When I’m Reminded that CP Doesn’t Just Affect Me Physically

 It might sound odd that the fact that I have cerebral palsy almost never leaves my mind. I don’t obsess over it (not usually, at least—most times, I am in a good frame of mind), but it’s always there. Yes, I do feel like I have to be cautious a lot of the time, which is probably one reason why, but mostly it’s because almost nothing physical is second nature to me. I think about walking—even if I’m not in a lot of pain that day, which is rare, my legs are still stiff and it’s hard to move around. When I get nervous or fatigued, my legs shake involuntarily. I can sit on the floor, but I have to adjust my position frequently. I think and strategize about climbing stairs, putting on my PE uniform in the locker room….Almost everything physical throughout the day, I think about it.

Sometimes, though, I forget that CP doesn’t just affect my leg muscles. My leg muscles are mainly affected, but my cerebral palsy affects so much more. My mental health and CP correlate most of the time. There are some occasions where I resent my legs and get tired of hearing people’s assumptions and comments about my challenges. But CP also affects my dexterity and fine motor skills.

Fine motor skills are the smaller movements—movements that control the ability to hold things, like a pencil, or cut with scissors.

I struggle with physical things, but also things like:

-typing (the right way)

-folding

- tying my shoes

- putting on some types of clothing (dresses, swimsuits, etc.)

- zippers

- buttons

-cutting things with scissors

- using utensils to cut and eat food

- washing my hair

- putting my hair in a ponytail

- sewing, stitching, etc.

-drawing

-tracing

- graphing

Until recently, I did not realize that putting shapes on a graph and rotating the shape would be a struggle. Now that I am in high school, I don’t draw or cut with scissors very much. There are a few times, but then I ask the teacher for help or find ways to manage. Over the years, I have learned to adapt. In kindergarten through second grade, we did a lot of cut-and-paste activities. I remember gritting my teeth in frustration as I practiced manipulating the scissors, always mutilating whatever it was I tried to cut. “Cut-and-paste won’t last forever,” my parents told me. I wanted to believe them, but it was hard for me to see anything but what I was facing at the time. In elementary school, I never liked art because I struggled so much with it that it wasn’t fun for me. What I tried to create never looked the way it did in my head. 

Art was gradually less of a big deal as I grew older. Instead, art was eventually applied to other subjects. When I started high school, I was put in an honors Geometry class. I am in honors and college classes, which is what I want. In this case, it meant while most other ninth graders were taking Algebra, I was taking Geometry. 

In Geometry, you learn about shapes. I was sure that I would be fine. Math is my weakest subject, but somehow I have been able to maintain an A in math since fifth grade. 

The first unit that gave me a slight bit of trouble in Geometry was constructions. Constructions involve drawing the arc of a circle with a complicated tool that a pencil was inserted into. I had to hold the tool steady on the paper with one hand and hold the pencil in the other hand. Try as I might, I couldn’t do it. My pencil slipped out of my grip. The tool fell off of my desk and onto the floor. It was like my hands were working against me.

Do you have any idea what it’s like when you can’t control your own body? Many people go through that very frustration when they reach old age, but I am a young teenager. It is unbelievably frustrating. I can’t control my legs. I will my legs to do certain things, but my brain sends the opposite messages to my legs. My hands, too, are receiving different messages.

My sister, who was sitting in the desk next to mine, readjusted my grip several times. I looked at her paper: there were several perfect arcs across the workbook page. I sighed and watched her, but could not imitate her actions. My hand-eye coordination is horrible. That’s why it’s hard for me to play badminton and other sports. It wasn’t news to me that I have bad hand-eye coordination, but I haven’t gotten over how irritating my lack of coordination is. 

My sister eventually got tired of readjusting my grip and told me to ask the Geometry teacher for help. I had been trying to avoid that, but I decided to swallow my pride. A lot of times, if I want to do well academically, I have to put my emotions regarding my body aside. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t— this isn’t working,” I admitted, embarrassed.

