We have all seen the "viral stories," of people with disabilities. One meaningful gesture gone wrong. Carmen is a 16 year old self-identified "slacker," with Cerebral Palsy. Her school has high hopes of turning her into a viral sensation by crowni...
My life felt like an out-of-control roller coaster ride.
How had a gotten myself in this situation to begin with? My mind snapped back.
How does anyone really? By not having a voice, by feeling isolated, and overpowered.
My voice seemed trapped within me like a fly caught in an elaborated spider web. Where had my voice gone?
Was high school really this confusing?
Or was I making it harder by not speaking up. It seems so simple. Just say you don't want all this, you don't want to be shoveled in the back on a strange car sandwiched between a groping couple.
It's because you never say anything Carmen, you just let people abduct you during school.
You are weak, the voice in my head growled.
But this is my life.
Why do I feel like a passenger and not the driver?
Am I weak?
I was afraid to answer my own question.
I swallowed.
We had made it to the mall and I sat in the dressing room, dreading my fate.
My tired eyes caught my expression
I winced, horrified by the image staring back at me.
The artificial light bared down on my pale body making my skin turn translucent.
Why was I here? Out in the open, not in the shadows.
On display once again.
I gulped to cleanse the dryness in my throat.
I watched the lump in my throat dissolve into the pit of my stomach.
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My mind drifted to a powerful memory.
I was in Target shopping for school supplies as a pre-teen. Probably, 12 or so.
I encounter an elderly gentlemen in his mid-60s, staring at me down the long aisle.
He had a white collar sitting a top his neck, cloaked in black.
I was reminded of a thick, heavy, dog collar at first.
His arms were slender and frail.
His expression was kind. His eyes were sunken in, soft, brown marbles watching me.
The man walked over to me slowly and keeled next to my chair.
I was so surprised by the gesture.
I dropped a package of colored pencils on the ground I was looking at.
It made a quick snap against the linoleum floor.
I began to tremble.
He forcibly scooped my hand into his, entwining our fingers together into an entangled mess.
He began to chant aloud at an unbearable volume.
Customers whipped their heads to stare, but their smiles soften and they nodded their heads in silent agreement.
My face twisted into a mortified expression as he squeezed my small hand firmly.
His hand felt fragile against my sweaty palms.
"Dear lord, please help this suffering, wretched young girl," the pastors voice boomed increasingly.
"She needs your love. I know only you can heal the sick. Aid this girl from suffering."
"Heal her, Heal her," he exclaimed with an overzealous evangelical tone.
He grabbed my legs, startling me. His bony fingers dug into my thighs.
Oh god, I wanted to scream, but my lips felt sealed with cement.
Until that moment, I was feeling independent and happy that my mom let me go to the store by myself.
I didn't understand why this was happening to me.
He patted my head softly when he was done with his very public prayer.
He smiled sweetly, and his eyes were gentle.
He needed the reassurance he was doing a good thing, a charitable thing.
He was unaware he had just embarrassed me in front of strangers.
He thought he was doing something helpful I could see that, there was no malice on his face.
Just kindness.
But it wasn't kind.
It was horrifying.
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