The Way I Walk

“Why does she
Walk like that?” they say, quietly,
In a harsh whisper, like that
Makes it better
(It doesn’t.)
I might walk
slowly
But I can hear
their words,
even if I wish
I couldn’t.

They whisper
Like how I walk
is 
Scary,
Disgusting,
Morbidly fascinating.

Sometimes, I feel
If I didn’t have legs like this,
I would
Fly
Soar
Never touch the ground.

Instead my legs
Tighten
Spasm
Heavy to lift, my legs are
Made of stone.
My left leg drags
behind me,
My foot interrupting the stride
Of the other.

If I didn’t have legs like this,
I could
Fly
But maybe
Not everyone should fly all the time.
Maybe,
Sometimes,
We are meant to
Fall.

I fall
I break down
I wonder why it matters
How I walk.

I have been told 
so many times
“You don’t look
Handicapped.”
“You don’t look like
there’s anything wrong
With you.”
If that is true,
why?
Why is my walk
Analyzed?
Why are my legs
Noticed,
as if they are
Grotesque,
Horrifying,
Wrong?

I sit between two worlds
Two globes, spinning on 
Their axis,
Not quite different
Enough
But all too different
To fit.
Either way I lean,
I am not
Enough.

“Why does she walk
Like that?” they whisper.
“What is wrong
With you?” they ask, but
It isn’t a question.
I have been branded
Wrong,
And though they wonder 
why,
their questions have already been
answered,
By the way I walk.

They don’t try 
To know anything else.
Their curiosity has been satisfied
By my legs,
My definition
in their minds.

I haven’t even said
A word.
My voice is not
Enough.
Would it matter
what I said?
They have decided
What I am
Without my 
input
Anyway.

Their words—
“What is wrong
with you?”;
“Why does she walk
Like that?”—
Echo every insecurity
Already placed inside my head.

Insecurity pounds on my brain
I look around
For the culprit, but they are
Already gone
So I guess that means
The culprit is me

They walked away
With their
Perfect legs,
Feet that turn outward,
Toes that don’t curl,
Legs that don’t betray them
as they walk.
I walk away, too,
but I might as well have 
Stayed where I was.

Their words
Repeat
Like a drumbeat 
In my mind.
Like a pulse
I can’t drown out
I’m helpless

As I watch them
Walk away,
I realize that
The only way
I can fly—
For now—
is:
My left foot cuts under
My right,
My toes curl
In a death grip
Against the floor;
I’m weightless, for just a split second,
My stomach swoops
I forget everything
For just a second.

But then I slam into the ground
And it’s over.
Back to reality

A reality where my only chance at weightlessness
is falling down.
A reality where
Girls’ comments about 
my legs,
the way I walk,
Brings me to tears.

I pick myself up 
Off the floor
It’s like nothing happened
The only evidence is in my head
Their words repeating
Over and over again.

As I walk
With my limp
I know it’s okay
To be myself, but
I look around and wonder
How many people are looking
At my crooked legs
Judging me,
Defining me
For something over which I 
Have no control,
the way I walk.

I have an answer
Not just for them, but
For me
I am the way I am
I am not 
Defined by my legs
At least,
I don’t want to be.

I have to hear their voices
But would they be willing
To hear mine?

All I can do is
Walk away
Walk away with my
Different legs,
Walk away with my
Legs that betray me
Walk away from their words
Walk toward what is true
Walk toward self-acceptance

I’m on the path less traveled
As their words echo
In my ear
I just have to know
And not define myself
By the way I walk,
No matter what
Other people think
Or say
Or do.

I am not the way I walk,
Despite
Their words.
Despite
My insecurities
One day
I will fly

A Letter Explaining My Differences To the Kids I Babysit

 To the kids I babysit for:

     

     You may not realize this yet, but you will someday—I am not a “normal” babysitter. A lot of other fourteen- to -fifteen-year-olds have had the opportunity to babysit thus far, but not me. I’m grateful to your parents for allowing me to babysit. I wouldn’t really have blamed them if they didn’t trust me to take care of you, even if it’s out of my control. Even when you’re not very well-behaved, I remind myself this is a good experience for me. I want to have kids someday. Whether that can or will happen, I don’t know, but being around you as toddlers has given me hope that I might not be a bad mom. 

