“Always a Crutch”

My father practically dragged me out of bed that morning.

“Do we have to go today?” I asked . “I wanted to try out those new piano books that Dr. Viscoli recommended.”

“You’re always on the piano,” Dad said. “Besides, you need this.”

I felt a lump in my throat and clenched my fists in annoyance. The old man always had a way of laying it out cold and hard for me, unlike Mom.

God, how I wanted to play that piano. I was aching to try out a few of the new songs I had seen in those books. Hell, even drilling over the dull and boring scales looked  like a birthday party compared to what I was being forced to do. I wanted to be anywhere but where we were going.

As my dad had explained to me during the ride down to my soon-be-home at Minnesota State University, Mankato, he had made a “last minute decision” to get everything done early that morning before the weather changed to thunderstorms in the afternoon. Logically, his plan made sense- I just would’ve appreciated him telling me in advance, instead of unexpectedly hoisting me out of bed near the crack of dawn and pushing me out the door. Like me, my father didn’t seem to have any forethought into what he was doing.

All aggravations aside, though, I was still absorbing the shock of how quickly things had flipped around in my life. Only two weeks before, I was set up to start my third year of classes at Normandale Community College, but through a last minute decision- as if I already didn’t have enough of those- I was moving now to a full-scale university!

***

We parked the car and crossed the campus. To the north was Crawford Hall, where I was planning to have a dorm the following semester, and I recognized the library building in front of us, which was the structure we were headed for; too bad we weren’t going there to read books.

To the south, I could see the tallest and most distinctive buildings of MSU- the twin towers of the Gage complex, rising behind another building.

That’s where the freshmen have to stay, I thought. What were they? 18? 19 years old?

If it hadn’t already dawned on me that I was starting university life at an age where most kids were graduating, having my father along as an escort did plenty to make me feel underdeveloped and maladjusted.

I fixed my gaze on him as he walked directly ahead of me and felt a twinge of embarrassment. There he was, hobbling along with that distinctive, funny little gait that was all his own. He seemed to walk like a man who marched to his own drum line. He certainly dressed like it, wearing his vintage dark, gray shorts, though technically they were neither dark, gray, nor shorts! If anything they were more of a spotted, faded gray from too many days of oil, dirt, and grease out in the shed and garage.

As for the shorts part, it was well-known in our family that when Dad got new work pants that he would personally cut the legs of his old ones up with a cardboard knife until they were well over the height of his knobby pale knees. The purpose of this, he reasoned, was to keep him cool in the summer’s searing heat. But for the rest of us, it made great fodder for jokes.

My mother had already presented Dad’s shorts to him as proof that he lacked what she had dubbed “a rear-end.” She was reminded of this fact whenever trying to fit herself into an automobile and found the car seat moved all the way forward.

So there was Dad, short shorts, funny gait and all, walking so confidently that an outsider wouldn’t have known he had no idea where he was leading me.

“This way,” I muttered when he had taken a wrong turn on the sidewalk. For a second, he looked a little confused, like he had been thrown off of his bearings; then it was Dad’s turn to follow as we made our way toward the library.

This did little for my confidence, though. I still felt like a little cub walking in papa bear’s footsteps.

Do I really need an “adult” to accompany me on this? I thought. Do I really need someone to pamper and hold my hand for this? Well, then again, when WAS I finally going to enter the Office for Disabilities?

The thought echoed cavernously throughout my head, and in its reverberations that critical voice was harping on me once more:

Oh Daddy’s gotta accompany ya, Ryan… Daddy’s gotta hold your hand…. You’re not an adult taking care of yourself… You’ve never even been on your own… There you are, just a little kid in the body of a young man- a ‘man-boy.’

I recoiled at the thought. This WAS embarrassing.

God, why can’t he go and leave me alone some days? If anyone sees me at this place, I could just as well be shot…then again, why am I so embarrassed? How did it come down to this? How did I get here in the first place?

***

I may have wanted nothing to do with the disabilities office, but my mother had been royally chapping my hide about getting into their student assistance program.

“You need to get special help,” she said.

“Oh really?” I argued. “I get ‘special’ help, caged away from the rest of the class, is that it, Mom? All because I’m so very ‘special,’ right?”

She knew what I was referring to. The last time I had heard her say something similar to this was in the third grade when she made me go to that dreaded Room 302.

