Stories About Facing Challenges, Realizing Dreams and Making a Difference

by Jack Canfield

  I have never thought of myself as handicapped. I’m definitely differently-abled. I began skiing when I was only seven, and now I am a black diamond skier. I go to ski camp every year with my amputee friends and for the whole week we ski and hang out. Maybe some day I will train for the Paralympics, which is like the Olympics, only it’s just for people who are physically challenged. Whatever I decide to do, I know I would have to train hard to be one of the best—just like any other pro.

  As I get bigger, my prostheses get even better, and it gives me more courage to get out and try new stuff. One day, after I had run in a six-mile race, one of my friends asked me where I’d been all day. When I told him that I had just finished a six-mile race, he said, “I couldn’t do that!”

  Someday, I want to go to a good college and eventually play for a team in the National Hockey League. I also want to be on the All-Star Team. But more than anything, I want to beat Wayne Gretzky’s record. My philosophy is, you just have to go for it. You’ll never know until you try.

  Hey, as they say, “Anything is possible!”

  Danny Stein, thirteen

  A Skater’s Determination

  The man who can drive himself further once the effort gets painful is the man who will win.

  Roger Bannister

  It was just a simple request. I went to get Mat, “my Mat,” as I call him, his iced tea. I would never regret anything more than that.

  My brother is a skateboarder through and through. He always has been and always will be, and along with that comes determination. Anytime he has fallen down, he gets right back up and tries it again. If he has broken something, he just keeps on skating. He has always been such an inspiration to me, because he is so determined. Sometimes that determination is good, but on this particular day, it was a curse.

  We were out in the front of my grandparents’ house. Mat was determined to “ollie” over a chair that he had placed in the street. I was watching him try and try, over and over again. Deep down, I was thinking, If he really wants to jump over that chair so badly, why doesn’t he just put down that board with wheels on it, and do it? If you knew my brother, you would know that he wouldn’t have stopped until he jumped on his skateboard over that chair many times.

  I could see him sweating. As usual, it was a hot Texas day. I was worried that he would get heatstroke. Even though I was only about five, I had heard grown-ups talking about people dying of heatstroke, and I kind of understood what it was. I really didn’t want my living, yet hardheaded, brother to get it.

  So there I was, my chin cupped in my hands, sitting on the porch of my grandparents’ house, worrying about my Mat and thinking of ways to keep him cool.

  “Hey Brit, could you get me my tea?”

  I snapped out of my thoughts and back to the heat of the day. I replied to his request with a nod and stood up to go get the iced tea. Even through my plastic pink sandals, I could feel the extreme heat of the concrete steps. It was burning my feet, so I quickly went inside the house.

  I headed through the hallway toward Grandma’s kitchen, on a mission. I was thinking of how sweet and delicious her iced tea is, so I didn’t see Wetta, Grandma’s Chihuahua. On my way, I tripped over her.

  As I entered the kitchen, my nose was filled with the sweet smell of tea and cinnamon toast. It was in the early afternoon, but my grandma knew how much I loved her cinnamon toast, so she made it whenever I came over. As I was walking toward her, hoping to surprise her, she turned around. As she did, I heard the most bloodchilling sound I had ever heard in my short life. “What was that?” Grandma said. “Did you hear that? Did Matthew scream?”

  “I dunno. I’ll go see.”

  As I ran though the house toward the front door, I had one thing on my mind—HEATSTROKE. I wish I could say that was what happened. Instead, I saw something that will forever be burned into my mind.

  My image of my Mat, my big brother, my protector was shattered. He lay, motionless on the pavement. I ran to him to see what was wrong. My grandma was far ahead of me, running as fast as she could. When she got there, she told me to go wait inside for her. People started to come out of their houses to see who screamed. Mat’s friend, Jeffrey, was the first to call 911. When the paramedics got there, they took my brother to the hospital. I didn’t get to see Mat for at least a month.

