Carry On

by Lisa Fenn

  Dear Lisa . . . What is the scope of Leroy and Dartanyon’s needs? I’d like to gain a sense of scale. Five thousand? Ten thousand? Twenty-five thousand? One hundred thousand? I would like to make this real as soon as possible so that they may plan accordingly for their educations.

  I did not tell Leroy or Dartanyon about the incredible kindness piled up in my in-box. I couldn’t bear disappointing them if nothing materialized, and I needed a clearer picture of what was being offered—and what was needed. I had never itemized and priced Leroy and Dartanyon’s needs. Both boys wanted to go to college. Dartanyon wanted to study law; Leroy aspired to design video games. Where were the best schools for each? Could they live independently? Did they need medical care? Did they qualify for disability benefits? Should I be raising money for the future, or to mitigate their daily needs now?

  Too many questions to answer in too little time, I decided. And so began a frantic race against the clock to collect donations before viewer interest waned. My first call was to Michael O’Brien, a Cleveland attorney and family friend who specialized in estate planning. He donated his time and staff, and within three days a trust fund for the benefit of Leroy and Dartanyon was in place. Michael’s firm gave me a credible Cleveland address to which people could mail donations. However, I imagined I’d lose a lot of interested people unless we had a website that could accept credit card payments. Lord, this was Your doing, I thought. You’re going to have to figure out how to build a website.

  It was then that I fielded a message from Akron: Lisa, I was truly moved by your story about Dartanyon and Leroy. I live seventy miles south of Cleveland and want to help in any way I can. Paul Eckinger, Eckinger Marketing and Web Design.

  I phoned Paul immediately. An Ohio native himself, Paul not only remembered Leroy’s accident but had fund-raised for Leroy’s family in 2002. He knew the money had been squandered. “I’d like to help again,” Paul said. “This time I’d like to see it handled the right way.” Paul stayed up for most of the next four days, designing and programming a website from scratch. He even convinced the payment site to watch Carry On and waive their standard 6 percent commission on credit card transactions, ensuring that every dollar donated would go to help the boys. When Paul finished, I asked him how long those four days of work would have normally taken. “Four to eight weeks,” he said.

  I stayed up for much of that week too, personally responding to every e-mail until my eye sockets ached and my fingers curled. Navid pleaded with me to rest, but I dared not lose the public’s momentum. Nor could I tear myself away from the gripping nature of these letters. A man contemplating suicide that day chose to live, explaining that if Leroy and Dartanyon could endure, he could too. A single mother of an autistic son had spent the last ten years blaming herself for his disability; now she wanted to celebrate her child and involve him in wrestling. A businessman wanted to grant Leroy and Dartanyon lavish wishes of their choice. A private pilot volunteered to fly them on college visits. A high school wrestling team in Florida organized a Push-Up-A-Thon to raise funds. Hollywood wanted movie rights. Carpenters offered ramps for Leroy. Researchers proposed experimental treatments on Dartanyon’s eyes. Television shows sought them as guests.

  The Carry On website went live on Friday night—five days after the piece aired. In its first hour, $11,000 poured in. Most donations were in small amounts from inspired, everyday people—$5, $20, $50. The frenzy continued throughout the weekend and maintained a steady flow throughout the month of August. The grand total come September was $47,000.

  On top of that, a handful of viewers offered to pay the balance of college tuition and living expenses for Leroy and Dartanyon—an unimaginable opportunity borne of remarkable charity. I vetted these donors by phone, determining whose intentions were pure and whose positions most stable. I narrowed it down to three shrewd, kind businessmen and asked if they might divide the expenses, wanting to fill Leroy and Dartanyon’s lives with multiple accomplished role models. The three benefactors agreed, but not before one of them flipped the tables and interviewed me.

  A vice president of a prominent global investment-banking firm, this gentleman peppered me with questions about my background, my education, my family, my workload. Having grown up disadvantaged, this man had made it his mission to use his wealth to educate kids from similar backgrounds. In doing so, he concluded that the single most determining factor in these students’ success or failure was his or her support system. “More than knowing Leroy or Dartanyon, I need to know you,” he said. “I need to know who is going to get them over the inevitable bumps ahead, and from what I can tell, you are all they have.”