To me, going to the disabilities center was like publicly declaring that something was wrong with me. And there wasn’t, right? After all, I wore no helmet and sat in no wheelchair; I had nothing anyone could see that classified me as having a “real disability.” I felt “normal,” didn’t I? I looked “normal.” Why should I be so coddled?

I felt like an imposter; a whiny weak codependent; someone who was playing up his laziness as a “disability” so he could work the system, have an unfair advantage, get a free pass to cheat, and worst of all, suckle society at the teat!

Worse than being on the short bus was being the guy who’s faking it on the short bus.  I felt nothing but shame.

“It’s always a crutch for weak people, Ma. For the last time, I don’t need help! I don’t have a disability.”

My mother stood there, her lips pursed.

“Ryan, whether you want to call it that or not, you need help. They may even help you keep organized.”

“Oh come on!” I said. “I’m grown up enough to do things by myself! Why not just cut me off at the balls while you’re at it?”

My mother’s pursed lips were stiffening and turning white. She threw out another comment as a last resort.

“They might also be able to help you with note-takers, too.”

I practically exploded.

“I don’t need a note-taker!” I yelled. “I’m not STUPID! I’ve been writing notes since kindergarten! I know how to write my own damn notes!”

Mom pivoted and left the room as Dad appeared in the hall, having heard enough to weigh in on the matter.

“You’re going,” he said straight to me.

“What?” I was stopped, my mouth partially open.

“You need it,” Dad said. He was as resolute about that as he was about WD-40.

I looked at him dumbfounded.

“You’re with her on this?”

Dad, of all people, Mr. “Keep-a-stiff-lip-and-pull-your-own-weight” himself, agrees with Mom?!

***

The memory was nagging on my mind as we made our way to the front of the brick building, accompanied by the usual harassing voices as I walked along:

…You don’t need this shit…

…You’re supposed to fend for yourself. God, you’re not even a man…

…Poor little baby Ryan has to have Daddy escort him in…

…Boy, did you really fuck up…

…If you had only tried harder with the grades…

…Now you’re getting thrown into this bullshit program. It won’t be long before they find you out. The truth’s just staring you in the eyes: You’re a fake…

…You have no  real disability. After all, you can easily pay attention whenever you want to…

…They’ll find you out when they give you those notes. Then you’ll probably get kicked out of school for good…

We went through the library’s doors. At the entrance to the right was a staircase that led down to Hades, known to everyone else as the Office for Disabilities. I took a gulp: where was that sign that told me to abandon all hope once I descended? I knew this was the point of no return.

Now you’ll have to have somebody monitor your every move throughout the rest of college, Ryan.

The hesitation lasted no more than a split second- with Dad right behind me, I had no choice but to move down the stairs and push the door open to the center immediately at the bottom.

This is so embarrassing. Why can’t we-

The first thing I saw upon entering was a large, heavy, and well-polished wooden desk, and behind it sat a college student- a Korean girl, and a cute one at that.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked.

“I…um…” it was partially her looks that distracted me, but I was also at a loss for words. I didn’t know what to say:

Hi there, I’m mental?

I’m here to report a disability?

I’m a fraud who’s come to illegally take advantage of your services and tax dollars by making my fellow peers pamper me through college with their notes…?

“Is Jamie Frost at this office?” It was my Dad who spoke for me.

“Oh yes. Did you need to see her?” Her voice was pretty cute, too.

“We’re supposed to meet with her at 11 o’clock.” I was glad he had said something first. I couldn’t even remember the lady’s name, let alone the time we were supposed to meet. I could only think of a sea of perils I would probably have to face once I was initiated into this program- well, that and the cute face of the Korean girl:

Will I be blanketed under constant monitoring?

Will I have to attend mandatory “group” sessions, where I’ll be in company with other students who were forced into this program, students in wheelchairs and helmets; students with “real” disabilities?

Ah Jaime, I thought. My new warden. I can hear her now:

“Never take this device off. It’s just protocol, but we might taser you.”

After a short wait (during which I tried to flirt up a storm with the Korean girl), the tinted-window office door opened and a middle-aged blonde-hair woman came out to greet us.

“Hello there, you must be Ryan.”

“Hi,” I said, feigning a polite smile.

“My name is Jaime. I believe you’re the one I spoke to on the phone,” she said, switching to my father.

