| The
Day I Finally Cried |
I didn't cry when I learned I was the
parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and
didn't say anything while my husband and I were informed that
two-year-old Kristi was - as we suspected - retarded.
"Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly.
"Helps prevent serious emotional
difficulties."
Serious difficulties notwithstanding,
I couldn't cry then nor during the months that followed.
When Kristi was old enough to attend school, we enrolled
her in our neighborhood school's kindergarten at age seven.
It would have been comforting to cry the day I left her
in that room full of self-assured,
eager, alert five-year-olds.Kristi had spent hour upon hour
playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the "different"
child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever
known.
However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her
school, and to her schoolmates, too. When boasting of their
own accomplishments, Kristi's classmates always took
pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got all her
spelling words right today." No one bothered
to add that her spelling list was easier than anyone
else's.
During Kristi's second year in school, she faced a very
traumatic experience. The big
public event of the term was a competition based on a culmination
of the year's music and physical education activities. Kristi
was way behind in both music
and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded
the day as well.
On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick.
Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail
in a gymnasium filled with parents,
students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be
just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program
couldn't matter. But my conscience
wouldn't let me off that easily.
So I practically shoved a pale, reluctant
Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded
to be
sick myself.
Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I
forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would
never be time for Kristi's group to perform. When at last
they did, I knew why Kristi had been worried. Her class was
divided into relay teams. With her limp and slow, clumsy reactions,
she would surely hold up her team.
The performance went surprisingly well, though, until it
was time for the gunnysack race.
Now each child had to climb into a sack from a standing position,
hop to a goal line, return and
climb out of the sack.
I watched Kristi standing near the end of her line of players,
looking frantic.
But as Kristi's turn to participate neared, a change took
place in her team. The tallest boy in
the line stepped behind Kristi and placed his hands
on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of her.
The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped from the
sack, those two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while
the tall boy lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it.
A girl in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her
briefly until Kristi gained her balance.
Then off she hopped, smiling and proud.
Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I
crept off by myself to thank God for the warm, understanding
people in life who make it possible for my disabled daughter
to be like her fellow human beings.
Then I finally cried.
By Meg Hill |
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用红色标出的部分是martin觉得对于提高我们自身英文水平非常有帮助的一些单词、短语或句子， 我希望在我们的心灵为之触动之余，也可以获得一些额外的收获。 |
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