by V.J. Goll
Nine
“Lady,” Eric said to me on that early morning as I sat laughing at him in the passenger seat in his car, “don’t make fun of me because when I stop at a gas station. I like all my windows cleaned.” He said this in mock exasperation. I could tell it was hard for him to not to smile. We had traveled just outside of what I will call Metro.
Eric seemed to contrast this place. Though I know he wears the lawyer dress, he always seemed more of a preacher to me. His shoes were black leather that were wax shined. He wore black suit pants with a white, long sleeve collar shirt. It was freshly pressed. It was a place of worn cement streets, but the black paved asphalt freeway was well built. This city focused on the walls which someone passed through it and its appearance.
The walls were hiding the poverty that plagued the city. It was supposed to be the capital hub of this great southern state, but it was hiding some dark secrets. I glanced out the window again to see the small houses that were deteriorating from age. People had stopped fixing them because crime was so bad. I sighed seeing my breath misted the window. Seeing this caused me to think about the sequestration services cuts again. I started to wonder what these people dreamed about in their lives. I thought about the medical bills and costs having a disability.
I looked at the spider webs that lingered outside the doorway of the Agnes Hall which reminded me of beef for some odd reason. It was a decent enough brick building. I could tell it was old. I knew seeing the spiders meant that there was a warning.
I do not know if it was either early in the morning, or it was for the sake of conservation. The lights were not all the way turned on in this small college with the brick buildings. The bare minimum of lights were kept on that at least gave enough guidance on where to walk, but it casted these dark shadows throughout the building especially on the corners.
It was crowded as Eric and I headed to the next functions. The glasses and pink dye seemed to work on altering my identity. Eric looked younger with his beard shaved. I was smiling as we both sunk in and out of the crowd just collecting material from the vendors. I felt there was a set eyes upon me. I turned around. I saw her for the first time since that summer.
Mrs. K was a plump woman who reminded me of some brand of fruit. She just wore a smile on her face when she saw me. It wasn't a good smile. I knew that. It was a malicious smile. Then, in a single moment, I put it all together. It clicked with me. This was a hard of hearing and deaf event. Her and Bad Wizard were a part of the same community. She spoke to the tester.
She also spoke to Bad Wizard.
He also was part of this event. He was one of the panel members that would come on later with college disability coordinators. I felt sick.
I was set up to fail. I knew that. It all was related. Why did someone want to make me feel intimidated? Why did someone want to exercise their power to hurt me? I couldn't understand why I was such a threat. I watched her look at Bad Wizard. I knew they knew each other. She smiled again at me knowing that I couldn't do anything. She was mocking me. I knew I couldn't do anything. They were careful enough not to leave proof. I was supposed to feel helpless. I felt despair knowing that it wasn't going to work out down south. I knew that it was corrupted. I closed my eyes and opened them again. She was gone, but I was angry. I have always been angry, but I was angry. The testing tried to paint a narrative that I was disabled and couldn't go to school, but instead, I was attacked blistering through psychological testing that tried to paint my character as a cheater. When proof wasn't there, they went the other way to hostility. Yet, I didn't give them want they wanted. I didn't fail. I persisted.
I watched the slight droplets of water roll down the window as the stars were above us. Eric was driving. He wasn't saying anything. We both knew and made the same connection without a word. I realized that some people don't change. I was being naive.
"How long have you been lying to me?" I asked Eric. I was silent.
"I didn't lie to you," he said to me, "I let you draw your own conclusions. Now, you have a different conclusion."
I looked at him. I trusted his counsel, but I felt betrayed in that moment. He knew. I knew he knew. I knew people were lying to me. It made me so angry. “So, is this how deep the pond runs?” I asked him. I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my voice.
