Read Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Each year, our program had an end-of-the-year graduation for those children who would be moving on to the next stage of their lives. For some, that would be community programs; for others, they would begin the special-education process. It was a big to-do at a local park with many families in attendance. All of the staff’s families attended, too. There were balloons, fried chicken, graduation certificates, lots of pictures, and certainly many hugs and a few tears. The graduation picnic was just getting started when my youngest daughter, Gracie, age four, asked if she could go down the slide. This was one of those “cool slides” with about ten steps and a steep incline. The slide was all metal and slippery.
Since my husband had a work commitment that night and was unable to join us at the picnic, I greeted families as they joined us and kept one eye on the slide as I watched my two little ones head off. The picnic paraded on with the charm of a small town. Parents laughed and reminisced. Children ate ice cream and chased lightning bugs. Gracie could hardly take time to come down from that slide to eat.
Pretty soon, a little girl who had been in my program several years earlier made her way to the slide. She, too, wanted a turn on the “cool slide.” Lena, who was seven, had Down syndrome. Due to complications from heart surgery, she had incomplete paralysis from the chest down. She wore a body brace and “bear-walked” on her hands and feet. Lena had been the very first baby I had seen as an early interventionist. Lena’s mother was now a member of the staff at the early-intervention program. Quickly, I went to find Lena’s mother to see how she wanted to “handle” this. It took me a few minutes to locate Lena’s mother in the crowd. When I explained the situation, both of us went running back toward the slide.
As we made our approach, we both stopped, frozen in our tracks. Lena was pulling herself up the first few steps of the slide ladder. Gracie was behind her, lifting one of Lena’s feet onto a step. She then moved to the other side, lifted the other foot, and gently pushed her bottom. Lena then used her arms, which were very strong, to pull herself to the next rung. Gracie then began the process again, lifting one foot and then the other, with a little bottom nudge. When Lena made it to the top, she smiled triumphantly, laid down on her belly, didn’t even blink, and
whoosh!
Down she came! In a flash, Gracie was on her belly right behind her, squealing and laughing all the way down! At the bottom, the girls giggled and carried on, and slowly made their way back to the ladder. It was time to do it all again! Lena and Gracie played on the slide until the last flicker of evening light gave way to the early glow of the August moon.
As we drove home that evening, I thought I would try to talk to Gracie about how proud I was of her. I also thought that perhaps all those talks around the table had made some impact, and maybe, just maybe, I had played a role in this remarkable child’s ability to relate to a child with a disability. And so I said, “I guess you see that Lena is really much more like you than different from you.”
Gracie was very quiet in her car seat. Finally, she said, “Oh, you mean, how her eyes are squinky.” For the life of me, I could not understand how we could be talking about Lena’s eyes when Gracie had just spent the last two hours lifting Lena’s legs and helping Lena get up a slide because she could not move the same way as Gracie.
Ever the early interventionist, however, and never one to pass up a “teachable moment,” I decided that Gracie must be talking about Lena’s facial features related to having Down syndrome. I began a monologue about facial features that people with Down syndrome may have. When I finished and asked Gracie if she understood, she simply sighed and said, “Lena’s eyes are squinky because she smiles so big when she laughs!”
At that moment, humbled by the wisdom of this little child, I knew that God was teaching me many lessons through Gracie and Lena. When we truly look at the person, we see beyond all disabilities. Lena’s smile captured Gracie’s heart, and a friendship blossomed. And for that moment, on that August evening, all that mattered was how many times you could ride on that cool slide!
Corinne Hill
Corinne “Cori” Foley Hill
received her B.A. from the University of Virginia and her M.Ed. from James Madison University. She provides personnel training in early intervention in Virginia where she lives with her husband and two daughters. Cori dreams of living in the Caribbean and writing children’s books. Gracyn “Gracie” Hill is now in middle school in Augusta County, Virginia. She plays travel soccer and AAU basketball. Gracyn loves to dance, especially lyrical, hip-hop, and Irish step. When she grows up, Gracyn would like to find a job working with babies or young children. Lena Campbell is an AB honor roll student in middle school in Rockingham County, Virginia. She recently became the first cheerleader/pom-pom girl with Down syndrome in Rockingham County. Lena won a blue ribbon for her artwork entitled “Pom-Pom Girl.”
M
ake education a continuing, never-ending process.
Nido Qubein
In 1964, Millside Heights was a new town with new houses built to lure the baby boomers away from the city. This acreage—once a dairy farm with roaming cows—was now filled with colonial, split-level houses, but no stores, post office, schools, or churches. How great life was when you had a master bedroom and a master bath, hardwood floors, a fireplace, and four choices of wallpaper! My parents bought the split-level design, perfectly placed on a wooded lot facing a freshly paved black-top road named after a top-notch Ivy League university. We were a family of three: my mom, my dad, and me.
In the surrounding area, there were three Catholic schools, which most of the neighborhood kids attended. I thought it was fascinating: students got to wear a uniform, buy their schoolbooks, carry a lunch box, and ride on a big yellow school bus. I went to a small Quaker school, so small that no buses transported the students. I wore what- ever clothes I wanted, got a hot-cooked meal at lunchtime, and was driven back and forth by my mom. While my mother made every attempt to reinforce how privileged I was, the other children made it clear that I was “different,” decidedly not one of them.
