I still have more to learn
Lately, I have a little mama-crush on my middle son Avery.
I love his tiny bottom, his long thin feet. I love his extra-soft skin. I love his blue eyes that have little flecks of white in them like stars. I love his nose, small and button-like and very perfect for kissing. I love how he crinkles his nose when I try to kiss him, he's a big boy, after all. And I love how he sometimes still curls into me, even though he is a big boy, when he's sick or scared or sleepy.
Avery is 4. He's my best sleeper. He's potty trained. He feeds himself. He's learning the letters of the alphabet and his numbers 1-5. He's a quiet boy: he speaks using sign language about half the time, and words the other times. He used to call me mama, now, like his brothers, he calls me mom. "Mom," he'll say, to get my attention, then he'll sign what he wants.
Thirsty, or juice, or hungry. He sometimes signs ice cream because he knows I'll say, "No, wait until after supper," then he laughs, because I've done what he expected. I'm always tempted to say, "Yes!" just to see the wide startle in his deep blue eyes, but ice cream isn't a thing to joke about at my house.
Being Avery's mom hasn't made me more, or better, accustomed to other people with disabilities, I recently realized. I was in the local thrift store and a middle-aged man came over to me and told me it was his birthday. He told me he was going to be 42.
He was dressed as you'd expect a man to be in this part of the country: jeans and a flannel shirt and winter boots and a coat. His hair was combed and his face was clean-shaven. I said, "Happy Birthday!" to him in my loud voice, the one I use when the kids aren't paying attention to me, and I spoke slowly, just like I used to do before I was Avery's mom. I wondered, later, why I did that.
And too, I indulged him. I agreed with what he was saying, but I wasn't really listening. I didn't stop sliding the hangers of boys' jeans across the rack, didn't pause and introduce myself. I didn't tell him I had a son named Avery who has Down syndrome.
He left the store, then I did. He held the door open for me and I said, "Thank you," hoping that he wouldn't want to talk more. He didn't. He went his way, I went mine. Then it occurred to me: What would I have said, if he were Avery? How would I have felt, then?
I'd said all the wrong things, done all the wrong things. I would have introduced myself. I should have asked him his name. I'd ask after his family, did he have brothers and sisters? Where's his mother and father? I'd ask what he was shopping for. I'd ask if he needed help, and if he said no, I'd tell him what I was shopping for: 3 fancy bowls for ice cream Sundays, a surprise for my children. I'd speak to him in a normal voice and I'd face him when I talked. I might even ask if he knows sign language.
I have so much to learn, still.
Before becoming Avery's mom, I would have said that I did all the things I did, that I behaved the way I had, because I couldn't be sure of what the man knew or didn't know, of what he understood or didn't understand. But that's not true. I've had whole conversations with people where neither of us were talking about the same thing. So knowledge, or understanding, wasn't what it was really about. Or rather, it was my lack of knowledge, my lack of understanding that I was protecting. I didn't know how to interact with people different than me, so I didn't.
I hope I have another chance. The next time I meet a new person, I want to find common ground. I want to learn about them and let them learn about me. I want to do it with sincerity, not as a kindness or an act of pity. I want to do this because I am the one who needed to keep talking when the man and I parted ways on the street in front of the thrift store. It just took me a while to see it.
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Reader Comments (Page 1 of 1)
kristen 2-28-2008 @ 12:10PM
Jennifer, this is such a powerful piece. Life lessons. For all of us. Thank you for your lovely words and for sharing with such honesty.
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Jessica 2-28-2008 @ 12:25PM
Your writing has the ability to make me more honest with myself.
I have a mama-crush on my daughter's bum. I have never seen anything so perfectly round and dimpled, and, when she is turned away from me while I try to wrangle her into some clean 'big girl panties', I can't help but cupping it perfectly in my hand.
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vickiforman 2-28-2008 @ 1:13PM
Recently, my son's former aide wrote us a note that read, in part, "I have learned to be more patient, understanding and respectful toward an untypical life like Evan's." This after telling us she misses his giggle and smile. It's so hard to walk the walk, but all we can do is, as you suggest, admit what we don't know, and try again.
