A while back, I was driving through the side streets in a shifty part of town. It was pitch black in those alleys, and when I looked out into the night, I saw a lone, dark shape smack in the center of the road. I squinted, hit my brakes, and looked closer. The shape was distorted, as if there were too many arms. I looked closer. Crutches.
Then I saw that she wasn’t an adult woman at all. She was a girl around thirteen years old, and she only had one leg. The right one. There she was, wandering around in the dark, hobbling on her crutches, and from the hip down, on the left side, there was nothing but air. Alone, she slowly made her way down that dark street. For a moment, she stopped, looked through my windshield, and stared at me. Hard. Strong. Not a twitch, a flinch, or a break in her look. And then she turned, making her way forward into the shadows.
As I drove on, I thought about the tough look on her face, and I wondered what had happened to her -- how and when she lost that leg. Then I thought about what it might be like to be her -- a young teen making her way through the world with a disability that was so fiercely apparent. Of course, I could never really know what it would be like to be her. I could never truly understand the exact challenges she would face in the neighborhood, at school, and in her entire world, inside and out.
And then I thought about her strong countenance, her steel-sharp look, and the way that she moved forward in spite of her disability, trooping through the dark streets despite the danger all about her. No, I could never fully understand the way that she would feel, but I felt a raging connection to her. I couldn’t shake the vision of her. It touched me. It stuck with me.
Today, thinking of her, I'm reminded to pick and choose my battles.
Over the years, at times, when I saw injustice directed toward those with disabilities, I stood up, spoke out, spoke up, or wrote about it, although it took a great deal of strength, and it was often draining and incredibly difficult; sometimes it affected me for years after. Indeed, right here, right now, as I write to you, I'm remembering the aftermath of some of the comments -- the stress, stigma, panic, judgment, and the like. And then I remember the other comments -- the letters, emails, thank yous, the ones that made it all worth it.
Other times, I let go, or "let things slide," as I like to say, and I trudge forward in spite of the darkness that may be around me, like her. I can share my story and help when it feels heart-right, but at other times, I can hold it close. Indeed, it is hard to find that balance, but through experience, I have certainly gathered a lot of knowledge over the years. Lately, I've been focusing on my own journey; I've decided that the best way to fight is to live my life to the fullest, to be an example of truth and strength, in the best way that I know how. Flawed at times, sure, but I'm giving it my best shot.
So let me be strong in the darkest of alleys and speak up when it’s right and true, when the moment calls for it, but also, let me be aware of the times when I need to allow myself to settle into peace, and let me embrace the wisdom to know the difference. That little girl reminded me that whether I'm fighting strong or listening and meditating, I can choose to be true to myself, and I can choose peace.
C.A. MacConnell
