Truth

Lillee asked me a question the other day that I have the most difficulty in answering. It is not her question that shies me away from the truth and its not that I am afraid of answering. To answer her question will undo one of the first tenants I set for myself when I began this adventure into the blog world. I began this blogging endeavor for several reasons I wanted a creative outlet, I wanted to experience something new, I wanted to meet others with similar and dissimilar likes and I wanted to inspire as I was being inspired. The last thing I wanted to do was open myself up to anyone or expose myself to God only knows what. I promised myself that I was going to remain truthful but I was not going to write non-fiction unless of course I thought the Reverend Doctor A needed a kick in the pants or there was a pressing issue in the news that needed discussed. I changed the names and mixed 70% non-fiction with the very important 30% fiction. This allowed me to avoid upsetting anyone or putting me in a compromising position. Unfortunately I mentioned something awhile back in a post that Lillee was keen enough to pick up on.

“Why were you in the Shriner’s Hospital?” was her question.

Man it hit me like a ton of bricks. I went back and read the post she was referring to and sure enough I did mention it. Ever so slight I left an open crease into my life. I pondered for the last few days on how to address the question. Do I ignore it? Do I make up a story? How do I remain honest without addressing it?

Let’s just say I was born with a disability that is noticeable. A disability that is too difficult to describe. It’s not debilitating and has never prevented me from accomplishing anything I have ever wanted to do. It has garnered stares and doubts from others but it has not made me any less of a person than anyone else. I must admit though, up until about ten years ago the situation made me foster anger. I had anger towards those that doubted me; I had anger towards my parents for having me, like that made any difference. I had anger towards people that presented their impression of me with a patronizing façade. I hated to be stared at. I hated to be asked by some unmannered child; ”What happened to your arm Mister?” My kids would then inadvertently become a shield for me. They would try their best to protect me without even knowing it themselves.

I had anger towards God. I use to cuss him every day because of the burden I believed he bestowed on me for no good reason. But I always hid behind humor, pleasantness, friendliness, intelligence and what ever else I could make others see before they saw me.

My anger toward God was escorted by many doubts about his existence and it made me accuse him of being unfair. I also hid behind the word, “WHY”. Why this or why that; why in the hell did you make me, why me of all people do I have to deal with this?

Then one day I was standing in a convenience store buying smokes and beer and a man came up to me and asked if I had went to school in Pirateville? I eyed the man really hard and couldn’t come up with a memory of him but I did say,” Yes, I did grow up there, why?”

The man’s eyes filled with tears and he asked if I had a minute to spare. I finished purchasing my vices and met him outside near my car. The man began by telling me that I shouldn’t know him but he knew me. He said that almost twenty years ago he and his wife and their young son, who had a debilitating disease and was wheelchair bound had saw me play basketball at a Christmas Tournament in Detroit. He went on to tell me that that night I became his son’s hero. The man told me that for the next three years wherever our high school played football or basketball they would drive there and watch. Their son kept them informed of my point totals and how many tackles I had a game. He knew my stats, which I had never paid any attention to. They knew no one from my town nor did they know anyone in any of the towns I played in. They never approached me and only asked a few people about me. The man told me that his son had died in 1979 from his disease, which is a year after I graduated. He went on to tell me how my participating at the level that I did was an inspiration for his son and how his son dealt with the disability he was stricken with.

I had never seen myself as anything special but rather deprived. I never saw how my infliction could be a benefit. I knew I participated in sports to do nothing but prove myself. I had figured that beating everyone and being one of the best gave me one more thing to hide behind.

The man then left, I didn’t get his name and I have no idea where to even look for him. From that moment on I realized how important we all are to each other. How we may be someone else’s inspiration without knowing it. That the world doesn’t evolve around our internal concerns. We are all interlocked and providing support to each other even if ourselves can’t quantify the support. What we perceive as our own cross to bare may be quite small to someone else. No more asking me about myself damn it.