 at 09:00 PM
Oh, poor Andrew! But good for you for knowing the problem was that stupid woman, not your arm.
Only people who take no risks have no scars -- or people who somehow, with all the people who need food in the world, still find they have enough money for plastic surgery. I've always been proud of my scars and wrinkles. They are badges of survivorship, proof that I've really lived.
You earned that scar on your arm. You earned it by not sitting on your butt doing nothing for fear you might break something. Good for you.
Oh, and once someone said something like that to me about my first cancer-related surgical scar, which was a big dramatic hole covering about a third of the calf I'm now missing. "Have you thought of covering that up?" she said.
"Have you thought of not looking at it?" I replied.
She was insulted. Her problem, not mine.
Posted by: Sara | March 31, 2006 at 09:18 AM
Hello,
This is a brilliant post; witty, well argued, some nice references to illustrate your points, and a very fine flair. As I read it I began to feel blessed, not in a religious sense--I gave that up for lent--but in a thank god (or gods???) that I don't get the same treatment for my disability. Albeit, having MS can't always be seen by other people but it very debilitating on some days. But even when I'm walking with a cane, or not walking at all, I never get the disrespect that you experiance day to day (especially with those two mutants at work). Maybe its becuase I'm male. Ya, you know what, probably. If I needed help I wonder if anybody'd come at all. lol Well there you go. Thank you for writing that.
Posted by: Iain Dughlais | April 02, 2006 at 11:03 AM
Thanks, Iain. Glad to give you a chuckle. Now about your own problem...
If they don't find a cure for MS or a good treatment that will prevent your becoming wheelchair bound, the form of objectification you are likely to experience, if you have not already done so, is the kind I have referred to above as the Subject of Great Sensitivity variety. In other words, people will become so afraid of being caught staring, which is rude, that they will make a conscious effort not to notice you at all, which can be just as bad, if not worse. They will make you invisible because of their own insecurities. It's like being denied out of existence because other people are afraid of failing at the niceties. The good news is it won't be because you're a man.
"Well, what am I supposed to do then?" asks the person raised without training in manners. This is a tricky question to answer only because of all our various cultural differences. In California, my state of origin, for example, it is commonplace for perfect strangers to begin speaking to other perfect strangers out of the blue, sometimes getting quite intimate as to subject matter, sometimes even revealing personal tidbits the listener might not want to hear. (I have been guilty of this from time to time myself, and one day nearly 20 years ago even first encountered one of my best friends for life while detailing some very personal misadventures one morning at a bus stop for lack of anything better to do. But I digress.) In some parts of Asia, on the other hand, I am told that it is considered rude to look into the faces of strangers, esp. your elders. And in Massachusetts, where I live now, one perfect stranger smiling and saying "hi" to another perfect stranger in passing is often considered just cause for suspicion.
Now, I don't know anything more about life in Asia than I know about life in a Chicago housing project. I live here, in a Massachusetts suburb, and here I think it's rude not to smile and greet strangers in passing -- especially if I smile and greet every stranger except the one in the wheelchair. So my answer to the befuddled masses who don't know how to act around us "different" folk is simple: Act normally. Treat us as you would treat other people. If you would normally be rude, well, maybe you should rethink that policy, but if you would normally be rude even after that, then be rude to us. If you would normally be effusive and phony to perfect strangers, again, rethinking such a modus operandi might pay off for you, but if you decide you want to stay that way, then don't change for us. If, on the other hand, you would normally look a stranger right in the eye, smile and nod or say "hi" and then continue on your merry way, well I am here to tell you that that's exactly how you should treat us.
Don't let Iain go unnoticed, world at large, whether he's walking, rolling, or falling down. Go ahead and see him -- just see him first, not his MS. It's okay. If he's falling or dropping stuff, you can offer to help him, just like you would offer to help anyone. Don't insist if he says "no." Don't ask him stupid questions like, "What's wrong with you?" But also, don't pretend you don't see him, and don't train yourself not to see him. Just be your normal self, whoever that is, and with whomever you interact.
What do you think, Iain -- or anybody else? Got any corrections or anything to add?
In any case, best wishes. Your road is likely to be tougher than mine, because I can just strap that replacement leg on and keep going, whereas you've got something more complicated and unpredictable to grapple. I wish you strength and, of course, good medicine, the kind that will allow you, too, to just get on with your life.
