I guess I'm finally in a writing mood again.
Moments of enlightenment can come at the oddest times.
Epiphany the First
Yesterday evening in the grocery store, I was chatting with the cashier as I was checking out. This particular cashier is a gentleman with a visible disability - I'm guessing CP based on the twisted-and-locked positioning of his limbs and speech difficulties. We chat every time I come through his line, which is not always easy for either of us considering his speech impediment and my hearing impairment. He repeats things for me a lot, but he never seems to get frustrated with me and I've always respected his patience.
So yesterday, he was asking me where I worked and how long I'd worked there. When I told him I'd been with the MSF for 18 years, he commented on what a long time that was. I replied, "You've been here quite a long time too, though, haven't you?" With desperation in his tone, he said, "But I'm looking for another job. I need a new job."
In that moment, I realized my prejudices. While I may not have consciously thought it, my underlying assumption was that this man, as severely disabled as he is, must be so happy to have this job and be able to be a productive member of society. How condescending of me! Standing there I realized that I have no concept of his inner life; he clearly feels trapped. And in fact, he probably is. It's unfortunate, but as sharp as he may be mentally and as hard as he's clearly willing to work, there aren't many jobs he could do or many employers that would give him a chance.
It may seem backwards, but I realized that assuming he was happy was a form of pity, and that feeling sympathy for his plight was true inclusiveness.
Epiphany the Second
Robert made a joke yesterday about me being the family ambulance service, or something to that effect. I do seem to have taken on that Florence Nightingale role for my relatives, but not so much for my husband's family. I started to wonder why that was and I realized it's because in our family there was a vacancy.
When I was growing up, the job of picking up a sick kid from school, or bringing you groceries when you were too poorly to get to the store, or just general comfort-providing was Grandma Lillian's. I remember what a relief it always was to see that big red car pull up, slide into the cool of the passenger seat, and hear her warm voice.
I always knew that if I called, she'd come. There was never any doubt she'd be there when you needed her. It gives me deep satisfaction to think I might be like her, at least in that one way, and that thought alone is ample reward for any effort on my part.
Epiphany the First
Yesterday evening in the grocery store, I was chatting with the cashier as I was checking out. This particular cashier is a gentleman with a visible disability - I'm guessing CP based on the twisted-and-locked positioning of his limbs and speech difficulties. We chat every time I come through his line, which is not always easy for either of us considering his speech impediment and my hearing impairment. He repeats things for me a lot, but he never seems to get frustrated with me and I've always respected his patience.
So yesterday, he was asking me where I worked and how long I'd worked there. When I told him I'd been with the MSF for 18 years, he commented on what a long time that was. I replied, "You've been here quite a long time too, though, haven't you?" With desperation in his tone, he said, "But I'm looking for another job. I need a new job."
In that moment, I realized my prejudices. While I may not have consciously thought it, my underlying assumption was that this man, as severely disabled as he is, must be so happy to have this job and be able to be a productive member of society. How condescending of me! Standing there I realized that I have no concept of his inner life; he clearly feels trapped. And in fact, he probably is. It's unfortunate, but as sharp as he may be mentally and as hard as he's clearly willing to work, there aren't many jobs he could do or many employers that would give him a chance.
It may seem backwards, but I realized that assuming he was happy was a form of pity, and that feeling sympathy for his plight was true inclusiveness.
Epiphany the Second
Robert made a joke yesterday about me being the family ambulance service, or something to that effect. I do seem to have taken on that Florence Nightingale role for my relatives, but not so much for my husband's family. I started to wonder why that was and I realized it's because in our family there was a vacancy.
When I was growing up, the job of picking up a sick kid from school, or bringing you groceries when you were too poorly to get to the store, or just general comfort-providing was Grandma Lillian's. I remember what a relief it always was to see that big red car pull up, slide into the cool of the passenger seat, and hear her warm voice.
I always knew that if I called, she'd come. There was never any doubt she'd be there when you needed her. It gives me deep satisfaction to think I might be like her, at least in that one way, and that thought alone is ample reward for any effort on my part.