The only kids more different than I lived three houses down on our left. Nobody was allowed to play with these kids. I was too young to understand what really went on in their home, but there was gossip. Sometimes the police would come in the middle of the night and handcuff the dad while the mom screamed obscenities. Sometimes I would see the parents in the daylight as they staggered down the driveway, unable to keep their balance. Their four children, all skinny and pale, wore hand-me-down clothes. And, it was rumored, the kids had lice. They did not have new bikes, and the few toys they did own were broken and left out on their front lawn. As I remember it, the mom died tragically, and the dad was left to take care of the four children. Prior to the mom’s death, none of the children were registered in school, but a lot of things changed after she died. Three of the children were sent away—we never knew where. One boy remained at home, sometimes supervised, sometimes not.
One day, we noticed a green and white VW bus pulling up in front of the house three doors down on the left. The remaining boy got into the van every morning and was returned in the afternoon. Rumor had it that he went to a school for “bad boys” and that he was “retarded.” Around the neighborhood, the green and white VW bus became known as the “retarded kids’ bus.” It was around that time that my school connected with the local school district, agreeing to provide transportation. Believing that on the first day of school I would get to ride in a big yellow school bus like the other kids, I was thrilled. I would no longer be different, at least not when it came to that.
But as I stood at the front door waiting for my ride on the opening day of school, to my horror the small green and white VW bus pulled into our driveway! The neighborhood children on their way to catch their buses stopped to stare as I climbed aboard.
“See, I told you she was retarded,” one of the boys yelled from the back. My face burned, and tears streamed down my face, as I waved good-bye to my mom. The bus driver told me that “everything would be all right.” But for the next five years, I heard the same horrible, hurtful words—even when they were not said out loud.
I wonder now if this is how the boy who lived three houses down on the left felt every morning when he went to school.
Words like “inclusion” and “accessibility” were not part of society’s daily vocabulary in the sixties, and the thought of accepting individuals who were different into our lives was unthinkable.
Forty years later, I am a social worker for adults who have developmental disabilities. I am also the parent of a child who has a developmental disability. I work daily to break down physical and attitudinal barriers. Every day I am blessed ten times over by my daughter’s smile and good-morning hugs. I treasure her accomplishments and am so proud of the effort she makes when attempting to master a task. Through four years of early intervention and thirteen years of schooling, my daughter has learned to stand, walk, and assist with dressing and feeding herself. She makes choices, has learned her colors and shapes, and has worked on learning her alphabet.
After reading Mitch Albom’s
The Five People You Meet in Heaven,
I was left wondering who in my life has made such a profound difference in who I have become. I believe that the skinny little boy who lived three houses down on the left will be the first person I meet. I hope I get the chance to tell him about my daughter and to thank him for teaching me what I needed to know. Until then, I hope he is in a place where he is cherished and accepted. I hope he is somewhere he is never ignored or isolated. Even more than that, I hope he will forgive me.
Deborah McIntire
Deborah McIntire
resides in Jenkintown, Pennsylvania. She is the director of Special Gifts, which is dedicated to adults who have developmental disabilities and helps others to be aware of the gifts that these adults have to share. Write to Deborah at Special Gifts, 412 West Avenue, Jenkintown, PA 19046, or [email protected].
W
hen people are made to feel secure and important and appreciated, it will no longer be necessary for them to whittle down others in order to seem bigger by comparison.
Virginia Arcastle
The lighting in the girls’ restroom ceased. There were no footsteps, no click of a switch, no flicker as if the power had failed. No window to let in the light. Just darkness.
Abby sat perched on the toilet seat, gripping the rails. The terror on her face etched into the darkness. Sitting on the toilet was a challenge for Abby—her balance, or lack of it, a direct result of cerebral palsy. For her, to perch on a toilet seat meant the synchronization of many muscles determined not to coordinate. With no light to give her visual cues, the task was doubly difficult. Abby could only hope that the lights would be restored. She attempted to call out to her attendant, but speech did not come easily when fear had contracted every muscle in her body.
Kristen kept a steady pace, a straight face, held her head high, and smiled as she strolled past the opening to the girls’ restroom. She headed back to the fourth-grade classroom where she and Abby both belonged. She had smoothly extended her hand and, with one coordinated movement, flipped off the switch. She was proud of her stealth. There had been no whoosh of fabric, no squeal of a rubber sole. Ten seconds later, she slid into her seat in the classroom with an attentive look on her face and a smile that told the teacher that Kristen was back and ready to learn.
Diane, Abby’s personal attendant, returned to the restroom to find a cavern of darkness and a panic-stricken Abby. Instantly, she knew what had happened. It was not the first time that this had occurred. The last time, Kristen’s excuse had been, “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was in there,” and before that it was, “Oops, I slipped.” Diane knew that today it would be complete denial and, in truth, no one had any proof that Kristen was responsible for the incident.
Angry voices rose from the office as the paperwork was completed. Kristen was called into the office, interrogated, and assigned to in-school suspension, one of many for her. Diane was instructed to watch Abby more closely and prevent the two girls from coming together. Abby was a magnet for bullies and no match for Kristen.
The principal penned the dreaded note home to Abby’s mother. An “incident” has occurred—yet another “incident”— and the school staff would discipline the culprit. There was zero tolerance for bullying in this school. Abby’s mother, Sandra, read the report and visualized the outcome. Abby’s drive for independence would once again suffer a setback as adults rallied to hover around her with a protective wall. It sometimes seemed as though, in the end, Abby suffered consequences far greater than that of the bully.