Posted by: Sara | April 04, 2006 at 02:53 PM
Thanks Sara,
Never short of words huh? :)
People here in Canada, at least the part of it I live in (it's too big a place to generalize), are very warm and friendly. Thos small town communities where everyone knows everything about anyone and nothing can stay secret. As nice as all that is, there are still those who won't open doors even if they are standing in it--it'salready open and all they have to do is let you pass. But that's all part of living in the world isn't it? We could tell people how to behave but how many really listen or stop to consider? The few that do love us surely. And now, today, because I can, I am going for a WALK. :)
Ciao
Posted by: Iain Dughlais | April 08, 2006 at 01:16 PM
My own condition is constantly varying in its degrees of obviousness. Sometimes I'm in a wheelchair, sometimes not; sometimes I have a big, ugly brace on, sometimes not. During one particularly awful preteen winter, I had a halo brace bolted to my skull.
It's probably the closest I've ever come to the situations you've described. People stared. People were overly solicitous, and you just KNEW they were standing outside themselves, watching themselves try to assist me and beaming with pride over their own goodness. I got very cynical very fast.
When you've got something strapped onto your torso and bolted at four points into your skull, you end up moving like Frankenstein and bearing more than a passing resemblance. A few times, I tried to venture out into public places. I was a normal person like any other, right?
Little kids took one look at me and started screaming. Parents hustled them away before I could do anything...smile, wave...to prove that I was indeed human. That's what hurt...if I had the chance to turn that fear around and try to teach them, as you teach children about your leg, that would have made all the difference in the world. The kid would have grown up with the knowledge that some people hurt their necks so badly that the doctors have to make extra-sure everything is held still until it heals. And it would have been no big deal, other than maybe a cursory glance to take in the information.
Instead, the parent (fearful as well...what if whatever that girl has is contagious?) acts embarrassed by the child's fear and spirits them away before any learning can take place. I was friggin' twelve years old...what harm, seriously, could I have done?
After several incidents, I was removed from the sixth grade and spent the remainder of the year as a homebound student. No one learned a damn thing, unless you count my learning that people who looked like me deserved to be hidden away.
I was sorry to go. I'd won the school spelling bee and had gone all the way to the big regional, against high-schoolers, at Queen-of-all-Saints. I had also been on Kindergarten Patrol, getting the kindergarten kids ready for their buses. When I left and was tutored at home by the student teacher, my existence at the school was more or less erased. To this day, I'm resentful that the school yearbook used the runner-up's picture and labeled it "Spelling Bee Winner".
Posted by: Amorette | December 31, 2007 at 08:28 AM
You talk as if God bless you is a bad thing. God bless you isn't meant to bring you down but to encourage. I am a bilateral amputee and it isn't God's fault because I am. If anything God has saved my life. If anything my life is better that I am a bilateral amputee. I can walk on broken glass barefoot. I can walk in high snow and not freeze my feet. why do you put the Creator of everything down, when he gives you a blessing. Part of you is in the after life. That
makes you closer to the spiritual world. Maybe everyone should put a little more thought into God, then just blowing him off.
Posted by: Tray | May 26, 2008 at 02:22 AM
Tray, I don't believe in god(s) of any kind, or any kind of afterlife, but I am happy for everyone who does because it obviously comforts you. None of this was the point of this post, however. This is the point:
What I would like for people to consider, especially strangers, most especially strangers in passing, is that my amputation is not about them in any way. Therefore it does not fall to them to remark it, talk about it, bless me aloud for having endured it, or indeed mention it in any way. They can just smile and say "hi" -- and keep walking. Really. In fact, I'd prefer that. Because that's how polite humans treat other polite humans.
I would like people to consider the possibility that the most important thing about me is my humanity.
I would also like people to learn the difference between "blessing" someone (or praying for them) and actually helping someone, the difference between impulsively throwing out a few sentimental words that make them feel good in the instant they say them vs. actually loving someone as a fellow human, you know, personally, from inside your own heart, which means seeing the person first, not the physical condition, and which also means interacting with the person in front of you not asking god(s) to handle that for you.
Here's a reading assignment for you. Go read my Christian friend Elizabeth McClung's excellent blog post about praying for people:
Thoughts about "praying for me" and "hoping for a miracle"
I think you may find it instructive. Regardless, please don't come back here to preach. It's irrelevant here, and it shows you haven't really been listening.
Posted by: Sara | May 26, 2008 at 10:41 AM