First Place Winning Essay (Collegiate Level) – 2008 Oakseed Ministries Essay Contest

“Compassion and the Child with Disability”

I wore a scratchy blue flower-printed dress to the terrace on the lake that day. It was boiling hot, and the synthetic fabric that irritated my skin became even worse in the sun.  Although the wind provided some relief, even the air seemed to burn up, the heavy humidity sinking into every pore of my body. Next to me, my dad sweated; so did my mom. “Mercury Bubbles,” also known as my friend, Hannah, however, happily ran around, not seeming to notice the overpowering temperature.

“Mercury Bubbles, come on over here!” the videographer called. “Mercury” didn’t respond except to give the fellow an evil smirk. Apparently, he had her name wrong.

“Hannah?” her mom rejoined. No, this wasn’t right, either, for her smirk became a frustrated grimace.
“I’m Tinkerbell!” she spat out at them.

Tinkerbell and I sat down together. Well, I suppose you could call it sitting; really, though, she sort of tackled me into a nearby bench, poking at me and paying no attention to the man in front of us. The videographer focused the camera and began to ask questions, and I answered as best I could as Tinkerbell squirmed.

“Is this your friend, Tinkerbell?” the videographer asked, turning his attention to her.

“She’s my best friend,” Tinkerbell informed him.

The next week, at church, Hannah sat next to me. She refused to stand until the end of the service, when we began to say The Lord’s Prayer. I assumed that she only enjoyed that part of the service because it was something she could follow. I was wrong. As usual, she had ulterior motives.

She pulled me close to her so that I could hear her mumbled rendition of the prayer, but I didn’t need to be close in order to hear one line. My entire family heard what she said.

“Deliver us from EVA!” she nearly shouted. Her mother closed her eyes in what I can only guess was a silent prayer within the one that she recited out loud. There, again, appeared Hannah’s trademark evil smirk—Hannah’s older sister’s name is Eva.

She must have caught a glimpse of my barely controlled smile, because she now makes a point of sitting next to me in church, saying the same line loud and clear week after week. If that fails to get a reaction (for I’ve improved my control since that first time), she finds another way to engage my attention.

Hannah is a singular creature, full of animation and heart. Her hugs have always had a strength that squeezes the air from my lungs; her real smiles—not the impetuous smirk she is so prone to—shock my soul into happiness, no matter my mood. What disheartens me, however, is the alienation she has experienced in the last few years. For a long time, I looked out for her, enjoying her company by and large. Occasionally, she would throw temper tantrums or refuse to leave my house, latching onto whatever she could and using her powerful arms to keep us from prying her out. High school changed the dynamic of our relationship, however, largely due to the changes Hannah underwent. Once she entered high school, she was never Mercury Bubbles or Tinkerbell again. Her teachers went to great pains in order to quash what they deemed obtrusive, irregular habits such as this. They didn’t seem to believe that she was fit to socialize with the rest of the students. Instead, she was relegated to a small room full of other disabled students as much lacking in social skills as she was.

I believe the attitudes she faced in high school created the worst possible situation for her; ironically, almost no one I know would have been irritated by her presence. Perhaps some would have treated her with cruelty; perhaps some would have spoken to her in the slow and loud voice of someone totally ignorant of the real problem; perhaps some would have pitied her.  Anything, though, would have been better than the utter isolation she faced, and the total want of compassion. Compassion and pity are two very different concepts: the American Heritage Dictionary defines pity as “sympathy and sorrow aroused by the misfortune or suffering of another” whereas compassion requires “deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.”

The crucial difference between these two definitions is the desire to end the suffering that compassion entails. Hannah doesn’t need more people to feel sorry for her; she needs people to love her enough to see her in a different light. She needs people to be so aware of her disadvantages that they would do anything to lessen them; therefore, they become one less burden to her, treating her as any other person. To understand this concept, one must use a bit of doublethink: I am so cognizant of Hannah’s disability that I ignore it in order to lessen its impact. Any true friend of a disabled child does the same thing.

The prevailing attitude at my school seems to be that Hannah hasn’t the capacity to make realistic decisions. While she may choose ridiculous names and write ridiculous prayers, she is fully capable of choosing her friends, choosing what she wants to eat for lunch, and where she will sit. Instead, she is hidden from the population of the school, fostering a misconception about her condition. No one else knows her. When I stop in the hall to give her a hug as I would any other close friend, the looks I receive are almost as degrading as those she receives wherever she goes. Maybe if they only knew her—if they only knew her heart, her alter egos, maybe then they would love her as well. Instead, she is isolated, and this breeds a fear in other students. People always fear what they do not understand or do not know; her isolation leads them to believe that she will in some way harm them. This is the greatest travesty of her schooling.

Hannah suffers her isolation well, but I see how hard it must be in her eyes. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and I see a soul so powerful, so enlightened within her that it hurts me to “no” how her disabilities have prevented her from realizing all the potential of her heart.  I recognize that she has potential, though, and so I do not pity or patronize her. I demand the same from her as I would any other friend—but unlike so many of my friends in the past, Hannah has never done anything to make me question the value of our friendship. She has never hurt me with a cutting remark, never failed to invite me to her parties, and never been less than ecstatic to spend time with me, and she has never told my secrets. Hannah is one of the truest friends I have.

Anyone with such a relationship knows its value, I am certain. When I was young, it was hard to understand Hannah’s quirks and eccentricities, but I never questioned her. Instead, I accepted her for whoever she claimed to be at a given moment, waging light-saber wars and watching The Little Mermaid at her whim. I stood up for her as I would for any other friend, and I tried not to encourage her less tasteful habits. I would like to think that I have not in any way failed her, that I have been as steady for her as she has been for me.

Hannah has taught me the value of a good soul and a good heart. I look closer at every person I meet, wondering if they, too, can match her goodness. She is a living example of a book that may be grossly misjudged by its cover . Understanding the truism of this cliché helps me lead a better life by opening my eyes to avenues I might have otherwise ignored. Hannah has widened my world by being exactly who she is. Although I would love to see her soul at its full worth, I also realize that even with her just as she is—and because of the way she is—I can grow and learn.

After a hot afternoon of filming, the videographer packed up his equipment. Later, I would see the entire video—a documentary about people with Down syndrome living full and happy lives. My family and I were featured in the section about Hannah, our friendship a model for how children with disabilities could form bonds just as significant as any other child’s. At the time, though, I didn’t care about the outcome of the film. Instead, I walked over to the lake with Hannah, and we sat and watched the sun reflect off the water, and she occasionally reached over to muss my hair like an overprotective mother. In that moment, I didn’t care about Hannah’s disabilities; I didn’t recognize them as making her different from me in any way. We were just another pair of friends enjoying the summer day.

—

All Rights Reserved – Oakseed Ministries International – Reprints/Republications of this winning essay require the express written permission from Oakseed Ministries International – For more information, please contact us at benjamin@oakseed.org