A Finger Pointing at You

They say our fate is decided up in heaven, far from the earth. I want to believe it, as the judgment used up there is not based on our appearances or any other physical conditions. Different measurements are in play there.

I was born on July 16th, 1971. My mother was happy, “It’s so nice to have a baby-girl. When she grows up I’ll be taking her to skating lessons. It was always my dream - a girl on skates.” Mom was dreaming but…

At the age of eighteen months I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy. It was the start of never- ending and tiring medical procedures. I hated the whole process - it was taking away precious minutes from me playing with my friends and dolls. But then there were times when the hope and desire to get better was so strong that I was constantly checking the clock to make sure I took my medication strictly as directed. “Grandma, large hand is on 6!” - I would give a shout to my grandma and immediately she would emerge from the busy kitchen with medication in her hand. Now I realize this would always happen right after playing outside and noticing thousands of fingers pointing at me. Remember a voice of a child innocently talking to his mom - “ Look, mommy, how is she walking” and the mother looking at me with pity in her eyes. I would rather her shout at me for the whole street to hear than listen to those words of sympathy expressed to my parents.

My mom knew how I felt and she always tried to protect me from all that. As for herself, she often pretended to be too occupied with me to answer awkward questions asked by some very curious ladies. And it wasn’t quite as easy as it looked.

That’s what was happening out of the comfort of my house. At home everything felt normal - love, harmony, but no privileges. I would get punished for the bad behavior and would get awarded for the good one, just like any other kid. Peacefulness of my home was often “broken” by giggles of my friends who would come over to play with me over weekends or evenings, since that was the only time they had free from kindergarten. No one else was staying home playing with toys and picture books besides me.

I remember my mom trying to sign me up for kindergarten just to get a refusal. “And why would they reject me?” - I was curious and mad at the same time - “Don’t they know I want to come in with my friends?! And that doll at the table in the classroom, she definitely was staring at me the whole time!” I was quietly plotting a “revenge” - “They’ll see, I’ll turn six soon and go straight to school!”

At our neighborhood school my mom was politely asked to consider homeschooling because of my condition. That night, my parents were secretly consulting with each other. They thought I was asleep. But I was up anticipating conversations with my new friends and I heard everything. “What do you mean I can’t go to school?! So, why did you buy me that backpack with mushrooms on it?” - now I was sobbing out loud to protest.

Next day mom made another visit to the principle and I was all set for school. August 31 was a sleepless night because of both, joy and subconscious fear. On September 1st, I was proudly standing at the ceremony to mark the start of the school year leaning on my mom’s hand and surrounded by my new friends. All through the first year my mom would hang out in the

hallways to help me during breaks - with my visits to the bathroom or cafeteria. In second grade these responsibilities were assumed by my classmates. One dark-haired boy was especially helpful. It turned out that he had a disabled brother, so he was better equipped for the task.

 

 

One couldn’t mind receiving help from my little assistants either. Some would be helping with getting water, others would serve me a tasty cooky. I could only pay them back with love.

 

 

One day, the physical education teacher brought somebody to the classroom. The guest announced that they were selecting the kids for a basketball team. “Who wants to be on a team?”- asked the teacher. “Me” - I shouted out first. The whole class went silent. Both the teacher and guest were bewildered. “Sign her up” - was the final order.

I couldn't wait to tell my mom: “I signed up for the basketball team!” “What?’” “ Can you please buy me the outfit tomorrow? - I didn't even notice the shock in her voice. There was nothing in the world that would convince me that I couldn’t play basketball. I don't remember how this encounter unfolded but I know for sure that my feelings weren't hurt.

Because of this very example, I’d like to assert that physical impairment doesn't assume

impairment of your dreams, and this fact has to be taken into consideration by society.

 

 

At the beginning of the school year there was a new student transferred to our class. He noticed I was different and started to mock me. I tried to pretend it did’t bother me and I didn't mention anything to anybody. But then he attempted to persuade others to behave the same way and the class “exploded”. Poor guy, I had to defend him. I was with my classmates in every trip, signed up for all the events with them.

 

 

Starting with eighth grade, I moved to a special school where in addition to a standard education, I received necessary medical treatment. It was in a remote area. I would come home only on holidays. Being away from my family taught me independence and responsibility for my own actions. I made friends with new class-mates pretty quickly. Together we were learning, going on trips and sometimes getting in trouble for skipping a class or two. We all had different disabilities, but despite this fact, we tried not to see a tragedy in it. Besides, who had time for that? We were eager to learn, talk and play. In other words, we were living a full life. But…

 

 

After graduation, to my surprise, I noticed that it was hard to get back to a healthy rest of the world. I was avoiding my old friends, refusing to do anything that would require me to get out of the house. And when I tried to figure out why was this happening to me, I realized that it was all coming from being isolated in a special school for two years. It took me a lot of effort to overcome my feelings of disconnect. Because of my own experience, I think it’s

important to find the right direction for the educational institutions in order to save another generation of disabled kids from isolation.

 

 

I decided to pursue a degree in philology, but as it turned out, it wasn’t only my will and determination that mattered. The University needed permission from the Ministry of Education. The faculty was surprised: “You want to study at the University? But you're unable to write… We need permission from Moscow.” (This was all happening during Soviet times).

Waiting period to get a response from Moscow turned out to be most difficult, as my future life depended on it. Finally, after two months, we received permission from Moscow. I was overjoyed! “I’m gonna be a student!” - that's what I was telling everybody with such confidence as if I was already holding a student ID card.

 

 

The joy of my first bright days as a student was overshadowed by emphasis on my disability. “You won’t be able to use your knowledge anyway. Why would you want to study? ” - asked the dean in the hallway. I went straight to the auditorium without uttering a word. “ Because I do, I do, I do” - I was asserting it to myself. With a big pain came a big joy of learning, meeting interesting people and making new friends.

 

 

Things got better with time. Computers gave me ability to write and share my story with people, who are in search of an independent life. And looking through the days filled with a usual mixture of pain and pleasure, one thing is clear - life is much more precious and powerful than a finger pointing at you!