  I knew Leroy and Dartanyon needed me here, now, to rally these resources and propel them forward. But I had assumed I would pack them up and wave proudly as they rode off into their new lives. It hadn’t occurred to me that they might continue to need me in the months and years that would follow. I could not conceive of what might go awry, yet the grave tone of this man’s questions communicated that he knew better. I wanted to ask what pitfalls to anticipate and what he expected from me. But I worried he might interpret such questions as wavering on my part. I feared my ignorance might cause him to reconsider his offer.

  Sometimes commitment is a choice. Here, it was the only choice.

  “I love them, and I am here for whatever they need,” I replied. “You have my word.”

  LEROY AND DARTANYON remained oblivious to the activity within my house-turned-fund-raising-headquarters. Leroy seemed content hanging out at Big Ma’s for the summer, and my mother helped Dartanyon get an internship at the Ohio Lottery, where she worked. Though nothing had changed in their daily happenings, they had achieved local rock star statuses that left them perplexed.

  “Everywhere we go, people yell, ‘There’s the guys from ESPN!’” Leroy said.

  “It’s been real weird. People want to shake our hands and tell us we’re awesome,” Dartanyon added. “Not sure why.” How could they be heroes, he wondered, when they were still sitting in the ghetto, living hand-to-mouth like everyone else? Leroy understood, though, and it felt like déjà vu.

  “Who knew that getting run over by one train could get me famous twice,” Leroy said. He couldn’t conceive of how his circumstances were about to change this time.

  I flew back to Cleveland over Labor Day weekend for the big reveal. I summoned Leroy and Dartanyon, Big Ma, Katrina, Arthur, Coach Hons, Coach Robinson, and Paul, our web angel, to Michael O’Brien’s office. They were all assembled upon my arrival. No one, except Paul, appeared happy to see me.

  “Why are we here?” Dartanyon asked. “Are we in trouble?”

  “Trouble? Why would you think that?” I asked.

  “Because the only time you gotta lawyer up is when you’re in trouble,” Leroy said. It had not occurred to me that an attorney’s office would prompt anxiety in them. To me, attorneys were relatives, friends, and helpful resources. “Lawyers are your one call from prison,” Dartanyon contended.

  “Well, quite the opposite today,” I said with a laugh. “I have good news for you. It turns out that more than a few Clevelanders want to shake your hand. It’s the whole country. And they’ve donated money for you to go to college. You can go to college! Surprise!” The men gasped, and the women fanned themselves. I was reluctant to volunteer exactly how much money had been raised, and to my relief, no one asked. Dollars didn’t matter to them. Hope for a future did.

  I continued through the list of offerings with the glee of Santa slinging presents out of a sack. Designer workout clothing, NFL tickets, video game consoles, concert passes, speaking invitations, first-pitch honors at the Cleveland Indians game, and new wrestling shoes for the entire Lincoln-West team. With each announcement, Dartanyon alternated between pumping his fists, dropping his head into his hands, or looking to the sky in disbelief. On the contrary, Leroy sat expressionless. I assumed he was in shock. His mother spoke for him instead.

  “What about LeBron?” Katrin
a asked. “When he gonna step up and help us?”

  “LeBron’s a very busy man, and we may not need him,” I answered, and continued to my next piece of news. “Have you heard of the Paralympics?” No one had. “It is the Olympics for people with physical disabilities. There are many things that Dartanyon and Leroy could do competitively. And the United States Olympic Committee has invited you to Colorado to see their facilities and try out some new sports. You fly out next week.

  “I want you to realize that while all of these opportunities are amazing, you are not rich,” I continued. “You’ve been given something better. You have been given the gift of space and time in which to work hard so that you can create stable, productive lives for yourselves. We can talk through the specifics of how we are going to do that later, but for now, do you have any questions?”

