Dwarf: A Memoir (26 page)

So it was only natural that when it came time to assign the new girls “big sisters,”
she would be mine. With me as her “little,” Nicole invited me to that party at the
Dell. So this was what the girls in my hall experienced the first few weeks after
enrolling at UMass? I thought to myself when I arrived.
This
was the thrill of being at the Dell at night, to be part of the organized chaos of
drinking and partying that seemed to come so naturally to everyone? I tried to pretend
it was natural for me, too.

I took it all in and watched the partygoers outside before I worked up the nerve to
enter through the apartment door to meet up with Nicole. It was intoxicating to be
around so many happy, laughing, carefree people, who seemed to be living in the moment.
I had spent my whole life thinking about the future and
how I would fit in and thrive. But everyone around me that night was concerned with
nothing more than that party.

With a deep, shaky breath that I hoped no one noticed, I entered Nicole’s apartment.
I recognized lots of friendly faces from the rush meetings, and plenty of new ones,
too— Nicole introduced me to many of them. I hoped that in the weeks to come, I would
run into them on the way to classes and say hello, stopping to chat before we went
our separate ways.

As the party wore on, an endless stream of people made their way in and out, but I
was totally content to stay put and watch. I recognized a bunch of Limp Bizkit songs
that I used to hear while huddled alone in my dorm room. But this time, there wasn’t
a TV dinner in sight.

I followed Nicole, who insisted I call her “Coley,” into the kitchen and watched her
mix a few red cups with alcohol and juice.

“Hoochies!” she yelled teasingly across the room to a few sisters dancing on the coffee
table. Then she turned her attention to me. “All right, what would you like, Peanut?
Or should I call you Hollywood because of that cute little car of yours?” she asked.

Surprised and happy that I had a nickname of my own, I paused. I had no idea how to
answer her question.

“What do you suggest?”

She studied my face and smiled. I had “newbie” written all over me.

“Well, do you like the taste of alcohol or no?”

I thought back to the time that we helped Papa move out of his house. My uncle Scott
and uncle Bobby, both drinkers, were there, too, and one of them had a vodka on the
rocks that I had mistaken for a glass of water.

“I definitely do
not
want to taste alcohol,” I said with a laugh. “Have anything fruity?”

“Sure do, Peanut!” Coley added a splash of coconut rum to a red plastic cup filled
with pineapple and orange juice. It tasted sweet and satisfying. By my second cup,
my cheeks felt warm and my lips tingled. We plopped ourselves on the couch and talked,
meeting other students as they came through the party.

“You need to come over more,” she said. “And get out of your room.”

I promised I would.

“There’s another party tomorrow night— you’re coming.” It was an order with a smile.
And just like that I had plans: real plans with new friends, sisters, and no need
to go home for the weekend. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“So what’s with the crutches?” Coley asked, her legs curled underneath her and her
arm stretched out across the back of the sofa. I sat facing her with my back pressed
up against the armrest.

“I had surgery,” I answered, taking another sip of my drink.

“What kind of surgery?”

I was stunned by her question. It had always been so obvious to me what surgery I
needed. Could it be that from Coley’s perspective I didn’t look all
that
different? The thought thrilled me, as I told her about what I’d been through.

She was the first person I ever shared my story with besides Mike.

The fall of my junior year, UMass looked completely different to me than when Mom
and I pulled up for the first time. Shades of red, yellow, and orange took over the
campus, which no longer looked dreary and cold. I framed the photos of Mike and me
and put them up all around my room, so that when my girlfriends came over and asked,
I could tell them all about my guy from home, just as they talked about their friends
from high school.

And when Thursday nights rolled around, the bustle of
preparty preparations no longer scared me. This year, I was right in the middle of
it, smiling and laughing in the cloud of hairspray and girlfriends.

As for my dad, he eventually adjusted to the idea of his little girl going off to
college. And I adjusted to the difficulties that used to feel insurmountable to me.
I even crossed the street in the winter when it was snowy out! I just took my time,
greeting friends along the way. I felt like I could do anything.

I seemed to be making friends everywhere I went, too, because at first, whenever there
was a significant snowfall on campus, I’d schlep out to my car with a friend or two,
prepared to spend a couple of hours digging it out. But each and every time, I’d find
my roadster dry and ready to drive off on a side street lined with snow-covered cars.
I always figured a maintenance worker on campus knew that it was harder for me to
dig out my car than it was for other people and lent me a hand. I even left the worker
a thank-you note and a little bag of cookies once for all the help.

One morning, after about a foot of powdery snow had fallen overnight, a sorority sister
saw me on the way to class and said she saw a man digging out my car around two a.m.
after the snow had stopped. I asked her what he looked like, hoping to hunt him down
through the school to thank him. But her description matched someone else I knew,
right down to the wool hat and gloves and shuffling gait.

It was my dad.

Every time it snowed, he would drive the hour and a half to campus to dig out my car.
He never told me he did it, either. And if my sorority sister hadn’t spotted him,
I might never have known.

My Knight

My marine pen pal in his boot camp graduation photo.

D
ESPITE GETTING OFF
to a rough start, my college years eventually became the best of my life. I did everything
I could to make up for being stuck in the blue recliner during high school and in
my dorm room freshman year. I joined the literary society and the UMass Dartmouth
Theatre Company, tried my hand as fund-raising chair in Phi Sigma Sigma, and took
every opportunity to meet new people. My dorm room walls grew cluttered with photos
of friends and memories. I dined out often with my sorority sisters, which made the
memory of eating processed, gravy-soaked Salisbury steak from the microwave seem laughable.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t ever take my new friends for granted.