Most of my teachers teach advanced classes. They do not interact with many others who take advanced courses and have a disability. 

My teacher again showed me how to do the construction, adjusted my grip about three times, and then left, telling me that I wouldn’t need to do a construction on the test and not to worry about it.

Well, of course I worried about it. I’m naturally a worrier. I sat there helplessly for the rest of the lesson. I kept trying with limited (no) success. 

It turned out that my lack of ability to do constructions did not really hinder me, but my hands were a barrier for something different later on in Geometry—graphing.

We were learning about rigid transformations of shapes. This involved a lot of graphing. The process involved tracing the shape onto transparent paper, moving the paper 90, 180, or 270 degrees, and then tracing the points on the paper back onto the graph. I have difficulty tracing things. It’s hard for me to line the paper up with the object that I have to trace. I knew all of this, but I naïvely believed that my understanding of the rotation concept and my desire to do the rotation correctly would allow me to take part in the unit without a problem.

Long story short—I was wrong.

We were assigned a worksheet on rotations to complete. When I traced the points of each shape, they weren’t aligned correctly. My wrist is weak, so I couldn’t turn the paper fully. The points didn’t fall on the correct coordinates. Therefore, I got every problem on the worksheet wrong.

My teacher thought that I didn’t understand the concept of rotation at first. She assured me that we’d get more opportunities to practice. There are some fine motor skills of mine that do get better with practice, but there are some fine motor skills that it doesn’t matter how often I practice it, I still won’t be able to do it. 

Besides, the test was in a week or two. That was nowhere near enough time. I knew from experience; I used to struggle with writing, and so I had to practice penmanship for years before my handwriting was legible enough to read. 

My teacher gave us another assignment where we had to graph a list of points and perform a series of transformations on those points. She allowed me to graph the points on an online graphing calculator on my computer. Graphing points has always been difficult for me. It is difficult for me to determine the intersection between two coordinates. The graphing calculator made it easier for me to graph the shapes, but it was even harder for me to trace the shapes now due to the graph being on the computer.

Most of the class, including my sister, finished the assignment in class. (Geometry class lasts for about an hour and a half, and we had an hour to do the assignment.) 

I went home having only done one transformation. 

My dad knows that the dexterity in my hands is limited. He often helps me with math. My dad saw what I was doing with the graphing calculator. After watching me try to use the graphing calculator for about two hours, he decided to graph the shapes for me. I know it’s hard for my parents to see me struggle. I was so grateful for my dad’s help. 

We finished in another hour. I was in tears. 

I was so frustrated that my hands couldn’t cooperate. I knew why—but it was hard and it wasn’t fair. It’s difficult for me to comprehend sometimes how I can be in such advanced classes and be unable to do things that most kids my age can do. 

After a lot of practice, I was fairly confident in my graphing ability—just in time for my test about a week later. I had missed my last unit test because I was getting Botox treatment, so I was glad I could attend school for this test. I was pleasantly surprised that my teacher had provided me with a physical copy of the test and enlarged the graphs for me. My confidence increased. I thanked my teacher profusely and sat down to take the test.

I thought I had done well. Most of my answers were choices listed on the test. That night, I reported happily to my dad that I thought I got most of the answers right.

I don’t even know how to say this, so I will just say it:

I got a D.

I was not happy. 

I did everything I could have done—I told my Geometry teacher, I practiced, I got accommodations….

I was mad—mad at myself, my hands, my brain, and mad at my cerebral palsy. I feel like I failed, but that it wasn’t even my fault. It’s not my fault that my fine motor skills are lacking. At the same time, I felt completely at fault because it was my body that made me mess up.

