My brother was born with a facial deformity.
In my sixth-grade gym class, on “free days,” Mr. McKee would let us run amok freely between the basketball court, the climbing room, and a storage room with Dance Dance Revolution.
The storage room also had all the unused tumbling and wrestling mats pushed up to an inlet in the wall where they fit snuggly.
In no uncertain terms, we were not allowed to play on these mats. It was dangerous.
They were the most fun thing ever. Twelve years later, I’d do it again. It was a group thing, where a line of kids would climb up the left stacked-up mats, slide down between two 12-inch thick vertical mats, and a designated kid would throw an arm in and pull each kid out.
We’d already been firmly scolded, twice.
After 25 minutes of flagrant rule-breaking, our classmate asked to join. She had Down syndrome, and we all had a silent quarter-second of hesitation, before obliging. We kept an extra eye on her, and the kid-grabber threw his arm extra deep when it was her turn. Uncertain if there was any medical reason to worry, we were careful just in case.
She was having a great time, I was very glad we’d all unanimously decided to include her. The last time it was her turn, she jumped between the two vertical mats and before the kid-grabber could plunge his arm in …
“How many times do I need to tell you not to play on those mats?!”
Mr. McKee flung open the door and launched into an angry lecture that fell on deaf ears. Instead, a dozen wide eyes darted between each other and the red second hand on the clock. I’m sure some held their breath as we all asked ourselves the same set of questions to the tune of Mr. McKee’s tirade.
We can breathe in there, but can she breathe in there?
Surely she could make noise if she was stuck, but she’s being quiet?
How long do we wait before we interrupt Mr. McKee with this information, and surely throw our normally mild-mannered teacher into a blistering rage?
Most significantly … If she’s in on it with us, is outing her hiding space now the right thing to do?
We weighed that last question against the ticking of the red-second hand. Mr. McKee stepped back out, swinging the door shut at the 40-second mark.
The group scrambled over each other to see if she was OK as the closest kid hauled the girl out. She emerged from her hiding spot with a beaming smile and both arms raised victoriously. The room erupted with celebration. We all successfully pulled one over on the teacher and our mastermind was the person we dared hesitate to include.
I rested easy a few days later when Mr. McKee was reaming us about endangering our classmate. We’d done the right thing, treating the girl as she was.
One of us.
My first peer, it never occurred to me that the way he looked was particularly unusual, not unlike a unique nose or mole. My nonchalance about it sometimes shocked others. One horrified mother’s reaction when I thoughtlessly told her I recognized her daughter, “The girl with the cleft lip!”, will forever be burned into my mind. I forgot that the distinction wasn’t usually considered as neutral as being red-headed or extra tall.
After growing up alongside my brother, I don’t fear having a child with a similar issue. Kids born with disabilities are, in entirely un-inspirational terms, normal.
The biggest obstacle I fear for a kid with a disability is other kids. In elementary school everyone knew better than to be openly cruel, but there’s a vast distance between not-bullying a kid and recognizing them as one of us.
After growing up alongside my brother, I don’t fear having a child with a similar issue. Kids born with disabilities are, in entirely un-inspirational terms, normal.
The biggest obstacle I fear for a kid with a disability is other kids. In elementary school everyone knew better than to be openly cruel, but there’s a vast distance between not-bullying a kid and recognizing them as one of us.
The storage room also had all the unused tumbling and wrestling mats pushed up to an inlet in the wall where they fit snuggly.
In no uncertain terms, we were not allowed to play on these mats. It was dangerous.
They were the most fun thing ever. Twelve years later, I’d do it again. It was a group thing, where a line of kids would climb up the left stacked-up mats, slide down between two 12-inch thick vertical mats, and a designated kid would throw an arm in and pull each kid out.
We’d already been firmly scolded, twice.
After 25 minutes of flagrant rule-breaking, our classmate asked to join. She had Down syndrome, and we all had a silent quarter-second of hesitation, before obliging. We kept an extra eye on her, and the kid-grabber threw his arm extra deep when it was her turn. Uncertain if there was any medical reason to worry, we were careful just in case.
She was having a great time, I was very glad we’d all unanimously decided to include her. The last time it was her turn, she jumped between the two vertical mats and before the kid-grabber could plunge his arm in …
“How many times do I need to tell you not to play on those mats?!”
Mr. McKee flung open the door and launched into an angry lecture that fell on deaf ears. Instead, a dozen wide eyes darted between each other and the red second hand on the clock. I’m sure some held their breath as we all asked ourselves the same set of questions to the tune of Mr. McKee’s tirade.
We can breathe in there, but can she breathe in there?
Surely she could make noise if she was stuck, but she’s being quiet?
How long do we wait before we interrupt Mr. McKee with this information, and surely throw our normally mild-mannered teacher into a blistering rage?
Most significantly … If she’s in on it with us, is outing her hiding space now the right thing to do?
We weighed that last question against the ticking of the red-second hand. Mr. McKee stepped back out, swinging the door shut at the 40-second mark.
The group scrambled over each other to see if she was OK as the closest kid hauled the girl out. She emerged from her hiding spot with a beaming smile and both arms raised victoriously. The room erupted with celebration. We all successfully pulled one over on the teacher and our mastermind was the person we dared hesitate to include.
I rested easy a few days later when Mr. McKee was reaming us about endangering our classmate. We’d done the right thing, treating the girl as she was.
One of us.
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