     Babysitting has given me self-confidence that I never knew I could have. My experiences with little kids growing up haven’t always been positive. Even coming from kids who I’m sure didn’t know any better, their little comments about my physical differences hurt. But you just want a playmate, and you can find that in me. That being said, if I continue to babysit you, when you are older, you will notice that I’m different. There is a part of me that dreads for that day to come. As far as you know, we are on an equal playing field right now, even if that isn’t entirely true. But someday that illusion will be shattered. 

     If I were you, I would be confused. When I was younger, I viewed older kids as physically capable of anything and superior to any ability that I might possess. You might think that way, too, and I have to tell you that that way of thinking is not accurate. I am not physically capable of everything. I may be older than you, but you are probably close to physically overpowering me. Even at your young age, you are faster than me and more flexible. You probably don’t understand why, if you have noticed these things about me, so I’ll try to explain it to you: I have a physical disability called spastic diplegia cerebral palsy. I bet that sounds like gibberish to you, because at first I had no idea what those big words meant and what they had to do with me. Having cerebral palsy (CP) impacts me because it means I have physical limitations, or things that I can’t do with my legs.

     When you’re older, you probably won’t remember that my mom had to come with me to your house to babysit. You probably won’t remember how I stumbled after a long time sitting on the floor, or when you hugged me tightly and I lost my balance. Your parents had to tell you to let go.

     I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t style your hair. I’m sorry I can’t pick you up when you want me to. I’m sorry I can’t cut your food for you. I’m sorry I can’t put your clothes on. I’m sorry I flinched when you leaned into me. Touch hurts me sometimes, and I try to hide that fact as much as I can. I want you to trust me. Maybe that means not hiding part of myself. I’m sorry I can’t keep up with you when we play and I’m sorry I can’t always lift the heaviest of your toys. 

     Reading this, I’m sure you’re wondering how on Earth I’m qualified to be a babysitter, let alone a babysitter for young, toddler-age kids. Believe me, I question my own competence level and qualifications. The answer to how I am qualified is (mostly) that my mom comes with me. However, being a babysitter isn’t only about the physical things. What I can’t tell you in a letter is how passionate I am. I love seeing you smile when I walk in the door. I like the things I get to do with you independently. I like when you ask me to play with you because it means, for now, that you haven’t noticed I can’t keep up with you. I love connecting with little kids. I’m so happy that my disability hasn’t impaired my connection with you, and when you realize that I’m different, I don’t want our connection to fade. 

     When your parents come home and you cry because it’s time for me to leave, my self-confidence gets a much-needed boost. Your unhappiness at my leaving means that I’m doing something “right”. It means that, for now, my disability doesn’t impact you. Of course, my CP still exists when I’m with you, but you’re blind to it. That will change someday, I know. Eventually, as you accomplish milestones that I still don’t quite have a grasp on, you’ll realize my differences. Eventually, when you run to your room or want to play tag, you’ll notice that I’m not right behind you. You’ll realize that you’ve physically surpassed your babysitter, the person who is supposed to be your role model, the person who is supposed to have accomplished everything before you do.

     You are already faster than me. As you grow up, your physical abilities will continue to be superior to mine. That might be hard for me to watch, if I’m being honest. I know I can do things—I can walk and talk. I can run when necessary. Other than that, though, I feel physically stuck. As I watch you chase and accomplish your milestones, I will be so glad that your challenges are not physical. I hope that though you will physically outpace me, I can still teach you. I can teach you how to be kind and how to accept differences. Right now, you seem to be good at that anyway.

     So yes, my mom comes with me to babysit you because there are some things that I can’t do. It is hard for me to step back as she carries you, as she cuts your food perfectly for you. I am beyond grateful for her help, but I want so badly to be one of your caretakers. I know there is grace in accepting limitations. Maybe one day I will be the kind of babysitter, the kind of mom that I badly want to be. Right now, I can’t meet those expectations.

     I am so grateful to be a small part of your lives, to see you play and grow. I love that I am trusted to take (partial) care of you. Really, that’s all I can ask for. Your smile as I walk in the room—no matter how slowly I walk—sustains me. Even if I don’t feel as competent to be your babysitter, I am thankful for the opportunity. No, I’m not the usual babysitter. But I don’t need to be. Someday, you’ll discover what my challenges are, and that we all have challenges. I want to be viewed as normal in your eyes, but hopefully the view you’ll have of me is that I am your babysitter, and I will be there for you regardless of my abilities. 

 

Love,

Your Babysitter

The Power I Never Meant To Give

 She enters (invades) my space and immediately I know that she’s there. It’s as if someone whispered a warning in my ear, but they didn’t.