I almost never get D’s on anything. I don’t say that to brag; I say it to make a point. I felt like my CP had caused me to fail. I failed PE one year in elementary school, but generally I didn’t consider PE a reflection of what really mattered about myself. I definitely considered math to be something that mattered. (And yes, I know that a D is technically a passing grade, but a D is not my idea of doing well.) I feel like failing PE in elementary school and doing badly on my math test both was and was not my fault. I couldn’t help my lack of dexterity. I couldn’t help the tightness in my legs. It was so infuriating because I had very little control in either situation. I try so hard to keep school and cerebral palsy separate, but I failed at that, too. Aside from PE, getting to class on time, fine motor skills, and a few other things, my CP and school don’t really intersect. I did badly in academics because of CP. 

The next day, I had Cross-Stitching as an elective. 

I had signed up for Cross-Stitching to have a class with my friends, but it was probably a mistake on my part. Cross-Stitching class, for me, had basically consisted of me just sitting there and watching my friends’ progress—because, unsurprisingly, I couldn’t even do one stitch. I had sketched out a really cute design to stitch, but when I held the fabric in one hand and the thread and needle in the other, I had no idea where to put the thread. Finally, I had just stuck the thread in a hole. The thread grew knotted. The needle slipped from my fingers. I’d tried again and again. Nothing. I was frustrated, but I tampered my frustration down and pretended I was doing fine. 

The day after I got my test score back, I couldn’t tamper down my frustration anymore. My self-esteem having to do with my fine motor skills was extremely low. I looked at my cross-stitching, picked it up, gritted my teeth, and shoved the thread through a hole.

I listened to my friends’ conversation. Sometimes they asked another girl how to do a stitch, but for the most part they could cross-stitch independently. I watched with a little bit of envy.

After about ten minutes with no progress, tears began to stream down my cheeks. I tried to blink the tears back, but I couldn’t stop crying. The sadness, frustration, anger, and disappointment had finally boiled to a point where I couldn’t stop it from showing. My reaction might sound dramatic, but academics matter to me a lot. To some extent, it is what I focus on because I don’t play sports or anything like that.

My friends looked up in shock. They dropped their cross-stitching and ran around to my side of the table to give me hugs. I self-consciously thanked them. When they asked me what was wrong, I showed them my cross-stitching (or the lack of it) and then blurted out, “I got a D on my math unit test.”

“Oh, no,” my more academically-motivated friend gasped. “What happened?” 

She knew that a D was pretty far from my usual grades.

My other friend said, “I’m sorry. At least it is a passing grade.” 

I explained my dexterity issues, while they nodded and tried to understand. Another friend grabbed my cross-stitching and threaded the needle for me.

Later that day, I talked to my special education advisor, who doesn’t usually need to do much for me. I don’t require many accommodations. She set up my IEP (Individual Education Plan) meeting and invited my Geometry teacher.

My special education advisor talked to the school occupational therapist for ideas as to how to help me. I had graduated from occupational therapy services at school a few years earlier and was disappointed that I seemed to be regressing. 

Ultimately, the plan is that I will have a scribe to graph points for me. I am not thrilled about having a scribe because it is my goal to be as independent as possible, especially when schoolwork is involved. I am not ashamed of having CP, but I try not to take advantage of most accommodations. 

I get frustrated that I need help with graphing. At times I feel that my mind moves so much faster than my body, and that is hard for me to deal with. 

I may have a mild case of cerebral palsy, and I may not need as much help as I used to, but I still have cerebral palsy. At the end of the day, I need to remember that my cerebral palsy doesn’t just affect my legs—my hands are affected, too. 

When I got a D because of the lack of dexterity that I have, I learned several lessons. 

I have great friends. It’s okay to get a D sometimes. It’s okay to be a little bit easier on myself because things happen that are not always my fault. It’s okay that I’m not perfect. Most importantly, it’s okay to accept help. 

Hand In Hand: Accepting Differences, No Matter What

 PE this year has been different from every other year. In a way, that’s not a bad thing. With the exception of seventh grade, I’ve always had PE teachers who pushed me too hard (and that’s not easy for me to admit) or were outright mean. This year, my PE teacher is very nice. Due to construction, we haven’t had to get dressed in our PE uniforms very much, and whenever I try to open my locker I can work the combination lock on the first try (something I had to practice for a very long time). 

