I HAVE NO WORDS

I have no words, but I had to write something. 

A man begged for his life, but they didn't care. Onlookers tried to intervene. They were threatened with pepper spray. Those with power did it because they could.

No amount of jail time will make up for this senseless act.

Hate is learned. Children learn by example. Adults have free will.

This was a crime against humanity. 

George Floyd was murdered for no reason. Say his name.

I wish Obama was still our president.

He cares. 

 

ENTRY 6

A REBEL ON WHEELS

Juanita  Randall. The only person  I had ever known who'd traveled the world. She had even ridden a camel in Egypt. I was impressed.  I could not wait to be in high school. I could have her as a teacher. (Well, there was another reason. A high school girl was always given the role of  Mary in my school's  Christmas play. By the time I got to high school, the nativity scene had been removed from the play. I am not bitter or anything.)

Miss Randal was a no-nonsense teacher. Her curriculum was like any other high school. Her students learned Spanish and read Charles Dickens and Shakespeare.  A requirement for graduation was that all seniors submit a term paper. If a student's paper did not meet her standards the student did not graduate. That never happened. it motivated students to do their best. 

My school began accepting students at all different levels of cognitive development. Miss Randall  did not adapt to the school changes. One day she walked out.

Adios Español.  So long, term papers. Cheerio Shakespeare. When Miss Randall walked out those courses left with her. I was crushed

Enter Penny. Penny was a hip, kind of kooky young woman who was our teacher but wanted to be our friend. "Call me Penny," she told us. It took us a while. Scratch that. It took me a while to get over the disrespectful feeling I got every time I called her by her first name.

Because of the cognitively diverse group of students we now were, I knew that I wasn't learning what I needed for college. I'd had enough. "You're not teaching us anything!" I yelled at Penny What happened to the journalism class? Our heated conversation was the talk of the school for a day or two. Nothing changed. I realized that Penny was doing the best she could under the circumstances.

I wanted Miss Randall to speak at my graduation.  I was not alone in wanting her as our speaker. One of the teachers assured me that she would not accept the invitation. None of the teachers had heard from her since she'd walked out. Miss Randall and I spoke on the phone occasionally. She would accept my invitation if I told her how much it would mean to our class.  I refused to back down. My class threatened to go on strike. I was told if we didn't drop the issue none of us would graduate. I dropped the issue. The former principal was our graduation speaker.

Thank you, Miss Randall. wherever you are, I hope you know that the semester I had you as a teacher left a big impression on me. You were the best teacher Elias Michael ever had. You believed we would succeed, and you prepared us to do so. You were not as tough as you wanted us to think you were. You were completely different outside of your classroom. You were relaxed, not tough as nails. You were cool.

That was the first time I rebelled against the norm. Against authority/ I shocked everyone. A kid with a disability in the 1970s wasn't supposed to have opinions.  Hmm, How do you think I'd look in a black leather jacket?

ENTRY 5

OH XMAS TREE, DARN XMAS TREE

When I started elementary school, drawing, painting, and being creative in any way, shape, or form,  was a big deal. I  went to a public school for children with physical disabilities. I was struggling with learning to print my name on the blackboard. Draw? No way. There weren't any Special Ed. classes for teachers in the sixties.  My first-grade teacher was clueless.

Gone were my carefree days of preschool. (It was called nursery school in the sixties.)  UCP's nursery school was held in Cardinal Glennon Children's  Hospital. I went three mornings a week from age three to age six. My teachers did not care how my finger-painted picture looked. They did not care if I simply rolled the cool modeling clay around in my hands without trying to make anything. And, blowing soap bubbles was about who could make their glasses overflow with bubbles first.  It was fun with a dose of learning mixed in. 

I was too little to realize that one of my nursery school teachers also had cerebral palsy. She could not use one of her arms very well. She walked with a limp. She was a role in us whether we knew it or not I have fond memories of both teachers. I stayed an extra year. The extra year allowed me to go from nursery school right into first grade. 

I don't remember much about my attempt to paint a picture that day in first grade.   All  I remember are the colors blue, and green, and a big glob of light pink running down the page. My teacher was not happy with my effort.  

Learning to use an electric typewriter changed my life. I didn't have to be ashamed of my chicken scratch printing anymore. I could do my assignments. I could keep up with my classmates. All was right in my world. Until...

I was told to draw a Christmas tree using my typewriter. UGH. Would it ever end?  A high school girl, who was at least ten years older than I was, could not use her hands, but she was able to type using a headpiece with a pencil turned upside sticking out of the end of it.  Her typed drawings were featured in the school's newspaper. If she could draw, then so could I.

My typed drawing was the front of a Christmas card for my parents.

X backspace X  Oops. How did that X get out of line?  Oops. that X is out of line too. Start over. A fresh piece of paper  I am ready. I turn on my typewriter. It begins to hum. X backspace X

X backspace, Backspace X. Oops.  It was no use.No matter what I did my drawing was full of mistakes.  My teacher affixed my mistake-riddled tree to red and green construction paper. It was a card only parents could love.

Each year, when my mom got her Christmas cards out, I'd see the card I had made. She'd kept it. Cheesy red and green construction paper boasting a crooked tree made with Xs.  My mom kept it because I had done the best I could. That's all that mattered to her

 

ENTRY 4

WONDER WOMAN

Teenage girls with disabilities always stick together. They always have each other's backs. They would never be catty or mean to one another. Gag me. Teen girls with disabilities, in the seventies, were just as catty, selfish, and mean as their non-disabled peers.

Mary was two years older than I was. She also had CP. It was difficult for her to talk. She'd throw her head back. take a deep breath and struggle to get her words out. It was painful to watch. I can only imagine how painful it was for Mary. In high school, she was given a communication board. Mary refused to use it. My guess is that even though talking was difficult for her using d a communication board made her feel weird. She probably did not want to appear more disabled than she already was.

Mary's mom pushed for us to be friends. Mary and I had little in common except for our shared diagnosis of cerebral palsy. Mary hated school/I knew from an early age that I wanted to go to college. Mary faked being sick as much as she could. (I tried it once. My mom was no dummy. She knew I wasn't sick. She let me stay home but made it clear I was never to try it again)  Marty told me no one was going to make her do anything she did not want to do. No one ever did.

When I was still able to push myself in a manual wheelchair our moms took us to the mall. Mary held on to my chair while I pulled her along. She got a free ride. I got blisters. Mary knew how to get what she wanted that's for sure.

In the eighth grade through high school, I was teased and called names (Virgin Ears, was a favorite.) The kids in my class thought it was hilarious when they dropped heavy books on the to watch me startle.

I brought my lunch from home. If I had chips in my lunch   Mary would grab them, hold them out of my reach, then smash them into potato chip dust while the kids who saw what she was doing laughed their heads off.

This went on for a while until the day I had had enough. I do not know what possessed me. I had never fought back or lashed out at my classmates before What happened after lunch makes me sound like a terrible person, but I was thirteen. and fed up. I had to stand up for myself. I did. I started scratching her. I drew a little blood. My teacher stopped me.

Mary never touched my lunch again The other kids eased up on me a bit too

My mom lectured me on how lucky I would be if none of the scratches got infected. That was the end of it.  Mary was fine.

I am both embarrassed and proud of my actions that day in 1970.

Would you believe her mom still tried to get us to be friends?