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 serio

us emotional difficulties."

　　Serious difficulties notwithstanding, I couldn't cry then nor durin

g 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 roo

m full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds.Kristi had spent ho

ur upon hour playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the "dif

ferent" child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever kno

wn.

　　However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school, a

nd to her schoolmates, too. When boasting of their own accomplishments,

Kristi's classmates always took pains to praise her as well: "Kristi g

ot 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 e

xperience. The big public event of the term was a competition based on

a culmination of the year's music and physical education activities. Kr

isti was way behind in both　music and motor coordination. My husband a

nd 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 w

ith parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be

just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't mat

ter. But my conscience wouldn't let me off that easily. So I practicall

y 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 myse

lf to go to the program. It seemed that it would never be time for Kris

ti's group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why Kristi had bee

n worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and sl

ow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team.

　　The performance went surprisingly well, though, until it was time f

or the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into a sack from a s

tanding 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, look

ing 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 han

d and supported her briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off s

he hopped, smiling and proud.

　　Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I crept off b

y myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people in life who ma

ke it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow human bei

ngs.

　　Then I finally cried.

By Meg Hill
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