Something that’s also different is I have a friend in PE.

On the second or third day of PE class, we were walking laps around the gym. I was going pretty slow, and it was easy for other kids to catch up to me. A special education class had come into the gym a little while ago and a few of the kids in the class had run up to my class and asked our names.

I know that it cannot be easy to have a cognitive difference, but I admire how outgoing many kids who have intellectual challenges are. 

A girl was walking behind me with her aide (actually, she was pretty much pulling her aide forward, with long strides) and almost passed me, so I said: “I’m sorry; I walk pretty slow. If you want, you can go ahead of me.”

“Oh, no. You’re fine,” the aide said, smiling with amusement at the girl. “She likes to walk pretty fast.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, and smiled at the girl. She strode forward and clasped my hand in hers, asking, “Walk with me?”

Of course, I agreed, and she pulled me around the gym with her aide shouting at her to slow down. “We friends! This my friend!” she declared to everyone within earshot, and I grinned.

 It would be so nice if making friends were always that easy. 

Every time she spotted me from then on, she would grin, run over, and grab my hand. The first few times, her aide had an apologetic expression on her face, but after a while, I guess she realized that I didn’t mind at all. Quite the opposite, actually. I had no friends in PE up until that point because no one wanted to hang out in PE with the person who struggled physically. Other kids my age struggled to accept me. The girl who’d been walking behind me that day—now my friend—accepted me the instant she grabbed my hand. I just wish other people would do the same for her.

She has Down syndrome, and because of that, other kids in my grade tend to avoid her because they’re unsure of what to say. In fact, they avoid her and the other kids in her special education class. 

Needless to say, I do not. Everyone needs a friend. Not to mention, some kids could live ten lifetimes and not learn to accept others for who they are. She did it in about five seconds—probably less. My physical differences didn’t—and don’t—matter to her.

So yes, I would much prefer her company to a lot of others. 

We had a routine: we walked around the gym—always holding hands (I guess she felt more secure that way. I didn’t mind; the gesture made me feel protective, almost like she was the little sister I never really had); we jogged (she had to let go of my hand because she liked to jog so fast that I couldn’t keep up); we did our stretches (neither of us could balance on one leg by ourselves, so her aide held both of our hands) and then we played badminton. 

I am awful at badminton. She is much more physically adept than I am, but badminton is not one of her strengths, either. We are equally matched, so it is probably good that we play together. It would require patience—more patience than any physically strong kid our age would probably have—to play badminton with either of us, so we play by ourselves. 

About two weeks later, we were walking around the gym, hand in hand, when I heard snickering behind us. I turned around. It was a group of really tall sophomore boys. “They’re holding hands,” one boy whispered, but not quietly at all. I could still hear him. 

“Are they in kindergarten?” another boy asked sarcastically.

I glared at them but said nothing. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it in front of her. 

All they saw was two girls holding hands, one of them with Down syndrome and the other with a slight limp, in a culture that is largely afraid of differences. 

That’s so sad to me. I wasn’t embarrassed, but I was mad on my friend’s behalf. She didn’t know what had happened, and that was okay. There was no reason to cause her unhappiness just because of two stupid boys who couldn’t accept anyone different from them.

Because those boys don’t know her. All they saw—as unfortunate as it is—was her Down syndrome. Down syndrome is not bad and it is not something to be ashamed of, but it is not what defines my friend either. 

No, those boys didn’t know her at all. They don’t know that she may not say anything when she’s happy, but she’ll smile at you and that’s more than enough. They don’t know that she expresses “thank you” in her own way. They don’t know that she loves drawing and coloring. They don’t know that she likes to wear bracelets and loves dressing up. They don’t know that she wants to be a singer when she’s older. They don’t know that she wants to get her own way, but really, don’t we all? They don’t know that she’s perfectly physically capable. They don’t know that she’ll hold your hand, not embarrassed in the least, and it’s one of the best feelings in the world, understanding that someone needs you even when you feel physically incompetent. 

