by V.J. Goll
Two
Perhaps, I should ask. Do you know me? Right now, you probably think you know me. This thought haunted my head in the next morning as I left the dorm with an address clutched in my hands. I was in a sea of people walking on the sidewalks to their destinations, but it seemed so odd how familiarly close we walked to one another. Almost as if we know each other, yet, we don’t know each other. I didn’t know you, but we passed each other at that moment. Both of us walking our separate directions. You might have known me or her during these times, and reading this now. You are starting to realize who we are.
I remembered her words. I knew she existed in this sea of people, but guiltily, I did not know all of you. I can’t remember all of you. I was just a young girl who grew up in the rigid, righteous south. I was naïve when this part was happening. It was a place of sweltering heat and high humidity, but it had cool, lukewarm winters to pacify for the summer sun’s war on people. I was a northern transplant from somewhere out in the country of the Midwest. You wouldn’t consider where you are from like a country till you met enough southerners asking you where you are from like you are a foreign oddity. Even though, I probably shouldn’t say I was a girl because I was an adult at the time all of this started. I was young. Yet, in this place of the south, you could find a church practically in every city, almost nearly being on every street. Billboards and this area seemed like a plantation full of ripe grapes that was just beautiful to see, and the churches were just reaping all of them. It was a place they say God dwells, a place where Christ lives.
Yet, what was this thought? I was a scholarship student at one of the fine, major universities in the south of academics and sports. A place of tall trees of poplars, oaks, and pines filled with beautiful scenery and gardens of all kinds of fascinating things. The vegetation smothered in much fertilizers, pesticides, and water to bring all of it to its perfect life. It wasn’t uncommon for people to take walks through this place for amorous affairs. As a college freshman, instead, I choose to soak into a different environment, a worrisome environment. I existed differently because I wore hearing aids in my ears and recovered from an injury to the brain. I was not like the people around me. We all felt like foreigners.
As I walked on the light gray sidewalks in this place, I had an address in my hands on a sheet of paper. In classical freshman style, I was lost at my school in my first week there. I was walking in a crowd of fellow students. Some like me were lost. Others just walking with friends. The crowds flowed with and against each other. Yet, in that moment, we met eyes. I was a concerned freshman who was worried about arriving on time to a meeting. She was curious watching my movements carefully. In that moment, I glanced and never looked back, but I don’t think her eyes stopped watching me. I always said Mara was a curious person. She seemed to realize that I was walking on a different road than most people. After a few path divergences of unconventional sightseeing, I managed to find my way onto the south campus where the old, Churchhouse was. I knew this by passing that black sign with this historical destination engraved in gold announcing it silently to the emptiness. The Churchhouse was a rather modest, stone church that seemed to be built in a masonic era which constructed most of this part of campus. It had the masonry of a mountain cabin with different mountain rocks used to construct its structure. Even though, the people who now fill these halls speak of a strong neutrality of religion neither being for one or the other. Her simple stain glass round window of a cross surrounded by the sun was left alone near the tip of the roof contradicting her purpose now. The bell tower towered watchfully from behind of her as she loomed among the likewise building that scattered across this part of the campus. Her black roof of slate was cleanly laid onto her. She was neat. I climbed her worn granite stairs. She had two old heavy, rounded oak doors that bore scratches through the years. Yet, they were firm doors as if daring people to enter upon a looming presence. I dared to knock inviting this presence upon myself.
Eric was a tired man, but a blunt man. He wasn’t an unfamiliar face to me, but he always carried this preacher type sternness with him when he spoke. Being a minority drove Eric into the law, he trained as a lawyer when he took my case in high school, but he graduate when I came to college. I guess in a way to me. He was a big brother that was always on my case. He was a stout man who had a fondness for suits. When he looked at you, it was intimidating. His stare could see right through you. I would not deny Eric was a smart man. He is, but to me, he was always Eric. Someone that I knew from school who helped during the individual education plans in school.
“Hi Eric,” I said to him as he opened the door. It was after hours so it was obviously locked. He looked me tiredly.
“Hi Ally,” he said simply, “come in.” He didn’t let the door open too far. He just opened it enough to let me into the place. I stepped in feeling my shoes creak against the dark wood floors of the place. They had pews, about a good number of rows for a meeting in the front of the Churchhouse, near a stripped down altar that was just now a circular stage. A thick red curtain covered the backside of the altar. It illuminated some light that crept through the edges of it. When I glanced above me, I could tell that there was a second story above me which I would know as the lounge. There were two sets of winding staircases that led to the upstairs and the downstairs respectfully. They called the downstairs the “Cellar.” Eric and I climbed the stairs to the Lounge. There was a black mechanical elevator attached to the staircase area. I could see the cables and small elevator box on the bottom floor. It was rudimentary, but it was good enough for those who needed it. The lounge was different than the lower floor. It was covered with some rugs and had couches. Yet, there was an open main area with some tables and chairs along the side. I guess you could say that it was almost like a tea house feel in this space. There was a small bar with a coffee maker and a hot water heater. Some people have brought a variety of teas and coffee grounds to be used.
