There is something about having a disability that seems to serve as an invitation to certain people; an invitation that says, “Please, come on over and be socially inappropriate with me.” I was at a restaurant last night with my family to celebrate my mom’s birthday when a server showed up unbidden at our table. She asked me if my name is Peter because I look like this guy named Peter who was once a student at a school where this woman worked as an aide. And boy, does she have a funny story about the first time she had to change Peter…
I caught my sister’s eye and quickly looked away before either one of us began to laugh mercilessly at this woman’s magnificent cluelessness. Who are these people who seem to confuse me for some other gimp from some indeterminate point in the past? Are we really that difficult to tell apart? And I can’t tell you the number of times complete strangers have approached me (or more often, the person I’m with) to share some story about a cousin/neighbor/student/whatever with a disability that resembles mine in only the vaguest terms. It’s like I’m one of Proust’s madeleines; the sight of me stirs up memories about Peter or one-legged Uncle Walt or the kid with CP who used to live down the block. Which is all fine and good. But, people, write it down in a journal and leave me alone.
Most people don’t appear to know a person’s identity is really “in the mind.”
Often when I walk my labrador, some complete stranger starts talking to me about its being too fat, or its having a friendly and joyful appearance. It’s people’s primitive way of trying to be friendly and start a conversation.
Be glad Marc people want to communicate, however awkward or inappropriate they can be. It’s much better than total indifference.
amazing.
WCD
This is kind of thoughtless of me, I know, but I like it when people bother you with this stuff, because then we all get to read about it here.