The most important thing those boys don’t know is that she has more determination than almost anyone I’ve ever met. They don’t see the set of her jaw when we’re playing badminton and she wants “just one more try”. They don’t see her trying to play basketball even when another girl stole the ball from her and cut right in front of her. They do see her trying so hard to be friendly, asking everyone’s names—even theirs—although they snickered when they told her, but they don’t know how much persistence that takes—to ask people questions even when they ignore you. 

Those boys don’t realize that my friendship with her is not an embarrassment to me. They don’t understand that she’s my friend because I accept her. They don’t understand that my friend is so much more than a diagnosis. Mostly, those boys don’t understand how to accept someone for who they are, no matter their differences. 

Ever since I met my friend, I’ve been so grateful. She has taught me so much about perseverance, persistence, friendship, and acceptance. I have a friend in PE. I need her and she needs me. We’ll get through PE hand in hand—no matter what anyone else thinks.

When Kindness Looks Like Climbing The Stairs

 Theatre has been such a positive experience for me so far this year. In third grade, I auditioned for Talented Theater and made the cut. 

In elementary and middle school, theatre was more about the cliques and choreography. 

I was good at neither. 

Cliques are exclusive, and that has never been okay with me. I have nearly always struggled to make friends, and I did not fit in the theater clique. I didn’t talk about the “right” things, move fast enough, or giggle and share inside jokes while the teacher tried to explain acting techniques. I didn’t want any part of a snobby group that excluded other people anyway. I yearned for a group of friends, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that having a perfect group of friends doesn’t exist. I am friends with a lot of people whose personalities differ greatly, and that’s what makes friendship so interesting. 

And don’t get me started on choreography. 

Every year in theatre, I have been a part of the ensemble. Oftentimes, that means learning complicated movements to pair with blocking (the location of the character on stage) and dialogue. My dislike of choreography has a lot to do with my lack of coordination and the limited range of motion I have compared to my classmates. 

Now, in high school, finally none of that seems to matter.

What does matter is passion for telling a story with words. What matters is being supportive of one another. And I have never seen those principles exemplified in theatre more than I have this year.

I thought this year would be more of the same cliques and endless whispering between friends that did not include me. I was wrong—and I’m so glad I was.

Not only have I been included, but I have been accepted. And that means so much, and is worth so much more. 

Stairs are difficult for me. I hate to admit that I need help, but it is absolutely essential that I accept help climbing the stairs. Stairs are a safety concern. I could probably climb the stairs with no one supervising me, but I have falling anxiety. (It’s kind of ironic because I fall down so much. Actually, I don’t know which came first—do I have anxiety because I know what it’s like to fall and I don’t want to go through that again or do I fall because I’m anxious and overthinking things?) 

Anyway, to get onstage in our theater, there is a staircase. I’ll be honest, I was filled with dread the first day of in-class rehearsal. I know how weird this sounds, but every time I know I’ll have to climb stairs, my mouth goes dry and my hands start to sweat. 

I’m afraid of falling down. I’m afraid of being judged. 

But I wasn’t judged. In fact, the exact opposite happened. 

I think it’s true that people learn through observation. My theatre teacher had had to help me up the stairs for the first week or so of class. It was awkward; she stepped down before me and then reached her hand up to grab mine. Even so, I appreciated her help. It was embarrassing for me; I hated that I had to ask my teacher every day to help me.

The problem was, the rail had nearly snapped off the wall. For me, climbing up and down stairs without a rail is not an option. My falling anxiety is a factor, but my feet turn in severely on stairs and can cause me to trip. 

I always feel like I’m a burden when I ask for help, especially for physical things that I feel like I should be able to do. 