  Finally, it was Easter, and I was going to get to see my brother. I couldn’t have been happier. I had missed him so much. I made sure that my dress was straight and my shoes were buckled. I wanted to look my best for Mat. When we got to the hospital, I saw a giant bunny that was passing out candy to the patients. Mat gave me his candy.

  After a few more weeks at the hospital, Mat came home. He wasn’t supposed to get out of his wheelchair and walk around. The doctors said he wouldn’t be able to walk after the accident.

  But Mat did. He was determined to walk again. He would get up out of his wheelchair and try to walk around on his crutches. After awhile, he didn’t even use his wheelchair. If he wanted to go somewhere, he would walk. Soon he didn’t even need his crutches. He couldn’t run yet, but he was really trying to become the guy he had been before the accident. He could play with me, and finally he went back to school. It didn’t take long before Mat could run and play, like any other kid, but he knew what he wanted to do.

  Mat was determined to skate again. He was so determined to get better at skating, that he turned his whole life around. He went from not being able to skate—or even walk for that matter—to being one of the best board-skaters that I know.

  That changed my outlook on life. I now look at everything as a way to help me skate better and help me in other ways. I am always looking on the bright side. That is what I have learned from my brother—a skater’s determination.

  Brittany Nicole Henry, twelve

  The Fall and Rise of a Star

  I was sure everyone in my junior-high drama class saw the paper in my hands shaking when I stood up to audition for a lead role in the annual Christmas play. I was there, not by choice, but because the teacher wanted each of us to try out for a part.

  As a “good” student, I did what I was asked, even if it was scary. I was small for my age, wore secondhand clothes and cried easily. At school, I was often the brunt of jokes and taunts and had no friends. I wanted desperately to shrink back into my seat and be invisible. But there I was, onstage. Reading was, at least, something I loved. So, I read.

  Within moments, the fear was gone. I entered the beautiful world of make-believe. So much better, I thought, than the real and cruel one. I was reading the part for the main character, “Star.” She was poor—like me. But unlike me, she had a positive outlook on life even though she was an orphan. I wasn’t an orphan, but I felt like one. My dad had disappeared. My mom worked days, went to school at night and spent her weekends doing homework. I ached for more time with her. In the play, Star was a lonely child who longed for parents, a few kind words and a home. It was easy for me to feel that her words were also mine.

  I finished reading and rushed back to my seat. The spell was broken. I was just me again, wanting to curl up and disappear. When the teacher read the cast list and called my name, I wasn’t paying attention. No one ever chose me for anything.

  “Patty,” she repeated, “you are Star. Come and get your script.”

  This is impossible! How can it be? With a pounding heart and cold, moist palms, I felt nearly faint, but incredibly happy. I stumbled up to get the papers.

  The cutest boy in class was playing the other lead. I didn’t know him, but I wanted to. I was even hoping a little that some of his popularity might rub off on me. I was eager to learn my lines and wanted to do my best. So, I practiced every day—while walking to school, at lunchtime, before bedtime, even on weekends. At first, I was worried about forgetting parts of a long monologue that took place in one scene, but I managed to memorize it. I felt more confident after that.

  Then we started to work on blocking, which is when the actors mus
t touch, move and learn to use the props— in other words, really “act.” The cute boy played a Scrooge-like character who refused to spend even a dime to put a candle in his window, so that the light would show passersby the slippery ice on the path below. On Christmas Eve, Star comes along, falls on the ice and sprains her ankle. The “Scrooge” finds himself helping her up, and in gratitude, she kisses him on the cheek.

  One day, right before our drama class started, some of the kids were standing in front of the blackboard, snickering and looking at me. When they moved away, I saw a grotesque, cartoon like drawing of a girl with a huge behind and enormous, ugly lips. Above it were the words, “Falling Star.”

  I had been teased so often in the past that I had a sort of shield over my heart, which I tried to keep up in order to shut out the pain. But I wasn’t very good at it, and this time, I was taken off guard. It really hurt. I was too embarrassed to even cry. Calmly, the teacher erased the picture. “Who did this?” she demanded. No one answered . . . of course.

