by Jerry McGill
A person without a disability would have had a hard time carrying out that project with the same effectiveness with which I did it. The whole reason why the students felt comfortable opening up to me was that they looked at me and saw me as one of them; someone they could honestly confide in because they could easily assume I had been down their same road. I was honored that they entrusted me with such a responsibility.
This type of role—that of a mentor for persons with disabilities—is one I have played often and I savor it. I honestly feel that it is one of the reasons why being in a wheelchair seems appropriate for me, as strange as that may sound.
Once I left New York I got another temporary job working for a company dedicated to taking young people with disabilities on international exchanges. It was a mission that was dear to my heart because I’d always been enamored with traveling abroad. Sadly, I’d been dissuaded from doing so while in college because the study abroad advocate at my school didn’t think it was a good idea for a guy in a wheelchair to be anywhere near Europe. This form of ignorance and discrimination would not be tolerated today, but back then, unfortunately, it was par for the course.
However, this company I worked for—founded by a woman with polio—jumped at the chance to give people with disabilities the experience of travel and it was an honor to be a part of numerous trips. I was a group leader and I would visit the host country before we went. My job was mainly to pick out accessible sites and meet with the people we would live with while there. I did my best to ensure that my participants—a group with varying degrees of disabilities—would have their individual needs addressed during our time in that country. Once again I found myself in the wonderful role of mentor to young disabled people.
Have you ever had the opportunity to travel outside the country, Marcus? I hope for your sake you have. You can learn so much and grow so much as a person from seeing how another culture lives their lives. Here is just a small sample of the marvelous globe-trotting pleasures I have had:
• Sipped rich coffee in a Costa Rican rain forest.
• Cruised along the Champs Elysées after stopping at the Louvre and viewing the Mona Lisa.
• Sang a duet at a karaoke bar in downtown Tokyo with my lovely host mother, who had an affinity for Disney songs.
• Performed at a vintage theater in England with a wonderful acting troupe of disabled performers.
• Driven about one hundred miles an hour on the exciting, yet scary, autobahn in Germany.
Me and a group of my students in San Jose, Costa Rica. It is my belief that I was always meant to work with young people.
• Marched in a disability rights protest on the streets of Mexico.
• Played chess with a blind Russian man on the banks of Lake Baikal.
• Represented the United States in a table tennis tournament at a beach resort in Siberia.
• Visited the childhood home of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in Salzburg, Austria.
• Drank fine red wine while viewing the bold architecture of Antoni Gaudi in Barcelona.
• Taught English language lessons to elementary school kids in San Jose, Costa Rica.
• Made out with a paramour under the clouds in London’s Hyde Park.
This is just a small taste, Marcus. There is so much more I still have to add to my itinerary. I have never been to Africa or Australia, Italy or Iceland, Greece or Guam, but I plan to. I promise you, I will never allow this wheelchair to be an impediment to achieving my goals. I would be shaming the both of us if I did.
I have to say that being in this “situation” has given me some amusing interactions with the public. I have been fortunate to know a great many people with disabilities—having belonged to numerous organizations in my day—and so many of our stories are similar. Some eerily identical. When you have an obvious physical impairment, for some strange reason people think they can just approach you about anything. Like on a public city bus someone will just ask you at the top of their voice, “What happened to put you in that chair?” or “Why don’t you just get up and walk?” At times it is humorous, at times upsetting.
Once, in Manhattan, I got into a cab to go to an appointment. The cabdriver was obviously of Middle Eastern descent and after I got settled in beside him in the front seat (it’s easier to get into the front seat than the back) he turned to me and said in his heavy accent: “So, let me ahsk you sumding. You cannot be widd woomahn, right?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, slightly incredulous.
“You—you cannot be widd woomahn dis way, right?”
I was actually amused. These kinds of things always amused me.
“Yeah, I can be with women. Of course!”
“Your payniss, id can ged steef den, yes?”
“Yes, my penis can get stiff. Why would you think it couldn’t?”
“I dohn know. I am juss ahskink, mon.” There was a brief pause as he mulled it over in his brain. Clearly I’d thrown him a curveball. A cripple who could get it up! Unfathomable! “Steel, id eez a pity, really.”
“What’s that?” I asked, just baiting trouble.
“Well, clearly you cannot do eet doggie style.”
What do you make of that, Marcus? And he was sincere in his sorrow for me, so pathetic was I because I could not do it “doggie style.” At the end of the ride he patted my shoulder condescendingly and refused to take my money. I suppose he imagined I would need it for hookers.
Which leads to another thing—money. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been offered it by strangers. I’ll be hanging out on the street waiting for a bus and someone will walk by and just hand me a bill. I’ll be eating a hot dog in the park and someone will just hand me a bill. Whether or not I take the money depends on what mood I’m in. I can recall two separate occasions where I have been outside enjoying a cup of coffee in the sun and someone has walked by and dropped coins in my cup.
