A Cold Water Wake Up

Never Doubt How Much You Matter

I lay on the floor, kicking and screaming. At least that’s what my mom told me. At age three, apparently, I was a bit of a hellion. I came by my entitled spoiled-brattiness honestly—since the age of eight months, I’d been a polio survivor in one of the last epidemics before the Salk vaccine.

Only one arm was permanently paralyzed, but I was used to being doted upon, getting my way most of the time. My grandmother pitied me endlessly and I used that pity like a weapon. But the day I threw that tantrum, I met my match.

I don’t really remember the fit I pitched. Nor why I pitched it. But I do remember my mother’s new beau after my folks split. I can’t forget the ice-cold water he threw at me, causing me to inhale so sharply I felt as if I was turned inside out.

Forever after, my soon-to-be adoptive father refused to allow tantrums. But more importantly, he demanded that I figure out my own solutions to tasks that my paralysis made difficult. Unlike my grandmother, there was no, “there, there. Let me help you.” Only a slight smile and the gaze that said, keep working. You’ll figure this out.

Maybe that’s what I saw in Gus Walz this week. The son of the Democratic vice-presidential nominee Tim Walz has gone viral, both for his obvious pride and love for his dad and, unfortunately, over mean reactions from tone-deaf folks.

No matter where you stand on the political spectrum, insulting disability is never a good look. Neither is mocking teenage boys for showing emotion. I can’t help taking this personally, because I know what it’s like to be mocked. What it’s like to be different. I know the feeling of separation when others refuse to see the humanity that plops us all in the same friggin’ boat.

Gus has inspired disabled people everywhere to be themselves. To stand in front of God and country and be seen. To burst into thankful tears and not be ashamed. And it’s only taken a few millennia to get here.

“Keep working. You’ll figure it out.”

Back when three-year-old me lay on that floor hollering and demanding to be noticed, kids like me were still called cripples. Spazzes and four-eyes and tards. Our families often told us we could do anything, but we were realistic. I was never going to be a famous actress or play the violin.

The dichotomy between what our loved ones told us and the cruel world outside was confusing at best. I decided early on to be a warrior crip —make fun of my disability and I’ll pop you in the kisser with my heavy metal arm brace.

But I couldn’t stand up for everybody—I wanted to be normal. That’s why I devised clever ways of doing things so no one would suspect my deficiency. To my fellow classmates, I could be a normie, unless I got sent back to the Crippled Children’s Hospital.

Another kid in my class wasn’t as lucky. He walked with a limp and one of his arms seemed not to work right. Other boys teased and bullied this kid without mercy. He wasn’t very good at sports. He was shy and spoke softly. In the era of the Marlboro Man, he didn’t fit the macho image. Each time our class walked to the cafeteria, my heart broke for him, at the end of the line, trying to keep up, trying to fit in.

As a male, he didn’t have the luxury of saying he didn’t like sports or roughhousing or the sixth-grade boy way of punching your buddy’s arm and yelling Slugbug. Girls in the 1960s were still able to be pretty and concentrate on swooning over some boy.

As I swooned, I was careful not to let anyone in on my secret. I hid it under long sleeves in Arizona’s hot summers and in photos always made sure my paralyzed side was hidden too. It was exhausting work.

If you’re feeling isolated today because your spouse is ill or your dog died or you still grapple with some aspect of yourself you think is crippled, think about Gus. Remember that he wouldn’t have jumped up like that if his father wasn’t worthy of praise. If his earthly dad didn’t love his son beyond what we can imagine. If Gus wasn’t convinced that even when life seems impossible (like me playing the violin), your loved ones cheer you on. God doesn’t want to chuck cold water on you. He’d rather smother you in love.

My adoptive father never stopped believing that I could figure life out and get through it. I may have doubted him at times, but I couldn’t have bought in to his encouragement if I wasn’t certain that he loved me. I hope that when the meanies are through being awful, that Gus can inspire us all to get up off the floor and stand tall. To stop feeling discouraged and be who you are.

That’s why I’m so grateful to Gus. His disability isn’t obvious like my elementary school classmate or the reporter that was mocked by a presidential candidate in 2016, but Gus gives me courage. He’s a reminder that God thinks we’re all OK even if society doesn’t. That no matter how many really crappy things happen to you, you can still cry out to God, shouting, “That’s my dad!”