“I’m the dad,” he said, his smile a little convex and goofy, Dad’s eclectic brand of social etiquette. Sometimes I swore he approached these formal encounters as if he had some inner joke that only he was in on.

Jaime led us into an office in the back hallway where there was a meeting table and a few chairs. Once we sat down, she went straight to business.

“So your father spoke to me on the phone, and I understand that you need some assistance for when you begin classes?” I was a little thrown off guard, having never thought of the word “assistance” before. To me, the words in my head were always “special help,” “accommodations,” or, in a less optimistic tone from me, “bailouts.”

“Um…yeah, I- I guess so…” I said, looking down at the table in the direction of my father. I’m guessing Jamie must’ve detected the lack of steam coming out of my voice from what she said next.

“You don’t believe you need help?”

“Well, I…I-“ It took me a few moments of thinking before I could answer. “I don’t know.” I didn’t want to tell her for a fear of offending her. But of course, Dad didn’t hesitate.

“He had assistance at the last school he went to.”

“Normandale,” I added.

“Oh, you had?” she asked. “What did you think?”

“Well…” I paused, trying to think of what to say next.

“He hated it-“

“Dad! That’s not it at ALL!”

“Well, what do I know?” he said, almost as if he were mainly just prodding me along to get it out for her.

“It’s just that..well, I don’t know if this is what I really need. I try to work as hard as I can, and I just want to know that I gave it my best and didn’t get any special help.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having somebody help you out,” Dad said.

“Yeah, but I want to earn my grade. Even if it’s not the one I wanted, at least I did it. I got the grade because that’s my work.”

Dad glanced away for a split second. Jamie seemed to be picking up on several things.

“Well, Ryan,” she began, her voice calm and collected, “I know how difficult it must be for you to accept the idea that perhaps you need aid. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s usually the toughest thing most students have to go through when they come in here asking for assistance.”

I had no idea of that, I thought.

“It’s just that I already had this at Normandale,” I said. “I just…well, I don’t really feel comfortable having somebody else taking my notes for me.”

Jamie sat back in her chair. “Ah, I see,” she said. “Did those notes ever help you at all during your stay at Normandale?”

“Well…no, I mean…well, I didn’t want to really use them that often,” I said, almost as if I were the child who was caught cheating on his afternoon quiz. “I-I tried not to look at them, but…you see, I…I don’t know!”

“You feel pretty guilty about using a note-taker, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” Resolutely, I looked up to make eye contact with her, but upon admitting my guilty feelings, they went down once more. “I don’t like the feeling of having someone else doing the work for me.”

“But they’re not doing the work for you, Ryan.” Jamie said. “YOU still have to study them. It’s just that we know that a lot of our students with ADHD, dyslexia, and other issues can sometimes need help with writing notes. As long as you attend your classes and are doing everything you should be doing, it’s perfectly fine!”

That’s a different way of putting things, I thought.

“I guess my problem is that, well, I feel like this whole ADHD thing is really, well…”

“An excuse?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I just feel like I’m no longer in control or can be responsible for my work. I’ve always felt that any special privileges- I mean, any special accommodations- they make things- well, I mean, is-is that fair in the end?” I had finally gotten to my point. “That’s all I want to know- is it fair?”

“Well Ryan,” Jamie began, with a look of serene confidence on her face. “Doctors, educators as well as other experts are now regularly teaching us that ADHD is a challenge, not an excuse. Our job here is to make sure that YOU can have a fair chance at not only meeting those challenges, but of overcoming them. There’s nothing unfair about getting an equal opportunity to participate in your educational environment.”

I was looking forward, attempting to absorb all that she had just said, but she continued.

“See, Ryan, MSU, like other colleges and universities around the country, is mandated by federal and state government to make sure its institutions are fully accessible to everyone. The faculty and staff should always treat you with dignity and respect, and they’re pretty good when it comes to accommodating students who use our services. In no way is this stopping you or anyone else from meeting your academic responsibilities; in fact, it’s there so that everyone can participate on a leveled playing field, so to speak.”

“So it’s not to fling me by things and have an unfair advantage, then?”
“Absolutely not,” she said with a huge smile, “but the choice is, in the end, up to you, really.”

“So what’ll it be?” my Dad asked, wanting to get things done. He had been patiently waiting the last 15 minutes while I spoke to Jamie, and now looking at her, I realized that she was patiently waiting as well.

Well, Ryan? To baby or not to baby…?

***