Possibly the best story involves my brief encounter with a gentleman on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. While waiting at a red light to cross the busy intersection at the height of rush hour on a glorious spring day, I was approached by a very distinguished-looking white male. He was wearing a noticeably expensive suit and carrying a fancy leather briefcase.
“Good afternoon, young man,” he said, extending his hand.
“Good afternoon,” I said, shaking his hand.
“You look like you could use a new wheelchair.”
“Oh, this one is just fine.”
“No really, how much do they cost?”
“They’re pretty pricey.”
“How much?” he continued, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a checkbook and a pen.
“Ummm, really, I’m comfortable with this one.”
He clicked his pen with authority. “I’m offering to buy you a new wheelchair, young man. Do you want it or not?”
“Really, I’m okay, sir. Thank you, though.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, putting his checkbook and pen back in his pocket and moving along with the changing of the light.
You can’t make this stuff up. People think they can just invade your space and deny you your privacy, and in addition they feel that you should be grateful to them for doing so. I have a theory on this: Most people—and I blame the media for this—look at people with disabilities as not wholly human. On some level they view them as objects to be pitied. These people who offer me money, new wheelchairs, or ask me probing questions about my personal life in taxicabs and buses, they think I should feel fortunate and blessed that anyone even wants to converse with me.
Here in America we actually have it easy. I have been to countries where people with disabilities have told me that they are so looked down upon by society that it is incredibly oppressive. The unemployment rates for them are staggeringly high. In many countries in Latin America, Asia, Africa, and Europe, people with disabilities are not expected to be active, contributing members of society. They are expected to stay at hom
e and either receive government assistance or beg in the streets. It’s that simple. Here in America we at least have the Americans with Disabilities Act, which is intended to stop this type of discrimination at all levels. But of course it has its imperfections. Changing people’s attitudes and perceptions is seriously challenging work.
Personally, I feel like I am up for this challenge of being a person with a disability and I have had many a wonderful experience in this role, but it is hard, damned hard, Marcus. And I will be the first to tell you, it is not for everyone. I have had tons of disabled friends over the years and the misconception that we are all strong, inspirational beacons of hope is an immense fallacy perpetrated by and subsisting on images in the media; Jerry Lewis telethons and Easter Seals poster children are probably the greatest offenders.
Trust me, I know a lot of bitter, angry, depressed, and self-destructive people with disabilities. People who suffer greatly from self-esteem issues. People who see life as somehow having robbed them of something they were never fully able to enjoy. These people wallow in their self-pity, attempting to heal their pain with addictive behavior. And I’m not judging or condemning them—like I said, this life is not easy. Let me quickly run down just a few of the hardships:
• Bathrooms. Do you have any idea what a drag it is to need to use the restroom and not have one that can accommodate a wheelchair in the vicinity? My goodness! This might be the thing most taken for granted by the able-bodied community. I had a job once in Manhattan where there wasn’t an accessible bathroom in the entire skyscraper. Whenever I had to use the bathroom I had to go to a building across the street. Aside from the time-consuming aspect of it, you can imagine what a pain this was in the winter months and during inclement weather. Another quick story on this theme: Once I was on a date with a beautiful woman I had just met at a conference. We went to a lovely restaurant where the romance was high and our attraction grew more intense by the minute. But after a few glasses of merlot I was seized by the urge to use the bathroom and this restaurant was unequipped to handle me. I spent the rest of the night greatly distracted by my bladder and eventually lost out on a fantastic opportunity for a one-night stand (and maybe more?) with an utterly sumptuous woman. And don’t get me started on the impossibility of airplane bathrooms.
• Housing. I have found myself looking for apartments on numerous occasions in numerous states and once even in Europe. It is always a bit of a challenge, as there are certain nonnegotiable features in a domicile that I require. Wide bathroom door, room to move around in once inside that bathroom, no stairs to enter the building, low countertops, a kitchen I can navigate, an elevator I can fit in. Finding all these things in a place can be terribly frustrating. In times of desperation I have had to make do with what I had, especially when living abroad, but the difficulties in achieving satisfaction in this area should never be underestimated.
• Employment. Quite possibly the most frustrating of all the challenges. I don’t want to sound pretentious or smug, but I went to a revered Jesuit university and got a bachelor’s degree in English literature. I went on to get a master’s degree in education. I wear a suit well and can be articulate and engaging. I should be an appealing candidate to prospective employers. But to this day I still have to deal with discrimination in the job field. Not too long ago I would have faced prejudice because of my skin color, but nowadays it’s that “other” attribute that can hold me back. I cannot tell you how many interviews I have gone on where I knew from the look on that interviewer’s face the minute I wheeled into their office that I was not going to get that job. Many people still feel uncomfortable and awkward around people with disabilities and they prejudge and size them up in an instant. I have been rejected for jobs that I could do in my sleep. It doesn’t matter that I dress up nice, speak well, and present myself impeccably. A large part of the population refuses to see a person with a disability as a whole person. This has to change. The injustice of it all is shameful. I plan to work my ass off to be an integral part of that transformation.
