Still Learning
by Sally Franklin Christie • Bozeman, MT

"Take her home," the doctor advised my mother, "but try not to become too attached." It would be easier for my parents to let me go if they did not place a high value on my life. According to the texts, this maiden was going to die.

Years later, when I had failed to fulfill the expectations of the medical community, my mother fought to enroll me in public school. It was the early 1960’s, and the school system reluctantly allowed my wheelchair in the classroom.

I practiced walking at home for months before I felt ready to try it at school. On the first day of the eighth grade, I walked backwards slowly, up one step at a time. I was relieved when I made it to the top and turned around without being bumped by anyone. I walked across the tiled floor, through the doorway and stood below a huge wooden counter. A group of students were gathered to my right. One turned my way and exclaimed loudly, "Look how short she is!" I looked around trying to discover who he had been shouting about. I couldn't pick out any students who seemed short– they were the same height as they had been last year when I used a wheelchair. Suddenly, I realized they were talking about me.

Until now, my disability had been defined by my wheelchair and casts. The idea of being short had never occurred to me. Suddenly I became my disability. I could not escape it by walking. No matter what equipment I used or changed I would still be different– set apart. My disability was me.
"I'm sorry, but you have to stay in your wheelchair. The school cannot be responsible for your safety," the principal explained from behind the tall counter. My difference was solidified. I was different and because of this I needed to ask permission to do things that seemed natural for others.

In high school I had a boyfriend and I wore his class ring until his parents found us out. I stood on the sidewalk in front of my house in the hot sun while he explained the choice between me and his car. His parents did not want defective grandchildren. I returned his ring. I leaned on one crutch and pushed the hair from my face as he drove away. In an instant, I had changed from a person who was her disability to a person who was defective to the very core. My difference went beyond the surface. I was contaminated– the gene pool wasn't safe.

I got a college education through the efforts of a vocational rehabilitation counselor who told me that according to a racial perspective I was one rung above a disabled black woman on the ladder. I was both comforted and repulsed by the realization that something as superficial as skin color could set people apart. Comforted, to learn I was not the only object of oppression, and not entirely defective– because my skin was white. The idea that the world discriminated against whole groups of people according to skin color expanded my feelings, which slowly turned from numb to angry. Maybe it wasn't me that was defective; maybe it was the world that was just plain wrong.

Five years after college, I stood on the cusp of motherhood. Giving life to my daughter was a turning point. I became more than myself– I was someone's mother. I had a family. I was at last on a path shared by many others of all colors and shapes.

In 1989 I was elected to the board of the Montana Independent Living Center. I wanted to become a part of something that might change the perspective of society. I learned about the Americans With Disabilities Act, (ADA.) I knew all about discrimination, ignorant people, rude children and physical barriers, but it had not occurred to me that employment, education, housing and access were not mine to take or demand. I thought that legislation of inclusion was unnecessary. I was certain that once educated about the issues and barriers, people, out of the goodness of their hearts and moral obligations, would simply stop discriminating and open the doors. When I realized the ADA was a civil rights act I lost an innocence I didn't know I had. I felt excluded and different all over again. I had to accept that people did not feel morally obligated to include me, but at last there seemed to be something I could do about my lot in life. This was liberating for me.

I became involved in a group who taught me how to organize for social change. I learned how to systematically find the issue, the problem and who was responsible. I could help make changes for a whole group of people, the kinds of changes that would stay in place for whoever came after us. It was an empowering experience to learn how to get things the disability community needed. I could control my life, I could demand things and feel entitled to them. The little girl in the principal's office was going to walk and she wasn't going to ask permission.

However, I felt constantly at war. I had taken on the role of victim in order to organize for social change. I took a cue from The Leadership Secrets of Attilla the Hun by Wes Roberts: Retreat is noble when continuing with the battle or situation at hand would result in further losses or total annihilation of your resources. In order to return on another day you must salvage all the warriors and materials possible. This summed up the situation between me and the world. As I no longer felt as empowered as I had at the beginning of the path, I would retreat and wait. I needed to figure out a way to enter the arena of social change without becoming a victim of social ignorance.
I realized that the biggest change I could make in the world, the only way to overcome oppression and segregation, was through my own actions and my own perspective of the world. The only attitude I could truly control or change was my own. I had to overcome myself.

Now I stand on the cusp of the crone, mature, feminine wisdom. With many paths and trails before me, I don't know which I will take. But, as a crone, I plan to travel light, taking the best of the lessons I've learned and the things I will need to stay happy and healthy and in control of my own place on earth. If I see a barrier, I will either overcome it or turn back to take another path. This time offers new lessons on aging with grace and coping with common disabilities shared by everyone as they grow older.

Sally Franklin Christie teaches Tarot and Pendulum Dowsing and performs marriages and rites of passage. You can reach her at tarotreadings.net, customclergy.com, or silverdarksky@aol.com