The place creaked with an erudite nature. Though, it was kept clean. It had a feel to it as if I was dusting off an old library book. It was filled with red couches and short, long coffee tables. There were a pile of legal books stacked on one of them which I assumed was Eric’s readings. The walls were the same stone and mortar design as the outside of the church. It was carefully kept to preserve its past. I could smell fresh coffee brewing that Eric must have put on a moment ago. It wasn’t a cheap kind, but a decent enough brand to tolerate the taste buds. He poured us two cups silently before indicating that I should take a seat on the couch. I set my book bag to the side and started pulling out paperwork to discuss with him.
“That won’t be necessary, Ally,” he said to me simply. I looked at him surprised. He spoke with authority.
“Thank you,” I said taking a cup of coffee from him, “why is it not so?” I looked at him curiously.
He sighed. “When you were a child, you were allowed to do childish things,” he said, “but, now that you are an adult, you have to do adult things. I won’t be helping you in the same way that I did when you were a kid. You are going to have to learn and figure things out on your own. As an adult, you can’t be relying on your parent or me, maybe someone else, to help you. You have to help yourself."
It was my turn to sigh. “I don’t know how,” I said to him, “this is complicated for me. I am just a child that neither is schooled well in the law or living. I don’t know the law.”
“Ignorance is the greatest weapon they use,” he said to me, “willful ignorance is the weapon you give to them. They think they can define the rules and treat you differently because they do know the difference between right and wrong. They intentionally choose wrong. It is up to you to seize the right to have good.” He paused. I stayed silent.
“Life is full of complicated things,” he said simply. It stung like a reprimand. He paused watching my reaction. “What I mean, Ally, is not to try to ride you too hard,” he said, “I mean that I want you go have a life where you aren’t reliant on peo
ple to live it. People are not going to be kind to you because of your past. You will be underprivileged at times, and right now, people are perceiving you as overly privileged. Life doesn’t give you free things. You might get lucky, but, right now, right at this moment, you are defining the outcome of your life. I want to offer you a chance to choose what you want out of it. What do you want from your life? It is a simple answer.”
“To be a person,” I said quietly looking away. Eric was speaking a little harshly than I expected.
“And, you think people will treat you like a person, if you don’t learn to speak for yourself?” he said to me, “if you don’t learn how to deal with things by yourself?”
“I know, Eric,” I said to him, “this is why I am here asking for your help. I need help becoming a person. I need help with these issues.”
He was gauging me again. “Then, I will offer my help,” he said, “but it is not free. This is not fear. If I help you, I want you to join the COATS program and participate in learning the skills that you need.”
The COATS program was a program that was privately funded that was stationed at the University. It stands for the Co-Operative Advocacy Teaching Service. It was for parents who were unfamiliar with disability law to learn the advocacy skills that they would need for success. Mainly, law students join the program, but what Eric was offering to me was a rare exception rule. They include students with disabilities in rare cases. I could see where he was going with this also. If I joined the program, it charges as some credit hours on my transcript which means the program and its teachers get paid. It was a fair compromise, but I knew the program meant a ton of work.
“I will join,” I said to him. I bit my lip knowing that I was signing myself into the college course curriculum of having absolutely no life.
“Now,” he said to me, “we can talk about the paperwork.” He gestured to it. I would joke that it was almost like signing a deal with a devil, but that guy was too busy with other things.
I took a sip of coffee. It felt like drinking water because I was so tired. Yet, it left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. “Have you gotten my emails?” I asked him. He nodded.
“I am up to date on the current situation,” he said to me, “you have exhausted the mediation option which is why you are here, but it looks like the trouble carried over more.” I nodded.
“There was an assessment that probably is not going to be in my favor,” I said to him.
“Have you received it yet?” he asked me. I shook my head. This was something pending.
“Though, we will have to wait for the evaluation to see if there is anything we can do about it,” said Eric, “there are some basic things that you have to be aware of about evaluations.” I nodded being silent as he took a sip of coffee. “First of all, is the evaluator credentialed to give the evaluations? Were the evaluations properly given according to their directions? Are they researched normalized with the general population? Are the results of the evaluation interpreted appropriately?” He paused thinking about it a bit more. I wrote this all down knowing Eric was only going to tell me once. “In your case though,” he said to me, “there is a likelihood of prejudicial bias. While we wait for the evaluation, I want you to work on this and gather the facts of discovery for this prejudice.”