My body tenses up when she walks into the room. She doesn’t know that, of course. But I know she hasn’t forgotten what she did.

Sixth grade was the first time I’d say that I ever got bullied. A boy in kindergarten was mean-spirited, but he left me alone after about two times. Plus, the kid was in kindergarten. I hate this cliché, but it’s probably true that he didn’t know any better.

By the time sixth grade comes, kids should know better than to bully others. And in the past, I’ve gotten stares and comments. I’ve heard some things that I should have never had to hear about my legs. But nothing was said or done repeatedly by the same person. 

That changed in sixth-grade PE. PE was a nightmare for me. I learned that we had to change clothes in the locker room. As a shy and modest person, that made me extremely nervous. Also, I can’t get dressed standing up because of my lack of balance. At first, it was okay because I sat on my spot on the bench to change clothes. 

Then one day, a girl put her backpack on the other side of the bench. Now, she needed more room (according to her) because her backpack took up more space. For several days, she complained that I took up too much space, so I tried to curl my legs in and cooperate. I couldn’t get dressed that way, though, so I decided to explain to her that I needed the bench for balance purposes.

I thought that would be the end of the conflict. It wasn’t. She said, “Okay, but can you take up less room?” with a mean smirk on her face. I tried; I really did. I really didn’t want to make an enemy, especially not in PE. I’m vulnerable in PE class. People see me at my weakest. 

I was trying to keep the peace while still being able to sit on the bench, but one day I felt her shove me. I tried to plant my feet firmly on the ground, but it’s really easy for people to push me. Before I knew it, I was on the dirty locker room floor.

I was upset, but I second-guessed that she really shoved me. Maybe I just fell off. Also, I didn’t have any proof.

Maybe I didn’t have any proof, but I stopped doubting myself after a few days as she continued to subtly knock me off the bench. It was taking me longer and longer to get dressed because I had to secure a position on a stupid bench that no one else even really needed. She got dressed just fine standing up.

“Please!” I said one day, embarrassingly near tears. “I need to sit here! I can’t get dressed standing up like you can, I’m sorry.”

The subtle shoving didn’t stop. People noticed I tended to end up on the floor pretty much every class period, but they attributed it to me being clumsy (which, at first, was what I thought too). 

The bullying got worse when we were put on the same volleyball team in PE class. She signaled for everyone on the team not to pass to me, and I overheard her telling another girl that I was useless at volleyball. I admit, I wasn’t and still am not good at volleyball, but the comment was hurtful. 

After a couple of days in the volleyball unit, I told my adaptive PE teacher that I was being bullied, but because he wasn’t my “official” PE teacher, there wasn’t much he could do. 

Finally, I asked my PE teacher for a different spot in the locker room. When she asked why, I told her that I was being bullied. Prior to the conversation, I had tried to establish a good student-teacher relationship with my PE teacher for several reasons: PE teachers in the past had given me an F because of what I couldn’t do and I am most vulnerable in PE. But there was a glass wall in the locker room, and my PE teacher said that she hadn’t seen anything through her glass wall. She told me that I could get dressed in her office, which I did not want to do at all. It was punishing the victim for something I had no control over. That would have embarrassed me so much. Pretty much immediately, I regretted reporting that I was bullied because I lost all credibility with my PE teacher. On the rare occasion that my adaptive PE teacher wasn’t there, I was on my own. It was quite obvious that my PE teacher strongly disliked me.

Worse, the bullying intensified. Whenever I took my shoes off to get dressed, she would step on my bare feet with her shoes on. In choir (which unfortunately we took together) she would kick the back of my chair incessantly. I asked my choir director to change seats, and luckily he was understanding. In the locker room, I told my friends what was happening and how helpless I felt, and my friend let me take her spot on the bench so I didn’t get shoved off anymore.

I tried to understand why she was bullying me. Maybe something really difficult was going on in her home life, I don’t know. And I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her at all; I just felt that I needed to understand why. Why did she shove me off when she knew I needed help? Why did she hurt me so badly? The only conclusion I came to was that she hated me because I had a disability. That thought deeply saddened me. The thought that someone could hate me because of a condition I was born with was devastating. Also, it kind of made me sad for her. There are so many awesome people with disabilities, and if your worldview is limited enough to hate all of those people…. I don’t even know what to say. 