I have achieved so much, Marcus. So much. And though I am ending this book now, I still believe in my heart of hearts that I have two or three more books left in me. There is so much more work I need to do. My story is not half over. But this part of it is—this need to reach out to you, to touch you. I have satisfied that part of me. Writing to you has been like reaching deep into my soul and unlocking a door, and once walking through that door, opening a window and letting sunlight and warm air into a cold room.
For years I lived with fear, wondering if I could ever truly love myself. Would the world be able to love someone like me—someone so different yet so the same? To my great relief the answer was a resounding “Yes!” I am thankful.
For years if I heard a loud pop I would begin to shiver, an immediate reaction I never could rationalize. It went away with time. To this day I still periodically have troubling dreams. In them I am chased through the streets by a gunman who in the end shoots me in the back. At first they were disturbing and when I awoke I struggled to go back to sleep for several hours. Nowadays I am wholly unaffected by them. I just assume my subconscious is working this shit out on its own. For years I fantasized about finding you, meeting you, torturing you, forcing you to address me and apologize to me for what you did to me—what you turned me into.
But all that darkness is gone now. The day I knew my life was going to be just fine was the day I realized that I didn’t need to hate you. You know why? Because it’s easy to hate someone, and I don’t want to take the easy way out. Anger is the default emotion for so many of us, and I don’t want to give anger that kind of power. No, the way you win this battle is to stand your ground and pronounce to that black abyss:
Yeah, you tried to take me out. Tried to beat me down, turn me into a statistic. But you know what? I’M NOT GOING OUT LIKE THAT! Is that your best shot? ’Cause I’ve taken it. Literally. And I’m still here. And I’m going to continue to prosper and thrive. What do you think of them apples?
I need to embrace you just as I need to embrace the person I became. You and I, Marcus, we were following the script of our lives. I may have been a bit player in yours, but you were a major player in mine. And I respect that. All the same, I want to make one thing perfectly clear in this whole scenario. With all this gratitude and appreciation for who I am and the person I became, it doesn’t change one integral, salient fact in this matter and that is simply this: What you did was wrong. Inarguably, unequivocally improper.
You just don’t have the right, regardless of what you’ve been through, to walk into someone else’s life and inflict unimaginable pain and hardship on them and the people they love. That is a right that you do not have. What you did to me, Marcus, was selfish and cruel. It was an ugly act of cowardice that is beneath all of us as human beings. And remember, what you did didn’t just affect me. No, it affected hundreds of people, both close to me and maybe less intimately related but who nevertheless felt the ripples of that bullet piercing my spine. In the end, what you did surely enriched the lives of some, but it inevitably diminished the lives of others.
Two instances jump out at me as I tell you this. One involves Erica, my pretty blond childhood friend who lived on the Upper East Side. Erica and I met at that summer camp in Connecticut. Roughly ten years old, we became tight friends, calling each other daily on the phone while our parents were at work, spending summer days after camp was over just hanging out at the park in her neighborhood or going to the local swimming pool together. She dropped off the face of the earth after I went to the hospital.
About ten years later, while rolling past Lincoln Center, I passed by an attractive blond woman sipping a soda in front of the fountain. We both stopped in our tracks at the sight of each other as a memory stirred. It was Erica, all grown up and lovely. We embraced and she started to cry. We spent about an hour catching up. I was shocked to learn from Erica that my accident had had a profound effect on her childhood. For several year
s after my shooting, she would see a child therapist because she was so hurt and confused by what happened to me. She had even come to see me once in the hospital, but she had a panic attack when she got to my room and saw me hooked up to all those machines. She could never bring herself to come back.
And then there was Dalton, my childhood friend, and one of the few white kids on the Lower East Side. Dalton and I often took the bus to school together. I spent many a weekend hanging out with Dalton and his younger sister, playing games and being kids together. After my shooting, Dalton’s parents were so upset that they promptly moved out of that neighborhood and never looked back. Decades later Dalton would write a book about his experience growing up there and I would be featured prominently in it.
But these are just two stories. There are countless others that I will never know. I truly hope, Marcus, that in your quietest moments you have thought about this. I hope you have meditated on it, agonized over it, and ultimately come to terms with it. I hope that you have felt guilt and shame, but I also hope that you have learned how to let go of it all and forgive yourself. I honestly believe that I have.
Someday I would be honored to meet you; to look you in the eyes and shake your hand. My instinct tells me that will most likely never happen. And I’m okay with that, too. It isn’t absolutely necessary, because here is the thing, Marcus: At some point in life all of us will be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At some moment we will all be “assaulted” in one way or another. For a select few, it will come early in their development; for others it will come later in life. But rest assured—it will come. No one escapes the night.