“Thank you, Eric,” I said to him, “this definitely helps guide me a lot in the right direction.”
“Do you have tapes?” he asked me.
“Always,” I said. I was playing adult again.
“Listen to them and document everything the leans towards evaluator’s bias,” he said to me.
“Will do,” I said sensing that he already has finished his counsel to me. I started repacking the documents into my backpack.
“Ally,” he said to me. I looked up at him. “If the results of this is unsatisfactory or there is ongoing retaliation, you have a right to file an Office of Civil Rights complaint, but you have a 180 days from the time of knowing what is wrong to file.”
“It has been three months,” I said to him. “So, there is 90 more days left.”
“This is important to know because your options are going to be tight in the midst of this,” he said to me, “you have to move quickly to protect yourself.”
I nodded at Eric. I understood. “Thanks Eric, I will try,” I said to him tiredly. I finished packing my things and took a sip of coffee.
“I will need you to stop by Monday to get your waiver to add the COATS program to your course schedule,” he said to me.
“I have classes and a meeting in the afternoon that will probably run late,” I said to him.
He laughed. It was weird to see him laugh despite the seriousness that he just pounded us both with. “I am always here late,” he said to me with a rare smile, “just stop by when you can.”
I did not choose to walk back to my dorm after the meeting with Eric. I didn’t wish for others to see me troubled and want to involve them into my world. So, I walked knowing that the library had 24 hour access as long as you had a student ID. I would find this to be my sanctuary when I wanted to escape people.
I don’t know why, but when I pulled up the computer screen at the library, instead of working on the case brief and preparing for classes, I was looking at other colleges to attend. I was looking elsewhere. I didn’t want to be here, but I felt like something called me to be here. There was something that called me into this world. There was some unresolved issues that I guess I haven’t resolved from my childhood. I sighed letting out the stress and then fumbled through my bag. I found the tape recorder. I inserted it into the school computer and put on headphones. I clicked the media player to set the timing of the recording at a certain point. Then, I letting myself go backwards to the past. I let myself feel like I was there again, but this time as a spectator. I close my eyes.
There was a young girl who graduated h0igh school at the age of 19 years old. Since childhood, she wanted to be a veterinarian. She wanted to pursue a degree in science. She carried good grades through high school with exception of freshman year when she didn’t have services. She scored high on the college entrance exams.
“Why do you think there is an ineligibility for college services?” I asked. I had to be technical here.
“These grades and scores are not realistic,” she said to me. I will call this person Mrs. K.
“So, you are implying that my teachers and the college entrance exam lied?” I asked her.
“No, I am implying that you cheated,” she said to me.
“Based on what?” I asked. I was a kid. Yet, my voice was struggling to be an adult. I could hear the confusion of my childish thoughts on how things should be. It was a mental picture that I struggled to reconcile. I thought if I worked hard enough. I wouldn’t be defined by my past. I wanted to have my future.
“Your neurological psych evaluation said you had TBI (traumatic brain injury) and you were diagnosed with mental retardation as a child,” she said to me.
“It also says that those issues were resolved with minor learning disabilities remaining,” I said to her, “this is in the conclusion.”
“That just can’t happen,” she said to me, “you can take this to my supervisor, but that just can't happen. It is not possible for this to happen.”
I paused the tape. I did contact the supervisor who said that she supported what Mrs. K was doing. I sighed feeling stress again. I didn’t like this side of my world. I didn’t want people to see it. Stress must have been eating at me while I was listening to the tape because my hand had a slight shake to it. I knew my body didn’t like this. To Mrs. K, it was just labels. To me, it was my future on the line. I sighed again. I couldn’t do this right now. I pulled up my college email and informed my professors of my disability and incoming accommodations. I didn’t want further issues happen.
This all felt serial to me. I never imagined my story playing out this way. One word, one label could follow someone into adulthood. It was slavery to be bo
und by your labels when you had disabilities. People expected different disadvantages for you. Opportunities were to be denied. I was being denied despite the fact that I healed, despite the fact that I was healthy. Yet, like I said before, this was normal for the south.
"Don't freeze," said something within me, "just move." I had been staring at the word document of my notes from that meeting more than 5 minutes. I froze. I don't know why my brain stopped working. Yet, that voice triggered me freezing. I opened some tabs on the internet program to a search engine that started with a "G" and typed in special education appeal letters into the search box. I found some sample letters. I opened a word document. I started formatting the letter to match what I saw on the internet. I was nineteen and stupid, but it didn't mean that I couldn't be resourceful. There is always a solution to a problem. We share this world with billions of other people. We can't be the only ones to experience the problems.
I sighed. I guess this sigh was relieved. I was moving on the right track. I wanted my future. I wanted to have dreams. Despite being tired, I became hopeful.