He looked at me. “Don’t you see it?” he asked me harshly, “the will of the people is to oppress people like you. To view you as a shameful existence of society, to box you up and hide you in your corner with your little job bagging groceries at a grocery store.” He paused. “It is so they don’t have to deal with you,” he said to me, “they don’t have to deal with you being a person or having dreams so they can screw over every little child that is just like you by saying to themselves: ‘well, they had no future.’ If you are asking how deep the pond runs. It stops with you.” He was right, a manipulative right, but right. I knew he was baiting me. I knew he was also telling the truth. No one cared.
“But, how do you feel about this pond?” I asked him. I knew he wasn’t a moral person, upright person. I was starting to see why Ravi was careful of him.
“I don’t like it,” he said, “but as long as it benefits me, I will use it.” I know he told me once that he wasn’t helping me for charity. He was looking for career building cases. He saw me and capitalized on the opportunity. This is the unfortunate side effect of advocacy.
"Just use my case, Eric," I said to him flatly. I tried to hide the angry in my voice.
"Sure," he said to me simply. He has gotten what he wanted now. I realized who he was.
I remember having a weird dream in the night. I was lying in bed with a pen in my hand fast asleep. I saw myself in third person with ink stains all over my hands. The spectator "me" felt amused at myself being asleep from writing too much. It felt so real that when I woke. I looked for the pen in my hand, but they were clean. Normally on an off day, I would not bother with catching up with the COATS work, but something made me feel like spending my off time over at the Churchhouse.
The truth is the season of sequestration had come. We all held our breaths as advocates understanding this would affect the quality of care of the special needs population. There was no protection in the south. They say every life matters when they preach against abortion. Yet, the same lives that matter are worthless. I admit it was hard being on the blue side as a Christian. People didn't like my kind in the south because we were believed to be baby killers, but we don't believe in making other people's decisions for them. Personally, I would never have an abortion, but just because I am against it for myself, it doesn't mean I should interfere with another person's choice. I believe everyone who says they are against abortion has a moral obligation to adopt a child from foster care. If you are against it, then, do something to show that every child life matters.
The truth is they will not. It is easier to talk than to do, but it is easier to judge than to change. I was struggling with Mara. I did not know what to do. I knew something in me called me to help Mara. I was struggling.
I mentioned something to Eric to see what resources there were
"Why the sudden curiosity in this?" he asked me. I could tell that he was wondering.
"It is in relation to my TBI research," I lied to him, "there is a prevalence of sexual assaults on special needs adults."
He nodded. That answered seemed to satisfy his weariness with me. I was quiet as we both sat there reading. I was editing a letter of appeal of Eric that was going to be mailed soon.
"There are resources," said Eric, "but psychological special needs advocacy is a very tricky field. There is a disproportionate amount of misdiagnosing and refusal to work with "problem" children. The literature is not strong, but there is a high need to reduce school suspensions and punishments among special needs kids."
"Thank you, Eric," I said. I was trying to contain my happiness that I managed to slide this past him so I wouldn't be in trouble from changing my COATS studies.
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br /> I will admit that I broke out into a grin when I walked out of the Churchhouse. It made me happy that I found a resource to help me find the answers that I would need. I knew to help Mara that I would have to understand her first. It took me till later to realize that Eric stopped caring about what I did. He did see things a little differently. What Mrs. K did was a form of blacklisting, I was a blacklisted individual. It continued onto at my school. That realization would start to sink, trust me, when I started reading more heavily on retaliation.
When I arrived back to the dormitory, I made a cup of warm tea. I held warm mug of tea in my hands. I let the bottom of it rub against my fingers that were sore from writing too much. It relieved the pain that I felt. I looked at my computer screen and started researching more into my topics. What you are probably not aware is that I had to do a speech at the end of semester for the COATS program. I was going to have a lot of work to do. I felt something tugging me into the direction of reading about PTSD and sexual abuse. I became engrossed. For now, I was not going to worry about my situations. Later that night, I filed the Office of Civil Rights complaint which put the state into a policy review delaying the decisions longer. People already wanted to decide my future in this state so there was no rush for me to fight it. I accepted the fact that I wasn't going to win against an opinion, but I could win in a different way.