As a child I enjoyed the friendship of Lee. In fact, I was flattered by his friendship, as were many of my first grade classmates. Lee was a happy child, with a smile that even today I can remember as brightening the day. Lee was always invited to birthday parties and always managed to attend. I remember my birthday party was on the same day as another girl in the class. While many of the children chose which party they would attend, Lee spent time at both.

I am sure that you are wondering why I am writing about a happy, friendly boy who I knew many years ago. Lee had muscular dystrophy. He walked with the aid of braces on his legs. My classmates and I really did not seem to be concerned with this and we just tended to go a little slower when we walked with Lee. Lee was never labeled, by the kids, teachers or parents as a “cripple” or “handicapped”. Years later, when hearing these terms, I thought back and remembered that Lee was Lee; not a big deal.

Some years ago, I applied for a position with a Human Service agency and was invited to interview. As the interview progressed, I was impressed with the philosophy and mission of the agency and the person who was interviewing me. And then came the one question that had me shaking my head; the interviewer asked the question, “how would you feel about working with co-workers who have disabilities?” I thought this was an interesting question, made by someone who obviously cared about people in the community at large who have disabilities. I remember answering that people are people, and are accepted or not accepted for their values and treatment of others, rather than by whether they can walk, see or hear.

At the age of 9, in fifth grade, my family uprooted and moved to a city in the “South”. I was taken from my comfortable environment, with friends whose families shared my faith, to a place where I was suddenly “different”. Not different because of my appearance or because I had a disability, but because I was “of a different faith.” At this young age, I was called a variety of names by children who were my peers. I had no idea what any of this was about, after all, I had been somewhat sheltered. The people I knew who were different looked or acted different, so I did not understand. I did not then, nor do I now, understand discrimination, whether due to race, nationality, religion or disability.

While I was growing up, I had a cousin, Sylvia. Sylvia was a grown up, but she still lived with her parents. Sylvia was little kid size and seemed much younger than she was. Sylvia was nice and she was fun to be around. She was always with us during holidays and family celebrations. Several years went by, and I did not see Sylvia. When I understood that Sylvia was different and asked about her, the answer was strange – I was told she still lived with her parents, and always would, because she was a “mongoloid”.

I remember thinking she must have been adopted, because our family was all from Russia and Romania. No one was from Mongolia.
Today, as I write this, I am “celebrating” a milestone birthday. This year I have entered a new class of citizen; I am now officially a senior, having reached retirement age. How do I feel about having co-workers who are “youngsters”, you might wonder? Actually, I still feel that people are people.