Impairment

There once was a child, who like all children, wanted to have friends and to play games. However, this child suffered from what some called a disability.

”Hey, can I play?” The child would ask.

“Ew no. We don’t want Elmer Fudd playing with us,” They would tease.

”C’mon, I weally want to play.”

The children would joke and laugh, sayings things like, “You should ‘weally’ go hunt some ‘wabbits’,” and “We don’t want a freak playing with us!” They would tease and mock them and if they didn’t want to play along with these spiteful games, the children would punch and hit the child.

So the child learned to play alone. The child wasn’t a freak. If you saw this child walking down the street, why, you would see only a perfectly normal child. You would never know that the skin under their tongue was 1/16th too large, creating the unique voice.

“Children are just mean,” The adults would say. “Ignore them. As you get older, it will get better. Adults don’t care about those things.” The adults would say outloud but in the shadows they would whisper, “Maybe the child is brain damaged. Maybe they need a special school.“

It wasn’t all bad for the child. Their school offered a speech class and for a time it was good. They would learn how to pronounce words, how to talk to others and most importantly, they got to play with play-doh. This was good, for awhile. One day, their parent decided to withdraw the child from speech class. “I’m done paying for that garbage. You don’t need it,” They would say. The child disagreed.

Time passed and the child grew into a teenager. Their speech impairment did not improve and neither did the bullying. “I’m sorry you have to go through this,” and “It will get better,” was said to them almost as often as the name calling. This teenage would lie awake and wonder, “Why did this happen to me? Was this a curse from God? From Satan? I would do anything for a normal voice.”

The teenager slipped deeper and deeper down this dark ocean, the relentless pressure crushing them until they decided to make the final decision. The final escape. The blade, a regular, sharp kitchen knife, quickly and smoothly cut across the flesh. The teenager watched as the crimson life flowed out from his body. They stumbled back, their shirt stained from the blood. They stared at their reflection and could only think of one thing. “I don’t want to die.”

This decision served not as an end but as a beginning. The teenager survived, picked themselves up and declared they would no longer be defined by this impairment. That no one shall use it against them any more!