This I Believe

Recently, I came out of the closet that I had spent years trapped in, trying to hide who I really was--hiding even from myself.  No, I am not a lesbian, although I think life might be a little bit easier if I were.  The box I had closeted myself in was the one that housed my acknowledgement and public-displays of my disability. 

As often as I could, I would avoid situations that might "out" me.  Rather than climb stairs in front of people, I would walk the long way around; instead of choosing a low chair that I might struggle to rise from, I chose a stool whenever possible; although I live close to the beach, I never took anyone up on their invitation to sunbathe, the sand being one of my most powerful nemeses.

I switched jobs last year.  I am a teacher and spent the first twelve years of my career teaching middle schoolers, primarily 7th graders.  Perhaps I judged them unfairly, but I never thought they were quite capable of understanding being...One of the first times I did risk it and share, I was asked if I were contagious.  That shut me up pretty quickly.  

Last year, I moved up in the world and joined the ranks of the hip high school teachers.  The school where I teach honors the quirky, the misfit, the individual. 

They are my people.

I decided to "come out" on the first day of school last year.  Modeling an activity after NPR's This I Believe, I wrote and shared the following with my new students:

     When we were children, my sister and I visited a specialist doctor once a year.  He would have us walk down the hallway of the hospital as he stood watching our gait, furiously scribbling notes, taking notice of any awkward wobbles or outward bending of the ankles.  Inside the exam room, he would ask us to sit in a chair and try to stand up without using our arms to help.  We would try.  And fail.  He would ask us questions about “adjusting” and “school” and “happiness.” 

All this time, my parents hovered over us, my mom trying to act like she wasn’t concerned.  She is a woman who is champion at putting on a brave face.  I knew, though.  I felt her fear, that hope-thieving gypsy.

                At some point in the office visit, he would turn to my sister and me and say, “Well done, girls.  Now, why don’t you two run down to the waiting room and play with some toys.  Your mom and dad and I are just going to chat for a few minutes and then they’ll be right out.”

                Dutifully, Cari and I would entertain ourselves with the dingy-furred, germ-filled stuffed animals. We played in silence. Never talking about what had just happened or the disability we had.

 I didn’t really get it then.  Didn’t really understand why we were there or what it all meant.  All I knew was that I didn’t like the look in that man’s eyes.  The pity lying in there.  That we were somehow doomed to fail. Even at such a young age, it tightened my chest.  Set aflame my desire to rebel against it. And so, at the age of ten, I told my parents that the doctor treated us like some sort of freaks—told them I would not go back to see him. They agreed, without much argument.  I had won.  

That was the beginning of my winning.   You see, my sister and I were born with Muscular Dystrophy, a disability where muscle tissue deteriorates over time.  The odds were stacked against us, my sister and I.  Come to find out that in their private “chats,”  the doctor had warned my mom and dad to be prepared to have two children in wheelchairs by the age of eighteen.  The torture my parents must have put themselves through, worrying about the future of both of their daughters.  The uncertainty of how long their children would physically function despite the brilliance of their brains and spirits. 

It’s lucky for them—and more so for me—that I believe that odds are meant to be defied—especially the ones that are filled with “can’t”s or “shouldn’t”s or “never will”s.  Instead of seeing these as a reason to give up, I see these as an invitation to pick up the sword of one’s spirit and go to battle.  Whatever the odds might be.  However heavily stacked against you.  Even if the issue is something small—passing a test, asking your crush to the movies even when just being around that person sets your tongue to stuttering, standing up for yourself when your feelings have been hurt—these little moments of victory will strengthen your will and enable you to fight the bigger battles that are guaranteed to come, those battles in which someone’s relationship or future or life is on the line.

Isn’t this why, after all, people love to root for the underdog?  Why television stories where some miracle has occurred become the ones we don’t forget?   Where some person or creature has defied all odds to succeed or survive.  Those are the moments that move us.  Those are the stories we remember.  Those are the stories that set us apart and make us human.

Always remember, that those odds stacked against us are just odds.  They are not the decision.  Why not see them as invitations to fight? This, I believe.

I'm happy to report that I got a round of applause each time I shared.  And even more powerful than the accolades from the students--despite how reassuring they were--is the freedom that being my authentic self ushered into my life.  I am no longer imprisoned in my tiny little closet. 

It turns out, Mark Twain was onto something when he said: "When in doubt, tell the truth."  It's not, afterall, about not getting caught in a lie; it's about finding freedom in who you really are.