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Niksmom 2-28-2008 @ 2:51PM
It is a life lesson, for sure. In spite of all we've been through with Nik, I still struggle with the same thing sometimes. It is humbling and embarrassing at the same time. Each time I encounter such a situation I think I handle it with a bit more grace, compassion, acceptance than every time before. It is a muscle we must exercise. Yet if I do as you said, and imagine if it were Nik, then I don't have to think about it; I simply give that space, that benefit of the doubt, acceptance, ease...remembering that s/he is someone's father/son/brother/friend.
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jennifergrafgroneberg 2-28-2008 @ 6:10PM
Thank you for reading! And walking the walk, yes, that's the challenge. I shall forge ahead (sometimes it's more like stumbling) and I really hope I get another chance to try better.
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Claudia 2-29-2008 @ 10:02AM
Well, there I am -- right in your piece. I can see myself perfectly, only in my case I do not struggle so much with worrying that I won't be understood or wanting to have a meaningful conversation, but only with not wanting to engage myself with a stranger. My prejudice is that I'm afraid if I start talking with them they will somehow come to depend on me, or I won't be able to get away. Not always, but often, I feel that way.
Thanks as always for your honesty, Jen. It truly lights my way.
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Lee & Gabe 3-01-2008 @ 1:05AM
Recently, just before Christmas, I had the opportunity to chat with an older man who has Down syndrome. I was awkward, and maybe even trying too hard, and I had immediate regrets when we parted because I wanted to connect with him, but I didn't know how.
From time to time, since having Gabriel, I have pondered why from how certain experiences I've had with people who have disabilities have stayed with me. Is it coincidence that I remember these times so vividly? Why was Gabriel born to me? What is it that I'm learning?
We all come from human-ness. The beauty in that is the sense of growing and learning and reaching out, I think. And stumbling and getting back up. I hope, too, to be able to talk to that man again. It feels as if the conversation was never finished.
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Kristin 3-01-2008 @ 7:17PM
I have a blogger crush on you.
You continue to amaze and touch me with your writing, Jennifer. This was beautiful and inspirational to read.
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wesleyjeanne 3-01-2008 @ 7:27PM
Jennifer--As always you have written with grace and understanding. In our former city, I shopped at a grocery store that employed a 45-year-old man with Down syndrome, Tony. He liked to introduce himself, shake my hand, and ask me personal questions. My husband was always uncomfortable with his familiarity and forwardness. I initially found myself patronizing him, speaking in that loud voice and half listening.
One day Tony told me it was his birthday and that his sister was supposed to pick him up and take him swimming but she couldn't come so he was working extra hours. Suddenly, for some reason, I realized that I had never once asked him any questions about himself. I knew nothing about him, when I knew all about the high-school-age cashier, who planned to go to University of Tennessee and major in Psychology.
So the next time I went to that store and saw Tony, I walked up to him, held out my hand to shake, and said "Tony, it's good to see you again. I hope you had a nice birthday. How is your sister?" Just as I would any neighbor.
After that, instead of trying to avoid him or rush him through a conversation, I made it a point to speak to Tony, to ask after his family, his health. We had some wonderful conversations and I found I enjoyed his company as he helped me to carried my bags out to the car. I was always glad I took the time.
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kyra 3-01-2008 @ 9:50PM
i so relate.
it seems to be that it's really not something we finish, this business of seeing each other. it's something we notice more and sooner at those times when we've missed a chance to see someone.
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jennifergrafgroneberg 3-02-2008 @ 2:46PM
I've been thinking about these comments all weekend, and I want to thank you. Each has brought a new point of view to the conversation, and I feel richer for it. Thank you, thank you.
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Patty 3-02-2008 @ 11:24PM
My daughter Grace is 2 and has Down Syndrome. I relate to what you are saying. I think fear keeps us from doing a great number of things we should. I want to find out about people but I am afraid and usually leave such situations with regret. I hope Grace teaches me to be a better person--I should say, continues to teach me!
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Tara Marie 4-24-2008 @ 10:13PM
Jennifer.....what a very insightful piece. Thank you for sharing, as your words always seem to touch me in the most profound way.
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