The Day I Became Different

Written by Laura of Bums & Bellybuttons: The View From Here
(Cross-posted with permission)

I don't have an actual memory of the day I realized I was different. It's more of a created memory, bred from hearing the story more than once and analyzing the event objectively. Up until this particular point, I lived in blissful ignorance. I can't say with any certainty that I even knew, at the time, what "different" meant.

Today, it's multi-zillion dollar affairs thrown by guilt-laden parents hoping to earn the affection of their entitled children. In the '90s, it was Chuck E. Cheese. But, in the '80s, the happenin' birthday party spot for the under-10 set was McDonald's. I know; I was there. I must have attended a large handful of these parties, always fearful that the clown mascot would suddenly appear. (Hey, clowns are scary. Deal with it.)

At one of these parties, when I was about 5, I learned that I was different. When I entered the restaurant with my parents, a young boy (about my age, I guess) stood up and repeatedly announced to the entire population, "She's in a wheelchair!" Needless to say, staring commenced. Pairs and pairs of eyes swiveling toward me, a little girl, cute in her party dress, suddenly not the girl she was five seconds before she came through the door. Even thinking about it 20 years later makes me want to claw my skin.

It had never occurred to me to realize that sitting down made me fundamentally different than just about everyone I encountered. No one else seemed to notice, so why should I? My parents didn't make a big deal out of it, unless it was for my own physical safety. It just was as it was.

I believe that boy, unknown to him the great power he wielded, changed my life. Sure, my perception would have altered sooner or later, but he happened to be the lucky one to draw that card from the deck of my life. His inexplicable and unexpected assertion that being a wheelchair user was somehow "wrong" robbed me of the innocent nature most children possess. The belief that everyone is just a good/bad/indifferent as everyone else.

I have done my best to re-instill that belief in my mind. For the most part, I do believe that, unless they prove otherwise, all people are just as worthy as all other people. And yet, there is this twinge from time to time at the back of my mind that says, "Except for you." Now, the part of my brain that doesn't listen to what other people say or pay attention to what other people do blows this off with a flip of the wrist. The rest of my brain dredges up 26 years worth of stares, name calling, rude questions and all-around "make you feel different" stuff.

I wonder from time to time if that boy, whomever he was, carries around any memory whatsoever of me. I doubt it, seeing as how I can't even recall the Day That Changed My Life. I wonder what he would think if he did remember. Would he feel guilty for stomping all over my rose-colored glasses? Would he blow it off with a flip of his wrist, rationalizing that it would have happened sooner or later? Would he care at all? Or, as I fear, is he one of those people who don't believe I'm as good as any girl on two legs?