 |
Of all the areas of my life that cerebral palsy has touched, none has
been so deeply affected by feelings of insecurity as my relationships
with members of the opposite sex. Ever since I can remember,
I’ve liked girls. Even at the ripe old age of five, I had my
eyes on the prettiest girl in class. Kim Tabbert sat across from
me at the next table in kindergarten. She had long brown hair
and was the prettiest girl I had ever met. I melted every time
she looked at me, and if a kid that young can experience love at first
sight, then I was in love. During the next couple of years, Kim
and I became the best of friends, and we stayed that way until she
moved out of town sometime during the middle of the second grade.
I’ve regretted losing contact with Kim more than
with any other person in my life. The last I knew, she was
living in Rockford, Illinois with her parents and going to grade
school, but that was close to a lifetime ago. When I look back
over my life, I still miss Kim. She was a special friend and
someone I will never forget. Kim, wherever you are, I love you
and wish you all the best that life has to offer.
Those years were truly some of the best—not just
because I knew Kim, but also because of everything else going on in my
life. Every night, I was able to do things that I had never done
before. My coordination was improving, my speech was getting
better, and there seemed to be no limit to what I could accomplish.
No limit, that is, until it came to learning to drink without using a
straw. Although this seemed to be the next logical step for me
to take on my way to independence, no matter how hard I tried, I could
never raise a glass to my lips without spilling its entire contents
all over the place. All I had to do was think about holding a
glass, and every muscle in my body would tighten up and begin to
shake.
Mom and Dad tried everything to keep me
motivated. Every time we sat down to the dinner table I’d ask
for a straw, and every time I was told to start without one. I
tried. Oh, how I tried. I first used one hand and then
both hands. I used one hand to hold the other hand. I even
wore weights around my wrists, thinking that the added resistance
would help steady the shaking. Nothing worked.
My parents were desperate. I had done so
well with everything else—they must have thought that if they just
found the right way to motivate me, eventually I would be able to
drink without a straw. I’m sure that is the reason that Mom
brought Kim Talbert into the picture. “How do you expect Kim to
keep liking you if you never learn to drink without a straw?” she
said, expecting her words to make a difference.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Maybe you better try again. Only this
time, try a little harder.”
After a couple of moments had gone by, Mom
realized that her tactic wasn’t working. “What do you think?”
Mom asked, turning to Grandma Chance for moral support.
“I think that if Kim really cares for Steve,
using a straw won’t make any difference.” Grandma confessed that
she had wanted to stay out of it, but that once Mom asked for her
opinion, she had to come to my defense.
Thanks, Grandma! I believed what she said
then, and I believe it now. Unfortunately, the damage had
already been done. I was being told that keeping Kim’s
friendship depended on my doing the impossible. I liked Kim,
but there was no way, no matter how hard I tried, that I could lift
that glass to my lips without making a mess. I was six years
old, and from that day forward, I’ve seen my disability as something
that prevents people, particularly girls, from liking me.
I don’t blame Mom or harbor any bad feelings
toward her for the remarks she made that day. She and Dad did an
outstanding job of raising me, and I owe them both a great debt of
gratitude for their efforts to give me the love and support that I
needed in order to grow up and make something of my life. I love
them both and would never want to hurt either of them. However,
the idea that I can never measure up to other people’s expectations
because of something I can or cannot do is one that has stayed with
me throughout my entire life for several reasons.
Contributing to my insecurities are the subtle
messages that society sends to disabled persons. An unwritten
law in America says that a person’s worth is determined by his or her
physical appearance and intellectual ability. If your body has
the right shape to it and your mind has the right level of cognitive
proficiency, then you are accepted as a valued member of society.
But if your appearance is somehow blemished or your IQ is below what
society says is acceptable, your worth as a person is questioned.
The media constantly bombards each of us with messages of what it
takes to be successful. It’s only by having a perfect physique,
the right hairstyle, and the latest in designer clothes that people
can feel good about themselves. How can disabled people compete
in a society that places so much emphasis on physical perfection?
They can’t. I can’t. As a man with cerebral palsy, I live
my life knowing that I will always fall short of the minimum standard
set for acceptance by the mainstream of society.
I had been out of college for about five years
and was seeking licensure as a pastor when I was confronted with the
most blatant stereotyping imaginable. I drove down to the north
side of Chicago to interview with a pastoral representative from the
denomination. After asking me a few routine theological
questions and some general questions about my philosophical approaches
to ministry, he then proceeded to ask me questions that were much more
personal in nature.
“Will you ever be able to satisfy a wife?” he
continued, as if asking another routine question.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I lied.
“Will you be able to have sex?” he said,
rephrasing the question.
I couldn’t believe my ears. It was none of
his business whether or not I could have sex. Besides, what does
my ability to sustain an erection have to do with whether or not I
would make a good pastor? Why would he ask such an intrusive
question? My hunch is that he, at least on some level, equated
manhood, possibly even personhood, with the ability to perform
sexually. As ludicrous as this may sound, if you follow this
line of thinking to its logical conclusion, it’s no wonder that this
minister of the gospel questioned my sexuality. After all, how
can someone who doesn’t measure up as a man fulfill his professional
duties as a minister?
I wish I believed that this man is alone in his
assumption that disabled people can’t perform sexually and that they
are therefore inferior to the rest of society. But I’m afraid
that although most people might not be so blatant about their
questions, deep down they share the same prejudice as that Chicago
minister.
Even close friends have unknowingly contributed
to my sense of not measuring up. I can’t count the number of
parties that I’ve attended during which someone has taken it upon
himself to play the role of matchmaker. He starts by telling a
woman at the party about a friend of his and then spends the next
twenty minutes trying to figure out how to arrange for the two of
them to meet.
I have always been a little envious of people who
have friends to set them up on dates. Now, don’t get me wrong.
I’m not crying over spilt milk or launching a one-man crusade to start
a dating service for people with disabilities. But I do think
that we are often seen as less than ideal prospects for marriage
partners. In many ways that perception is understandable.
Everyone has fantasized about meeting Mr. or Miss Right, and usually
those fantasies do not include someone with a disability.
It’s important to note the impact of these
messages, regardless of their subtlety, on disabled people.
After a while, we begin to believe them. In my case, believing
that I somehow fall short of society’s expectations for normalcy has
caused me immense feelings of shame over the years.
I feel a constant tension between two different
aspects of my personality. The first is the fighter in me.
I will fight tooth and nail to accomplish any goal that I set for
myself and will defy anyone who tries to discourage me. No one
stands in my way, and those who know me know that I will stand up to
anything or anyone. Yet, another side of my personality isn’t so
strong. That side is the six-year-old boy who is desperately
searching for a way to measure up but, despite how hard he tries,
always feels hopelessly inadequate.
|
