Who's to Blame pt.1 of 3

From: The Albertson College of Idaho Coyote, May 25th, 1994, p. 14.
Revised and reprinted.

I can’t really remember ever being told. Somehow I just knew. I always knew. I was different. I knew in the first grade that all I had to do was hit the ball and someone else would run the bases for me. Running the bases was the only exciting part. I don’t think I ever hit that damn ball.

I remember always being last and all the while wondering why all of my ribbons said: “participant.” The bus was the only exception. I was always first there. I even had my own exit from the building. That way was shorter.

I recall a guy named Keith who used to always stand up to anyone who bullied me. “Leave him alone,” he’d say. “He has soft feelings.” I never knew why. Keith was no bigger than me. There were a lot of things I didn’t know then.

It must have been about fifth or sixth grade that I started to use the term Cerebral Palsy. I remember when I told my best friend.

“So what’s that mean?”
“Well, that’s why I don’t run very fast, or talk right. And remember when I couldn’t walk the balance beam?”
“That’s why?”
“Yeah, my balance ain’t so good.”
“You gonna die?”
“No.”
“I thought all those people were in wheelchairs.”
“Most are. I got lucky I guess.”
“Does it make ya stupid?”
“Nah... not suppose to.”
“Cause if it did you’d have to have been a genius in the first place to still be as smart as you are.”
“Yeah.”

It made us both laugh a little, which put an end to our discussion. Clyde and I have been friends since second grade, but that was the last day we ever spoke of Cerebral Palsy. It didn’t take long however, for the rest of the school to find out. Especially when all of my peers started to finally realize that the only homework I ever turned in was math. Instead of writing book reports, or essays, I just practiced my penmanship. All of my exams were oral, and anything that was supposed to be written out, Clyde would naturally do for me.

In sixth grade I heard this kid say; “Yeah, he’s got C.P.-several problems.” I turned around immediately and found that Clyde had, as usual, taken care of things. The kid was sitting on the ground holding his mouth.

“Don’t say that again.” Clyde told him. He didn’t yell it. He just said it. That must be what friends are for, I thought.

The more assignments I got out of, the more I saw myself as being not so much different as “special.” I began to see how easy it was to simply get by. But I was in for a great awakening.

After the sixth grade my family moved to a new school district. It was the first day of seventh grade, a day I will never forget; second period, Mr. King’s class. I walked in, a little early I guess. And as I walked to a seat mid-way back against the far wall, I noticed that the teacher kept staring at me. The class filled up, and the bell soon rang. Mr. King stood up, walked towards me, pointed his finger and said: “You, go to the office.” Great I thought. He wants me to go get copies or pencils or something. I stood and he went on with his lecture. What did I miss, I thought. I stood there waiting for instructions of some kind. He turned again, “I said go to the office.”
“But, what for?”
“I’m not having any drunks in my class!”
“But, I’m not drunk... I have Cerebral Palsy.”
“What?”
“Cerebral Palsy.”
“Oh... Well sit down then.” I looked around the room and realized how alone I really was. Clyde wasn’t there. Keith wasn’t there. And I had just told thirty other kids the last thing they ever should have known. We all joke about the classic drunk driver response, but it’s not quite as funny when it’s the truth. And it’s definitely not funny when you’re twelve.

Everything became a struggle. On top of all of the normal problems an adolescent has to go through, I had to deal with this. I had to deal with teachers who would no longer let me slide by. I wasn’t “special” anymore. But everyone still knew who I was. I was the token retard.

(Jump to part 2)