One day, when our teacher called, “Everybody onstage to start blocking!” I was filled with dread, apprehension, and anxiety once again. That may sound dramatic, but stairs are a real fear of mine. I hesitated, gritting my teeth as I debated whether to go bother my teacher and ask her for help climbing the stairs once again or to just risk it and climb up the stairs myself. 

I was staring uncertainly at the stairs when I heard someone behind me say, “Do you need my help?” 

I turned around and saw a girl in my class who I’d never spoken to before. I knew she was an upperclassman but beyond that, I knew nothing else. 

“Yes, please,” I said nervously, my voice trembling. I was scared that if I stammered or was too awkward that she would go away. But she didn’t.

“T-thank you so much!” I stammered, grateful.

She smiled at me, nodded, and said “Of course”. Not only was she really kind and nice, but she was also helpful and effective. She rested her arm against mine and then grabbed my hand, reaching back to help me up the last step after she got onstage.

I stared after her, grinning. Not only was I shocked that someone—a classmate—had helped me, but she was also 3-4 years older than I was. I am no longer jaded about older kids, partly because of her. 

That girl helped me up the stairs, but she did so much more. She opened the eyes of more of my classmates; they offer to help me climb up the stairs now, too. She now calls me “baby” and “sweetie” (probably because I am the youngest person in the class). Mostly, she helped me realize that my goal of acceptance is not as far-fetched as I thought. 

I still struggle for acceptance, but I am able to be myself in my theatre class. Theatre was the last place I expected to find friendship, but I did. 

Kids really do learn from others. Anyone can show kindness and empathy; you just have to give them a chance. 

Stairs are not an impossible obstacle. Anxiety can be conquered if you have the right people to help you. I’m not naïve; I know that not all kids are nice. But there are people out there who are nice, and people who know that your challenges don’t matter. 

There are people who will help you and who will only care about what’s inside.

So try something new. People might surprise you. 

I’m Late, I’m In A Rush—But I Can Still Hear You

 High school, for the most part, has been a pleasant surprise for me. Acceptance is no longer as hard to find as it was in middle school. I still have difficulty making friends, but that’s not just because having cerebral palsy can complicate things. I am awkward around other people my age and don’t share a lot of interests with girls in my grade (social media, makeup, clothes, etc.). 

Anyway, kids have been much nicer. Adults, however…. Well, I’m almost always taken aback when I have a negative encounter with an adult. Generally, adults are more polite and are accustomed to seeing things that are unusual. Also, most adults have a filter and know not to say everything on their mind. 

I am often running late. I have eight classes in total, four classes per day. On this particular day, my first class was PE. I was tired from walking laps around the track (my pride gets in the way and I don’t stop walking, even when I probably should) and had gotten a late start getting to the locker room to put my uniform back on. As a result, there was only about a minute until my next class.

A teacher was sitting in a chair in the hallway as I pulled my roller bag down the hall. It was one of those days when I was wondering why my legs couldn’t go just a little bit faster. (I have very high expectations of myself that aren’t always realistic.) As I passed the teacher sitting in the hallway, I gave him a polite smile.

He stared at me and said, “Better hurry; you’re gonna be late.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied and kept walking. I didn’t change my pace—not out of disrespect, but because I know my limits. I was walking as fast as I could.

“Movin’ kinda slow,” he said under his breath as I passed. I bet he didn’t think I heard him. 

I flinched but kept walking. 

I understand that it must be hard to be in a wheelchair. I have to think that people in wheelchairs don’t get these kinds of comments—at least, I hope they don’t. The problem is that my cerebral palsy is not very noticeable. I’m sure that he didn’t think anything of his comment. If my CP had been noticeable, then the teacher probably would not have said anything. 

I found his saying that I was “movin’ kinda slow” offensive. I was trying. If my trying wasn’t enough for him, then it wasn’t my fault. 