  Dartanyon meekly raised his hand.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Um, did you say we’re flying to Colorado?” he asked, trying to suppress his excitement. “Because I’ve never been on an airplane.”

  “Me neither,” Leroy said.

  I smiled, indicating they were cleared for takeoff. And right there, in the middle of our ordinary lives, a whole great wonder took hold.

  FROM MY LIMITED vantage point, alleviating Leroy and Dartanyon’s poverty and accommodating their disabilities did not seem terribly complicated. On a basic level, Dartanyon needed food and clothing. Leroy needed a new wheelchair. Both boys would require medical checkups, college application fees, laptops, beds, and desks. I would make the to-do lists, write the checks, and take down the mighty walls of poverty brick by brick.

  While Leroy thought through his college options, I focused my attention on Dartanyon. Our first stop was the Cleveland Sight Center, a nonprofit agency serving the visually impaired. I bought Dartanyon a checkbook ledger with large lines, a calendar with wide blocks, and adaptive software to enlarge his laptop’s screen. I offered him the free magnifying glass that came with the purchases, but he ordered me to put it down as though I had pointed a gun at him. He hardly wanted to be seen in this place, let alone leaving with a shopping bag. Still, I was elated. Now he could see his responsibilities and organize them.

  Our next stop was Cuyahoga Community College in downtown Cleveland. Dartanyon’s sister, Dionna, lived a short bus ride from one of the school’s satellite campuses, and she said Dartanyon could stay with her. We registered him for algebra, psychology, and English, and then headed to the bookstore to buy his textbooks. “Let’s pick up some notebooks as well,” I said. Dartanyon followed me around the store, but once in the paper supply aisle, he stood uncomfortably beside me, waiting for instructions.

  “Go ahead and choose whatever you want,” I said.

  With great hesitation, he lifted a thin-ruled yellow spiral notebook from the shelf just beside him. “This should be good,” he said.

  “I think one with wide lines might be better for your vision,” I suggested. “And you have three classes, so you’ll need three notebooks.”

  “Oh,” Dartanyon said. He remained fixed in one place. I wasn’t sure why choosing basic items was so difficult. Then I realized the source of his uneasiness.

  “You’ve never gone shopping for school supplies, have you?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered softly.

  “How did you take notes in high school without notebooks?”

  “I always just borrowed a sheet of paper and a pencil from whoever was sitting next to me.”

  I thought about my childhood, and how the end of summer launched a spirited quest for colorful binders and bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils.

  “Well, then,” I said, nodding slowly while forcing back tears, “allow me the distinct pleasure of showing you a few new products on the market, Mr. Crockett.” I launched into my best showroom-model impression, opening notebooks with exaggerated arm movements and demonstrating their pocket dividers with flair. I waxed eloquent on the uselessness of the compass and protractor once high school geometry has passed and debated the pros and cons of three-subject versus one-subject notebooks.

  “You see, with the three-in-one, you have everything you need in one place,” I explained. “It eliminates having to find three different notebooks every day.”

  Finally Dartanyon’s stance softened, in what had become a spiritual moment in aisle six of this community-college bookstore. “I understand your point, and for that reason, I think I’ll get the single-subject ones,” he countered. “If I get the three-subject notebook and lose it, then I’ll have lost everything.”

  I laughed and told him to select his three colors and I would take him to lunch, just as my mother used to do in celebration of our school shopping excursions. Dartanyon chose his notebooks quickly and led the way to the cash register. It was the first time he had walked ahead of me since I’d met him, six months earlier. I suspected that having choices breeds that sort of confidence.

  BACK AT MY father’s house that afternoon, I received a call from an administrative assistant at the college. “I just thought you should know that Dartanyon put down your name as his emergency contact today,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “That is fine,” I said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “No, that’s not all I’m calling to tell you,” she said. “Next to your name on the form is a space that says ‘Relationship to Student.’ Dartanyon wrote ‘Guardian Angel.’ I’ve just never seen anything like that. I don’t know who you are, but I thought you should know.”

