Open Arms

I’ve had another one of those experiences that are so complicated that it’s not easily digesting itself into a post. But it was too good not to share:

There are a lot of spectrums in the special needs world. One of them is the spectrum of embracing folks with disabilities in one’s everyday community. The spectrum looks a little like this, from one end to the other:

• Rejection: “You’re more than welcome to join us if you meet the following requirement: you are exactly like us.”
• Tolerance: “We’ll put up with you because you could sue us if we don’t.”
• Acceptance: “Since you asked, sure, you can join our game.”
• Embracing: “Great! You saw our invitation. We’re glad you came. Tell us what you need to make this work.”

…and many nuances in between.

I don’t expect folks to embrace my child with a disability all the time. I don’t think mainstream folks have had enough chance to rub elbows with folks with disabilities yet to have the necessary appreciation for difference that’s required for get how wonderful it is.

Acceptance would be nice, but the problem is that after experiencing mostly rejection and tolerance (usually stemming from ignorance and inexperience rather than malice), I’ve gotten tired of the necessary wheedling and cajoling required to gain admission. But then, if folks with disabilities stay home, others don’t get experience with them, and the cycle of ignorance and rejection continues…

Thus it was that I found myself completely paralyzed to try to enroll my son in an informal, impromptu, neighborhood soccer “clinic” last weekend. After last winter’s adaptive soccer debacle in which two dozen kids were sent out of the gym so my son could play soccer with a dozen middle-aged men with disabilities, I had set my sites on a more inclusive rather than separate setting. But my fear of not being accepted was pretty huge.

As the start day approached, I couldn’t bring myself to register officially; I imagined scenarios in which we were turned away, one more vivid than the next. In the end I forced my husband to come with us for the first class, to register on the spot; if we were going to be rejected, we’d all be rejected together. I don’t know how I had become so sensitive, but there it was.

So imagine my surprise: we show up on the field and walk up to the coach in my most submissive, hat-in-hand approach. I begin to launch into my “I was just wondering if it would be ok if…” speech when the coach smiles, grabs my son’s hand, and says with total friendliness, “Sure, no problem. Of course he can join us. See you at 4.”

It turns out that his daughter has special needs too, and she was in my son’s class when he still attending public school in our town. I guess success must breed success, as the old adage says, or I wanted to test my luck, because I took this as a sign to make a bold move.

For months I’d been dreaming about getting my son into the after-school program at my daughter’s school a couple of days a week. It would be a great socialization experience for him. (Why is it that special needs kids “have socialization experiences” but other kids “make friends”? A post for another day.)

Every time I thought about the idea, I imagined a reason it wouldn’t work. Legal reasons mostly, but really it was fear of rejection, plain and simple. Bringing it up with other advocates, friends and colleagues, they shot the reasons down, one by one. The clincher came when my two co-workers lovingly baited me: What have you got to lose? Stop being so afraid.

I left the office and headed to my daughter’s school. I mustered up the courage to swing by the after-school office and talk to the young man who administers the program at our site. I coolly mentioned that I’d be submitting an application for my son to join after-school a couple of afternoons a week next fall. I was about to launch into a speech assuring him that my son’s PCA would be on hand, he interrupted me.  His eyes lit up. “I often wondered when your son would join us. I was even thinking about how we could get it to work. When you submit the paperwork to the main office, please tell them that I’m totally on board. This is important for our program. I want ours to be the kind of place that every kid can attend.”

To those out there who have experienced rejection, grit your teeth through tolerance, wheedled and cajoled, carried the burden of making things work, I say: thank you. Because you were there, I am here. And I’m really, really grateful.