At my school, most kids hang out in the hallway and chitchat until there’s only about thirty seconds left until the bell rings. Needless to say, that’s not the way I do things. I am scrambling to get to class until the very last second, and even then I’m still sometimes late.

It would have been nice if the teacher could have given me the benefit of the doubt. I know not everyone—especially not teachers—can do that, because students often take advantage. But I’m not that type of person. 

I have a disability that’s too easy to hide, and I shouldn’t be penalized for it. I try and I try and I try, and it’s not enough. I care about school. I hate being late to class because I hate drawing negative attention to myself. I’m not like everyone else. I can’t always increase my pace or run in the halls. 

I do need a little bit of grace. Sometimes, I need people to keep their opinions to themselves.

I need people to understand that there are people with physical challenges.

No matter what, there are people who try.

I’m one of those people. I’m harder on myself than anyone else. 

And I may be running late, and I may be in a rush, but I still hear a ticking clock in my head. I still hear people’s words.

The Transition To High School on the Road To Getting Older

 High school. I can’t believe it either. (That means I’ve had this blog for about 7 years so far, but who’s counting.) I started high school about 2 weeks ago. My high school is huge, with about 1,300 kids. The halls are extremely crowded, which can sometimes cause a problem because I am not very fast or stable on my feet. My high school is split into two buildings—the STEM academy and the main building. Although we have five minutes to switch classes, a lot of the time I show up late because the walk is a lot further than you’d think. I have accommodations where I can leave class 3-5 minutes early so I can get a head start, but it’s hard for me to speak up and ask my teachers if it’s okay for me to leave.

I did not expect to learn very much in the first two weeks—but as it turned out, I did. I’ve learned how to say the days of the week in Spanish and what a corresponding angle is, but I’ve also learned a lot about myself.

As I mentioned, walking through the hallways is difficult. There are SO many people—most of them trying to get to class, others standing around and talking until the last 30 seconds—and a lot of them are upperclassmen who think it is their right to cut in front of freshmen. I happen to be a freshman that is very easy to knock down. I can lose my balance just from someone lightly bumping me. Sometimes I envy the people who stand around and chat until the last 30 seconds—either they’re just not worried about getting to class on time, or they can walk fast enough to get to class on time. Neither option applies to me. Unfortunately, I worry about getting to class on time and I’m mostly always late. Lately, though, I’ve realized that I need to do what works for me. If leaving class early helps me get to my next class on time, then I need to do that. Easier said than done, of course. Mostly because I haven’t established my credibility with my teachers. They don’t know that I’m not just leaving early to get out of class. (They do now because they have a copy of my IEP.) I have a hard time speaking up. I think it’s just easier to write everything down. I know that is not practical, but with writing I can think about what I want to say and take my time. Speaking isn’t always reliable. My mouth gets stuck on a word sometimes, but I digress. I have been trying to let my teachers know that I need to leave early, and for the most part they are understanding. As embarrassing as it can be to call attention to myself by being the first one to leave class, it is well worth it. I can take my time getting where I need to be. 

Accommodations have been somewhat of an issue this year. I don’t need very many—I need an adaptive PE coach, an in-school physical therapist on a consult basis, a pass to use the elevator, and extra time to transition to my classes. Mostly it’s the physical aspects of school that I struggle with, and some people don’t understand that, considering that some people who have cerebral palsy are non-ambulatory and about 50% of people with CP have an intellectual disability. I don’t happen to fall into either of those categories. My point about learning things about myself is that I have learned I will speak up if my dignity is at stake or if something I pride myself on is taken away.

Health Science is one of my favorite classes this year. So far we’re learning about medical contributions in history, and next semester we’ll learn about medical terminology and human anatomy. I know a lot about the medical field—I have been to more than five types of therapy for over 13 years, and I have had many procedures besides. That being said, I am pretty knowledgeable about medical things. That was why I was taken aback when I wasn’t given the opportunity to take the full Health Science pretest.

