Congratulations, You've Won

I filled out a survey the other day, distributed by the government to determine the eligibility of special circumstance cases for social security assistance. It was colorful; each page showed groups of diverse youth mingling with the elderly, either figuring out their taxes or trying to get a game of ‘buddy tag’ going. I’m still unsure. At the end of the survey, I clicked ‘submit’ and received the following message: “Congratulations. You have a disability. You are officially eligible for financial assistance.” “Wait, silly machine. You tell me wrong. I have no disability.” I quickly reviewed the facts. I live with permanent caretakers. I have most of my meals prepared for me because I can’t lift my arms too much. I have a difficult time opening childproof lids most of the time. Apparently this qualifies me as disabled. We don’t live in a country where a disability is a hot item to pick up, like a mullet or a chocolate phone. Disabled, regardless of how P.C. we try to be about it, is not an enviable state. I envisioned myself running a marathon through Central Park. As each person would pass by me, they would shoot me an overly-dramatic look of mock sympathy and sheer pleasure at passing me and leaving me in the dust. Race. When did it become a race? Perhaps it became that way growing up where high school had to follow junior high. And college had to follow high school. And successful, high-paying job that actually does something relevant for the world and falls within the parameters of something you love doing has to follow college. Well, either that or kids, depending on a small discrepancy in your upbringing.

I had the privilege to travel around South Africa 7 months ago with a beautiful, brilliant teacher and activist, Sandi Burnett. Sandi teaches at Santa Monica Community College, and has long been an activist for those with disabilities. She has a slower pace herself than most, and faced the challenges this posed with determination, a smile, and a wave of her hand. All while in Africa! Annika, her daughter, and I were both slightly apprehensive about how it would work. For me, there were small dilemmas: Do I help her up onto this giraffe or let her do it herself? Do I bring her her skewered goat or is it not really a problem for her to get things from the kitchen? What surprised me most, as we toured the beautiful country, was that I had imagined she would insist with the now characteristic wave of her hand that Annika and I maintain our normal pace, not the deliberately slower one we had adopted. Instead, she welcomed it and we all stayed slower, deliberately. And I saw all of South Africa at this slightly slower pace. It was awesome, like being on psychedelics, but not.

I don’t intend to compare disabilities. It’s like trying to figure out which Hardy boy you like best. All different. Yet all beautiful. I did notice though, while I was staying in the hospital this last month, that I developed my own walk: slow, half-zombie, half small struggling child. I was amazed at how conversations changed because of my slower pace, both in walking and talking. It was beautiful. I saw each person so differently. I listened more. And sometimes (my favorite) we wouldn’t say anything at all to each other. We’d just sit there and kind of ‘be’ with each other. And the race (remember the race?) kind of dropped away. A year of slowness. That was the message. Congratulations, you’ve just won a year-long trip to the land of slow poke. But I remember how much fun South Africa was at that slightly slower pace and how much more I saw of it because Sandi was my guide. I think slowing down might not necessarily be such a bad idea.