An old and close friend came to visit me at my mother’s home. As we were chatting, he told me about a friend of his whom I had met during my time in Philadelphia. His friend’s field was special education, and in particular, the education of children with learning disabilities. What attracted my attention was the reason for choosing her profession. Like me, she was a foreigner in the US. She had full command of English, but a heavy accent when speaking the language. And as usual, when US nationals would hear her talk, they would immediately refuse to understand her. His account resonated with me; I was a foreigner speaking English with a bad pronunciation caused by the dead nerve cells in my brain, and US nationals refused to understand me. So, I told my friend to ask her if she wanted him to give me her WhatsApp number. The next day we set up a calling date. A few days later, we were talking about learning disabilities and their social stigma.
I told her that my interest in her experience stemmed from the similarities I’d found between learning disabilities and my physical disabilities, and asked how her career had developed. After summarizing her career path, she asked me about my experience. I recounted my journey. Was I seeing a therapist, she asked. When I said yes, she wondered if I was attending a group of people with physical disabilities. No, I answered. I had thought about it, but I was reluctant to do it; I didn’t feel comfortable. Then, she told me an anecdote. Her parents, who were well into their eighties, had gone to an event organized by the community center in their neighborhood. The next day she asked them if they had had a good time. No, they answered; the attendants were all old farts. Her anecdote was both funny and thought-provoking. I acknowledged my disability: my reluctance to go wasn’t a denial. Could it be caused by my fear of discovering that my fantasy of total and final “cure” was just a fantasy? A day later my friend’s friend emailed me links to support groups for people with disabilities.
On the next Saturday, a friend came to visit. When I told her about my hesitation to attend a disability support group, she encouraged me to go. It would be a shock at first, but then I would feel that I wasn’t a unique case. I would feel part of a group that experienced the same suffering and had to overcome the same obstacles. Her words have helped me make a final decision. When I get back, I’ll open my computer and muster the courage to cross that bridge.
I told her that my interest in her experience stemmed from the similarities I’d found between learning disabilities and my physical disabilities, and asked how her career had developed. After summarizing her career path, she asked me about my experience. I recounted my journey. Was I seeing a therapist, she asked. When I said yes, she wondered if I was attending a group of people with physical disabilities. No, I answered. I had thought about it, but I was reluctant to do it; I didn’t feel comfortable. Then, she told me an anecdote. Her parents, who were well into their eighties, had gone to an event organized by the community center in their neighborhood. The next day she asked them if they had had a good time. No, they answered; the attendants were all old farts. Her anecdote was both funny and thought-provoking. I acknowledged my disability: my reluctance to go wasn’t a denial. Could it be caused by my fear of discovering that my fantasy of total and final “cure” was just a fantasy? A day later my friend’s friend emailed me links to support groups for people with disabilities.
On the next Saturday, a friend came to visit. When I told her about my hesitation to attend a disability support group, she encouraged me to go. It would be a shock at first, but then I would feel that I wasn’t a unique case. I would feel part of a group that experienced the same suffering and had to overcome the same obstacles. Her words have helped me make a final decision. When I get back, I’ll open my computer and muster the courage to cross that bridge.
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