Having a severely disabled son in a wheelchair, who doesn’t look a thing like me, I get used to the stares. I’ll admit that sometimes I’m just not in the mood and have been known to whisper to a child who is old enough to know better, “It’s not nice to stare.” Hopefully the kid’s dad heard it too, because he has been craning his neck to get a better look for the last six minutes. I could not believe the audacity when on one such occasion a mom said to me, “Well, I’m trying to show my daughter that people in wheelchairs want you to understand what happened to them.” Once a twelve-year-old girl rode past our campsite on a bike, then doubled back to take a second look and yelled, “What’s wrong with him?” Okay, I guess I need to work on my attitude.
It’s interesting to see how kids respond to someone in a wheelchair, depending on their age. Tiny ones waddle up to check out all the cool levers and gears and see how much they can touch before someone stops them. Four and five year olds rarely take notice. Early elementary aged kids are openly curious and sometimes stare. My own little ones, who have always had at least two family members who use wheelchairs, have sometimes stared at people in wheelchairs in public. Who can figure? I usually bend down and whisper, “It’s not nice to stare,” to my own kids.
So I’m on an outing with my son and we go into a small, mostly empty bookstore. Once in awhile I catch a glimpse of a four-year-old girl sneaking glances at us. You can just about read her mind, “Why isn’t that boy walking? Why do his eyes look so blank? Why is he all curled up? Why isn’t he talking?” She seems to be alone, so I assume she belongs to the lady at the cash register. At one point, I catch her eye and smile at her and turn a corner only to see her again. It’s like we’re being stalked by an adorable, miniature security guard. I’m not really bugged- she’s little and curious. Eventually, she approaches us shyly and asks, “What’s his name?”
Carol Gloetzner
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