I never wanted to leave UMass, and when the time came to graduate I didn’t feel ready
to give up the free, fun-filled life I had
fought so hard to achieve. Beyond the campus was a bigger world, and I was confused
about my place in it. Away from the protective walls of my dorm room and all the familiar
faces I had come to love, the real world felt far too big for me to fit into.

The outside world also became more violent and unforgiving than anyone could have
imagined. On September 11, 2001, in my junior year, I awoke to a frantic phone call
from my mom, urging me to turn on the news.

“We’re being attacked!” she shouted over the phone. “I can’t believe this, we’re under
attack!”

I stumbled out of bed and flipped on my TV, and within minutes there were knocks on
my door. Everyone in my hall huddled together, speechless as a second plane hit the
World Trade Center and the towers fell.

The attacks on our country made me angry and I wished I could do something about it.
I wanted so badly to maintain my family’s military tradition and enlist just like
my Papa and my mom had done. I would have felt so proud— and I know they would have,
too— if I had been able to follow in their footsteps. But I would never be physically
capable enough to do so.

So it was bittersweet whenever a recruiter would call looking for me.

“Good afternoon! I’m looking for Tiffanie DiDonato,” the recruiter for the air force
would begin. I wondered if he looked like the recruiter I’d so admired in the living
room when I was a little girl in Douglas. “Have you given any thought about what you
want to do with your life?”

If he only knew. Respectfully, I declined the offer to go to his branch office, but
made sure to thank him for his service.

Before I knew it, young men were missing from my classes, called to duty, and their
plans to graduate were put on hold. It was
one of the most piercing moments in my life, a time when I truly despised my disability.
But since I couldn’t serve abroad, I discovered that the act of serving could also
mean doing something on the home front.

Like many people all over America, my sorority sisters and I began signing up to write
to the troops and attending various care package events in our hometowns. Local malls
set up kiosks to send an e-mail to service members and the government joined in with
Web sites dedicated to connecting a solider or marine with a voice from back home.
It didn’t matter if you knew them personally. The need to help, to reach out and connect,
was a strong one. Everyone around me just wanted to help and find a way to be involved.

After I graduated and settled back in at my parents’ house, I felt the need to continue
supporting the troops in a war that was quickly defining my generation. Before long,
one of my sorority sisters stumbled upon a military networking Web site and forwarded
it to me. At first glance it looked a lot like a dating site. The setup was the same:
post a picture, write a little bio, describe your interests, and check the reason
you were joining. I was skeptical, but one of the options to check was “pen pal.”

“What the hell,” I said to myself, staring at the screen. I had done worse on the
computer. It was just another outlet to connect to someone far away from home who
needed to know that his service meant something to his fellow Americans. Eventually,
stories began airing on the news about deployed combat troops who didn’t get any mail
at all. It broke my heart. I logged into the site, clicked on “pen pal,” and posted
my bio and a simple head shot. I didn’t get many hits, but when someone did write
to me, I made sure to respond right away and send off a letter and a care package.

I sent a lot of mail to various soldiers, sailors, and marines. My friends came over
and we tied little yellow ribbons around Tootsie Pops and those became care packages
in their own right. We put so much thought into each one we sent. For one marine deployed
to Iraq, Lance Corporal Arthur Viana, and his platoon, my mom and I canvassed Middlesex
County for donations. In the end, we gathered ninety pounds of coffee from various
Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, and grocery stores. The FedEx employee who helped us with
our customs sheet was amazed that two ordinary people who didn’t belong to an organization
would show up with so much to send, with no particular reason.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Why not?” I replied.

About a month or two later, I woke up to the sound of our doorbell. A bouquet of gorgeous
yellow roses had arrived at my door from the newly promoted Corporal Viana. The card
read:
Thanks for making me smile!!! So I hope this makes you smile as well!! Love, Arthur
.

Other troops who received our letters and packages called the house to thank my mom
and me. It wasn’t a big deal to give out my number. These were America’s finest. It
felt good to get to speak to them and I’m proud to report that I still casually converse
with some of the troops to whom I sent care packages. I’m sure I didn’t play a huge
part in their safe return, but I did the best I could. I jam-packed every box and
at the end of the day, I felt as if I had found my own way to serve my country. I
may not be able to dig a trench, shoot a fifty-cal, or fill a sandbag, but damn it,
I could give support. I could be a friend.

One cold night in the middle of January 2005, I logged into the site and noticed a
message from Lance Corporal Eric A. Gabrielse. Dressed in his blues, his hands in
front of him in
a modified parade rest, he stood straight and proud in his photo, but there was no
hint of a smile. I thought that was a little odd, considering many of the photos of
other service members showed at least a touch of happiness, or at least a casual stance.
In his message, he explained to me he was stationed in North Carolina, part of the
Marine Corps infantry, and he was leaving to go on his second tour of Iraq in July.
He told me that he didn’t get much mail during his first tour and he noticed in my
profile that I was a writer, so he figured it would be nice to have a pen pal. His
message was genuine and, like me, he was just looking to connect during the war. I
couldn’t click “reply” fast enough.

When I wrote back I gave him my instant messaging contact, despite the fact that it
was strictly against the rules of the Web site. After a few chat sessions, I gave
Eric my phone number. He called two days later and I was struck by how his voice sounded—
deeply alone. Our conversations weren’t all that spectacular at first. They were very
basic. We talked about movies, favorite foods, music, and other random likes and dislikes.
I asked where he was from and this led to the discovery that we were natural baseball
rivals— Eric’s hometown was in New York; mine, outside of Boston. This discovery coaxed
him out of his shell and we playfully teased each other about the Yankees’ and Red
Sox’s stats and star players.