  A FEW DAYS later, Leroy and Dartanyon boarded their first flight for the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs. This idyllic Disney World for athletes spans thirty-five acres, with housing capacity for more than five hundred athletes. While the Michael Phelpses and Michelle Kwans of this world train at home with private coaches, the majority of less visible Olympians and Paralympians toil in relative anonymity at one of our country’s four training compounds. Together, Leroy and Dartanyon floated around campus, taking deep gulps of crisp mountain air. They toured the swimming, gymnastics, and weight-lifting facilities. They were presented with Team USA tracksuits, Dartanyon declaring that he would never take his off for as long as he lived. Leroy learned that as an amputee, he could compete in Paralympic hand cycling, shooting, powerlifting, swimming, and wheelchair fencing. Dartanyon’s visual impairment made him eligible for sports like goal ball, rowing, and track and field.

  Seeing resident Paralympians training alongside able-bodied Olympians gave Dartanyon and Leroy a glimpse of the world through a new and refreshing window—an alternate universe in which disabled people were regarded for their abilities, not their limitations. Even the language oozed with empowerment. No one was “crippled” or “cross-eyed.” Instead they were “differently abled” and “para athletes.” Leroy was particularly pleased to learn that his bench press was competitive with national Paralympic powerlifting marks, and said he’d consider training for the team. But it was a new sport that piqued Dartanyon’s interest: judo.

  “Judo is a Japanese martial art, kind of like a cousin to wrestling,” head coach Ed Liddie explained to Dartanyon and Leroy. Judo aficionados cringed when Liddie linked the two sports, which were born of vastly different cultures and utilize distinctive techniques. But Liddie knew that in the United States, laypeople see judo as little more than wrestling in pajamas. The primary objective of judo is to throw an opponent through the air, with control and force, flatly onto his back, both shoulders touching the mat. If the fight goes to the ground—entering what is called ne waza—one works to submit the opponent with a choke or an arm bar, or to pin his back to the mat for twenty seconds. If your opponent doesn’t tap out, it’s permissible to choke him unconscious or break his arms. And though wrestling serves as a traditional favorite of Americans at the Olympic Games, judo is the second most popular sport in the world, behind only soccer.

  “There are similarities, but judo is all takedowns and pins,” Liddie explained. “No kicking,
no punching. Striking is prohibited in judo.”

  Liddie’s father Edward, an army veterinarian, learned judo while stationed in France during the 1950s. When the Liddies moved back to the hardscrabble streets of Harlem, New York, Edward opened a record shop to support the family. To support his judo habit, he laid mats across the back room of the shop and started an informal neighborhood judo club. Liddie went on to star at Cumberland College from 1978 to 1982. Two years later, he won Olympic bronze at the 1984 Los Angeles Games, making him the second African American judo medalist in US history. His smile told you he was a kind man. His stare told you he was studying his surroundings like a surveillance camera. And his sixth-degree black belt told you he could take you down a hundred different ways.

  Liddie and USA Judo put on twenty or so demonstrations a year, for everyone from schoolkids to corporate sponsors to wounded warriors returning from combat. In these forty-five-minute sessions, participants learn a few basics, like how to grip the lapel of the robelike gi worn by judo players, and how to take a fall safely. Then they take to the mats to try it themselves. When Liddie teaches visitors a throw, he usually jumps over their backs and lands flatly on his to give them the thrill of thinking they actually threw an Olympic medalist, as their friends ooh and ahh.

  Dartanyon stepped in for his turn. Liddie leaned in as he had hundreds of times before to facilitate the demo throw. But Dartanyon caught Liddie off guard.

  “To my amazement, Dartanyon actually threw me. I didn’t even have time to jump,” Liddie said. Sensing that Dartanyon liked the sport, Liddie invited him back to watch the full squad of thirty practice that evening. But Dartanyon didn’t want to watch practice. He wanted a turn on the mats—and that was where we learned that Dartanyon had been blessed with a coveted gift in the judo world: quick hips.

  “Judo is a lot of hips, and it doesn’t come naturally to many people,” Liddie said. “People try to throw with their back and upper body because they can’t get enough power in their hips to pivot and bend.”