I was so scared throughout my sixth-grade year that I was miserable. She would glare at me fiercely and I couldn’t look her in the eye. I couldn’t believe that I was so scared of a person and she reduced me to a mess. My parents say that no one can make you feel a certain way, but in my opinion she made me feel helpless. I never meant to give her so much power. I want that power back.

The summer before seventh grade, I was at a glasses store with my mom getting my glasses fixed. Then she walked in, and my hackles rose. I literally hid behind my mom and barely said a word until she left. I was scared—of a person! It was crazy. I felt so cowardly. As I peeked at her face, all those helpless, angry emotions came flooding back. She shoved me and she said awful things about me and she kicked and she stepped on my feet and I could do nothing. I was too physically helpless to do anything. 

Now it’s three years later. Unfortunately, she is in my health-science class, and we were assigned seats next to each other. Luckily, I know the subject very well (ironically, because of my health struggles), so when she was snarky with me I was confident enough in myself not to break down. I still resent having to sit next to her. It’s really hard for a past that you wish you could forget to glare you in the face every day. 

A few weeks ago, she came into the high-school theater—my safe space—and I could hardly look at her without feeling insecure. I have such amazing, accepting friends in theatre who were with me, and all it took was her presence for me to become an insecure blob of a person. 

I’d like to say I have forgiven her by now, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Thinking of what she did is one of the only things that makes me angry. I’m not an angry person, and I wish I could hide that dark side of myself who is as angry and scared as I was in sixth grade. I don’t want to be that person. I want to forgive, and I don’t want her to hold that much power over me. I never meant to give her that much power, and I want to get it back. I will—eventually.

The Reflection In The Water

Water

No one tells it what to be, how to be

Water flows continuously, 

water keeps going, 

Content with what it is.

Made up of many molecules, all vital for the element

I, too,

Am composed of so many things

All essential to make me who I am

Though it is not always

Viewed that way.

And when the moon is risen

Darkness has fallen on the world,

there is light, reflection, in the lakes and rivers,

Reflection in ourselves.

Reflected in the water, I am

Crooked

Light refracted

Simply the girl who has the

Awkward smile,

thoughts she doesn’t

Say,

Emotions in her eyes,

and legs that are her chains—but only if

That girl allows

Her legs to define her.

I make a choice

When I look at my

Reflection

One foot on the water

The reflection ripples, is

Gone,

Unreliable.

Unreliable like my legs can be

Unreliable as my steps, legs shaky,

One foot drags behind me,

Binding me, holding me

Down

But I am not the way I walk

When I look into the water, there is so much

And so little

I can see

I can see how I hold myself

I can see my legs,

I can see all the little things

The tells—

Fingers digging into my skin;

Arms tight with anxiety;

Head tilted downward;

Eyes meeting the floor—

That make me

How I don’t want to be seen.

The way 

I don’t want others 

To view me.

When I look into my reflection,

I wonder

Is my reflection all that other people see?

There is so much more

Beneath the surface of the water

So much more

Beneath my surface

If only people are brave enough 

To dive beneath the water

God put my cerebral palsy

On my surface

God put my

Crossed eyes

Hesitant smile 

Crooked legs

on my surface

But what a blessing it is

My reflection isn’t all of me

Through my reflection

I teach others to see

Not everything is as it seems

Not everything can easily be defined

Not everything can fit into a label

I am not made up of labels.

For those that choose to see

My inside

Hopefully you see

The happiness 

in my awkward smile

The emotions 

in my crossed eyes

The effort

 in my gait

And all that my reflection can’t

Show you,

Or tell you.

My reflection can’t tell you

How grateful I am for kindness

My reflection can't tell you

My passions

My goals

All I have gone through,

All I have done.

My reflection is limited,

Is so flawed

Not just because 

my legs are flawed

But because

The reflexion shows my physical struggles

Only

My outward appearance

Only

My reflection is accurate to those who see 

With their eyes,

Not with their heart.

Water goes with the flow

Is content with the way it is

Water offers so much to the world

Is seemingly simple,

But made up of so many complex

Parts, so many

Molecules.

As I step through the water,

The next challenge

In my life,

My left knee bent toward

My right leg,

My arms tight

Against my sides,

My eyes crossed, yet seeing so much;

My left foot, turned inward though it is;

Strikes the water

Shatters my reflection

And I smile

The watery reflection never represented me,

Truly,

anyway. 

I am like water.

Content with who

I am,

Made up of

So many things,

Seemingly simple,

I can offer so much 

To the world—

If only people see

Past my reflection.