When I was a lil’ Catholic School girl, I walked about a block or so to my bus stop. I was the only kid there as the other kids caught a later bus to the local school. I had to get there early because, given the distance between stops, my bus could come within a 15 minute window of time. The house my stop was in front of housed 2 sisters. One, who was beautiful, would rock out with loud music while, I assume, she was getting ready for school. Her sister, who was a bit younger , was mentally challenged. I remember the beautiful one yelling at her a lot, but like I would expect an older sister would, not because of her disability.
I recall the younger girl, on occasion, coming out to talk to me. Later, when I attended public school, in the 9th grade I would learn the older sister was my age. A few short years later, by the time we attended High School together, they had moved. But I was always envious of her natural beauty. I am not sure why we never became friends. She was rather aloof and hung out with some other girls that I always assumed were mean.
At work, there is a gal that works in our mailroom I have had the pleasure of encountering on several occasions. Since I am the only person from my department in the main building, my mail has proven to be an occasional challenge and she has never missed the chance to tell me so.
Recently, I was reviewing the organization chart for the group the mailroom belongs to.
I recognized the last name. It was the same name of the pretty girl who’s house I sat in front of during those Catholic School days. The girl in the mailroom, Jennifer, was the mentally challenged sister.
I approached her that day, telling her I knew she had a sister named Whitney and I knew what street she used to live on. Of course I did not do this in a frightening, stalkerish way!
She immediately began to blush and showed me pictures of her sister and nephews.
My big world got a little smaller that day. It also brought back memories of sitting on that COLD concrete sidewalk, waiting for that bus to come – sometimes wondering if I was too late or if it was way late.
I remember that cold December morning in 1980 when I had heard on the radio that John Lennon had been shot. I was 13 years old. I sat at my bus stop and pondered why something so senseless had occurred.
Then there was the more mundane memories. Like that huge shrub that edged the sidewalk and had these disgusting worms/slugs that would cocoon themselves around the evergreen leaves of the bush. Creepy, gross and freaky. Sometimes one would peer out of the edge of it’s cocoon and scare the crap out of me.
I find it comforting to know what happened to “someone like” Jennifer. She seems happy, is gainfully employed and considered a valued employee. This hits home more today than ever. Expecting my 2nd child at the age of 41 has given me an increased change to have a disabled child. Seeing a strong woman like Sarah Palin have a Downs Syndrome baby and seeing a woman like Jennifer living their lives to the fullest brings a new strength I may need to rely on in the future, should that be God’s plan for me.