  We started to rehearse. I said my lines, but my heart wasn’t in it. At the end of class, the teacher pulled me aside and told me not to pay any attention to the silliness. It probably wouldn’t happen again. But she was wrong.

  Every single day after that, a “Falling Star” picture, each one uglier and more embarrassing than the last, appeared on the board. Our teacher, who always had to rush from another class to ours, never caught the culprit. Each day it felt like I was entering a torture chamber. My dreams of being liked by my classmates were shattered. They all laughed at the pictures. I was sure that each and every one of them hated me as much as the person who drew the picture did.

  In spite of that, at first, I refused to give up. I had worked too hard. Then I began to forget my lines, and I started to have nightmares about being onstage and unable to make a sound, while the audience laughed at me. Finally, I told the teacher to use my understudy for the part; I felt like I would be a terrible flop. She said, “No, you won’t. You can do this. I know you can. I’ll help you. If you want to, we’ll use the auditorium, so you can feel comfortable there.”

  After that, we met several afternoons each week after school. She taught me to use my voice to show the emotions I was feeling and to fall without hurting myself. I had never worked so hard in my life at anything so terrifying . . . yet so much fun.

  At last, it was the day before the show, time for the dress rehearsal. I was excited, even confident. I really felt and looked like Star when I had on my stage makeup and the old-fashioned, long, soft-flannel green dress. With the full skirt, thick petticoats, knit hat and muff, the transformation was complete.

  Everything went smoothly at the dress rehearsal until the scene where I slip on the ice and Scrooge helps me up. When I kissed him on the cheek, a loud, ugly noise sounded from behind the set, like someone farting, followed by loud laughter.

  I ran to the stairs, dashed down the aisle into the empty auditorium, collapsed into a seat and started to cry.

  “I can’t do it. Get someone else!”

  Suddenly, I felt gentle hands on my arms. I heard voices and a soft, warm hand took mine. I looked up through my tears to see concerned faces. Four girls, my classmates, had come after me.

  “Please, don’t drop out,” they said. “You’re really, really good! Don’t pay any attention to that scum, Peter. He’s an idiot!” So, he was my tormentor . . . the boy that everyone said was a bully. No one even liked him very much.

  “You’ve got to go on,” the girls said. “Our play will be a flop without you!”

  One of them handed me a tissue. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. “Okay,” I said, giving them a shy smile. I went back onstage and finished the scene with no further interruptions.

  The following day, two performances were scheduled for the whole school plus an evening show for families and friends. During the first show, everything went perfectly, and people even applauded in the middle of the play after my monologue! I was flying, dancing, filled with the greatest joy you could imagine.

  During the second show, in the first act, part of the scenery fell down. The audience laughed, but I didn’t care. I knew they weren’t laughing at me. Applause was tremendous at the end of that performance—but the crowning event was the evening show when the parents attended, and my mom got to see me perform.

  In the weeks that followed, kids at school came up to say, “You were good,” even “great” or “terrific.” Although frustrations and failures have come my way since then, along with them, I have also had great joy and success. At times I’ve felt discouraged, and I still do. But it helps to remember that I was once a fallen star who managed to rise and sparkle, through my own efforts, with the loving guidance of a great teacher and the help of a few unexpected friends.

  Patty Zeitlin

  Panic

  What life means to us is determined, not so much by what life brings to us as by the attitude we bring to life; not so much by what happens to us as by our reaction to what happens.

  Lewis L Dunnington

  One October day, in eighth-grade English class, I sat taking notes while my teacher explained prepositional phrases for what felt like the eightieth time. Suddenly, my forehead and fingertips became numb, as if a crazed dentist had injected them with Novocain. I tried to concentrate on the teacher’s lecture, but his words sounded garbled, like he was speaking through a long cardboard tube. My heart raced, and I couldn’t breathe. I was either going to throw up or pass out.

