An Open Mind Can Overcome Anything
By Gabrielle Shoemaker, Central Mountain High School, Clinton County
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"Gabrielle, you have a baby brother", my dad told me that early March morning. My three-year-old head spun with new ideas. Can I hold him? Where is he? What is his name? Do I have to share my toys? My questions were answered, but not in the way one would expect. My brother, Jacob, had been born three months premature. He weighed 3 lbs. and had many digestive, muscular, and respiratory problems. The doctors told my parents not to tell me about him, because he was not expected to make it more than a few hours. He proved them wrong. It was a shock to me, who wouldn't be allowed to see him for months; he was staying in the 'NicU', Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Children weren't allowed in there, especially hyper little blonde girls who could upset the delicate equipment or harm one of the fragile babies who were yanked from the womb before their time. Having a physically and mentally handicapped sibling has taught me many things about life, possibly the most important being how much diversity effects everyone in their day-to-day lives. It has also showed me how a little acceptance and open mindedness can overcome anything.

Some of my earliest memories are of a waiting room. Older relatives, mostly the teenagers, would come babysit and play with me while. My parents spent countless hours with my little brother. I'm not trying to say I was neglected, that is far from the truth. The hospital was 2 hours from my home, making it difficult to see Jake. On weekends, and some weeknights, we would all pack up and head for Geisinger. This lasted for two years. Every weekend, all day, was spent in the waiting room. After almost a year, they decided it would be all right for me to visit with my brother. I remember washing with special 'red' soap many times, and wearing a much too large robe and gloves. I wasn't allowed to touch anything, and I had to practically whisper even though the alarms to the machines sustaining these children's lives were very loud. I have often heard my mother describe this period of our lives as, "An emotional rollercoaster." Then I thought nothing of it, but now I can imagine how rough this must have been, not knowing if your child would live to see the next day, or the next minute. This experience brought all of us closer together. I believe that the person whom I love most in this world is my brother, I would do anything to protect him. As a child, I learned lessons about love, life, death, and sacrifice, things many people my age are still not informed about.

My first experience with diversity came when I entered pre-kindergarten. At Christmas time, Jake was allowed to come home and spend a day with the family to celebrate his first time out of the hospital. Doctors and nurses with us, we celebrated like a family for the first time. Some local news crews, eager for the cheery Christmas story, broadcasted interviews with our family. In class the next week I was bombarded with questions. Apparently some of the kids had seen me on the news and were intrigued. I answered most of the questions to the best of my knowledge, explaining why he couldn't be at home all the time and what I thought about it. I thought I could handle the kids curiosities until one comment threw me off guard, "My brother said your brother was a retard." What's that? I didn't know, so I asked my mother. She explained that it was a mean way to say that he wasn't as developed as most children his age. She also said that we should love him no matter what people say, because most people were ignorant and didn't understand that he was just different.

Eventually, he was allowed to come home on a full time basis. Nurses invaded my home at all hours of the day and night. Weird smells, strange bottles, and new machines attacked my senses. One of my favorite new activities was pushing Jake in his wheelchair when we went out of the house. I didn't anticipate that other people might not know and love him as I did. As I grew older, I began to notice the stares from other children, as well as adults who should fully know better. With a growing sense of independence, I took it upon myself to teach these people a lesson. With all of my nine-year-old confidence, I returned the stares to the ignorant onlookers. I know I was enraged. I can only imagine how my face had looked, trying my best to shock these people when they noticed where my glare was directed. I specifically remember the face of one middle-aged woman when she noticed the young girl standing behind the handicapped boy. Her eyes got big and she grabbed her chest as I protruded my pink tongue out of my mouth.

In elementary school, we had 'special education' children in our classes. They would spend the morning with us for our opening activities, attend gym, art, or music with us, and then return to the Life Skills classroom for the rest of the day. My sixth grade teacher decided to sit "our special boy" next to me since I "could relate with him." Her blindness was apparent to only me, though I didn't call her on it. Dusty, as he was called, was a very nice, sociable boy. A few years my senior, he had the mentality of a second grader. While everyone else in my class called him names and made fun of him, I secretly wished that my brother could be like him. Dusty could walk independently, write, he could even converse with me. The simple ability to express his feelings was a skill Jake was yet void of. In the mornings we sang the Star Spangled Banner and Dusty loved to sing. Everyone else was too cool for that. They were sixth graders. They didn't sing anymore. Every morning, without fail, Dusty and I would stand proudly and sing the song together. I wanted so badly to turn around and tell my classmates how wonderful Dusty was, how lucky they all were to be healthy, how ignorant they were all being. I couldn't alienate myself, having a sense of identity; being 'one of them' was too crucial to me. I wish I had been stronger.

Since these things have happened I have gained a better sense of who I am and who other people are. Some people care about others, like those I met while helping at summer school for the special needs children. Yet some would rather not know, keep themselves and their little bubble of existence happy, and without difference. Everyone is the same. We all think alike. Nothing is different. High school kids are especially guilty of this. In accepting everyone, one must accept these people as well, because they are someone. I love them including their narrow-mindedness. It isn't their own fault entirely, because without Jake I might be one of them, not looking down to smile at the person in the wheelchair, not helping the person lacking fine motor skills pick up their spilt pieces.

To overcome such ignorance, a person needs to have a situation in which they can relate to. I'm not encouraging everyone to go out and volunteer their time at a mentally challenged work center, or even devote much time to anything. All I would like is for people to spend a little time with someone not quite like themselves. Have a conversation, if they are able. The time doesn't even need to be spent with someone who is handicapped, just with someone who is different than a person would deem ‘normal’. My house has always been open for college students and others who are discussing physical or mental handicaps. After spending any amount of time in Jake's presence, they are overwhelmed with his love, by his smile. He radiates joy. What you put into something, you get in return, and I cannot find a better example of this than in my brother. I believe that with a little patience, love, and understanding, anyone, not just someone who is handicapped, will begin to show the same things back to you. This is where there is no diversity. Everyone is human. We all feel the same pain, emotionally and physically, want to be happy, and see the same sun rise everyday. No mental or physical differences can change this. Everyone is a someone, and no one wants to be treated differently because of the way others view them.