If other kids had been in my situation, they probably would have welcomed the easier test. It doesn’t have as many questions. The test isn’t even going in the gradebook. I didn’t care. I wouldn’t be able to make as high of a score on the pretest because I was only given a test with twenty questions—and the test the other kids got was forty questions! My teacher wouldn’t allow me to take the test on my Chromebook like everyone else. She gave me a physical copy. I was fine until I realized that my test only had half the number of questions—and then I got mad!

My academics are important to me. Usually, I make straight A’s, and I achieve that because I work hard. I don’t have any modifications on my schoolwork because I don’t need any. I can keep up with my classmates intellectually—so much so that I am currently taking tenth-grade classes and will graduate high school with an associate’s degree! That being said, I was seeing red as I stared at the test on my desk. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising my hand. “Why is my test different?” I still didn’t know my Health Science teacher very well and was timid.

“You need modifications, right?” she asked. I nodded, because I did need extra time with transitioning to classes and occasionally it took me more time to type an assignment. “Yes, ma’am, but—”

“Then that’s why your test is different,” she said.

I raised my hand again, and she came over to my desk. “I don’t need help on tests,” I stammered. “I do really well academically, and I can keep up with everyone else. I need accommodations for walking, but— it’s on my IEP….”

“If you have accommodations, then for right now it’s illegal for me not to give you the modified test,” she said, like she was wondering why I cared about a pretest, of all things, and why I wouldn’t just take the easy way out. 

I guess a fault of mine is that when my pride is about to take a blow, I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Can I take the regular computer test after I finish?” I asked, desperation and the start of tears beginning to creep into my voice. I didn’t want to cry. I really, really didn’t want to cry. But this wouldn’t have happened to my twin sister, who didn’t have a disability. This wouldn’t have happened to other kids who looked just like me. No, because I had some trouble with my legs, I had to take a modified test.

“You can take the computer test if you want,” my teacher said with a shrug. “I just won’t be able to count it.”

With that, my eyes started to well up with tears. “Even if I do better on the computer test?” I asked.

“It’s a pretest, so it doesn’t go in the grade-book,” she reiterated. “Legally, I wouldn’t be able to count it.”

I’m sure I came off as being annoying, but academics matter to me, even if it was just a pretest. I wanted to prove all I knew about health sciences. I guess I wanted to prove, at my very core, that my legs might not work at full capacity, but that I shouldn’t be underestimated. My mind works so much faster than my legs, and that’s very frustrating for me.

I stared down at the test with hatred as I wondered what other questions would be on the computerized version. A tear dripped and splattered the paper. The girl who’d bullied me relentlessly for most of sixth grade—calling me “worthless” and “too slow”, claiming that I held up the class—snickered from across the table. Lucky me, she was in my Health Science class (a 1 in 8 chance) and she sat across the table from me. 

Well, that girl seeing me having to take an easier test was what made me snap. I took the modified test, and my teacher offered to grade it right then. I got a 32/40. I didn’t think that was bad for a pretest, but I wanted a 100% —even if it was just so I could prove my teacher wrong. 

So what do you think I did? I took the computerized test, of course. This time I got a 33/40. I felt a tiny bit better because I got a higher score, just like I thought. 

“I did better on the computer test,” I told my teacher, my voice wavering.

She peered at the screen. “There’s only a one-point difference,” she told me.

“Are you sure you can’t count it?” I begged.

She shook her head.

Lo and behold, my 33/40 was the highest grade in the class. I talked to the assistant principal, who luckily had been my English teacher in sixth grade and knew what accommodations I needed. 

Later that day, I got an email. It was one of the best emails I’ve ever gotten. The email said that my 33/40 was going to be counted. 

I was satisfied. I had proved that although my legs might require me to need extra help, my mind was just fine. I had advocated for myself and things had worked out in the end. (And yes, I was just a little bit happy that I proved my teacher wrong.)