  It seemed like I was having a dream. Was I really sitting in English class? I turned my head to look at my classmates. They were moving slowly, like a film being viewed frame by frame. I touched the smooth Formica desk and squeezed my pen. I wasn’t dreaming. What was wrong with me?

  My friend touched my arm. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You’re completely pale.”

  I raised my hand; it felt detached from my body. “Can I go to the nurse?” I asked. The voice came from my throat, but I didn’t recognize its sound. Our teacher had told the last guy who asked for a pass to the nurse to wait until the bell. Before that could happen, he had hurled into his desk.

  “Sure, go ahead,” the teacher told me.

  I rushed out of the room. The hallway’s spotted floor seemed to slant under my feet. I rested my forehead against the cool turquoise tiles of the wall. What was happening?

  The nurse had me lay down on her fake leather couch, and she popped a thermometer in my mouth. I prayed that I had a fever and could go home. After a few minutes, the nurse read my temperature. “No fever. Better go back to class,” she told me.

  “No, I can’t,” I nearly shouted. “Please, send me home,” I begged.

  The nurse frowned at my urgent tone. She paused a moment, then telephoned my mother.

  Once I was home, I felt fine. I cuddled under my down comforter, read one of my favorite horror novels and then watched a soap opera on TV. My mother served me strawberry Jell-O and sliced bananas for dinner. I was an only child, and my mom spoiled me. She gave me a hug. “You’ll be up and around tomorrow,” she assured me. At home, I was safe.

  The next day, I convinced my parents that I was too weak to return to school, but I was really just afraid. “Okay, just one more day of rest,” my mother told me, “but make sure you do the homework. You don’t want to ruin your A average.”

  The following morning, my mother said, “Get up and get dressed, have a bit of breakfast and see how you feel.” I knew this trick. She’d been using it on me since I was a kid. Once I had pulled on some clothes and had eaten, she’d say, “If you’re healthy enough to be out of bed and keep cereal down, you’re well enough to go to school.” And, that’s exactly what happened.

  One afternoon a few days later, one of my classmates asked me to her house for dinner. Supper at her house was a foreign experience for me. She had a big family, and they all talked at the same time, fighting to be heard.

  Suddenly, the hum of the kitchen lights became loud and d
rowned out their voices. Their faces looked too clear in the unnatural light. My cheeks began to go numb, and I felt like the floor was caving in under my feet. It was happening again. Maybe one of the blood vessels in my brain is slowly leaking blood, I thought. I had to get out. I had to find help. I mumbled, “Excuse me. I feel sick,” and I bolted from the house.

  I ran all the way home. I slammed the front door behind me and collapsed on the family-room sofa. “What in the world are you doing home so early?” my mother asked.

  “I don’t feel well, again,” I told her. I felt tears well in my eyes. “What is wrong with me?”

  My parents were concerned about me, but not as worried as I was about myself. They scheduled an appointment with my doctor. I explained the scary episodes to him. He ordered a test for diabetes. I had to swallow this super sweet, cola-flavored glucose drink, and I had blood taken from my arm. I went for stomach X rays, where I had to drink a chalky barium milkshake. Finally, he sent me for a full neurological exam.

  When the test results were in, the doctor telephoned.

  “I’m glad to say that you are perfectly healthy,” the doctor told me. My parents thought that was great news, but I wasn’t sure.

  The next morning, I couldn’t face going back to school and the frightening possibility of another episode. I lied and told my mother that my stomach hurt. “The doctor said you are healthy,” she reminded me. “He didn’t test me for the stomach flu,” I insisted. That nonexistent stomach virus bought me two more days at home.

  When the third morning arrived, I just couldn’t drag myself to class. For two weeks, I refused to go. Each day, I cried, screamed and begged. At first, my parents tried to reason with me; then they threatened to punish me. My father yelled, and my mother dissolved into tears. Again, they turned to my doctor for help, and he suggested that I see a psychologist. Oh, great, I am totally insane after all.