Susan Senator

Perspective is a gift of getting older. More and more, I understand why my dad reminds me of how he struggled with certain issues when he was my age, and how getting older grants you the ability to see beyond them, and to let go, even with a smile. It is true: I remember how, years ago, my therapist told me to picture that younger me, struggling with something or other, and asked what I would say to her now, if I could. I felt so much compassion for that more innocent self. I felt like my own mother.

When Nat calls these days, our phone conversations are very different from any other interaction we had shared before his move-out. He never says, "No talk to Mommy." He gets right on the phone, and even though his voice trembles with some emotion, he always talks to me now and answers my questions. He provides content, which is a very new development. It is as if, by leaving, he has been propelled to another level, where he actually feels the need to communicate with me in a way I will understand. He needs, more than ever, to connect and he seems to be aware of that. He did not ask for our street the last time we talked. Instead, he told me about going running with Jack, and how he had had Chinese food for dinner. His voice was small and a little sad -- or something -- but he was talking to me because he wanted to.

Last night I got a call at 11 p.m. from Max, who had forgotten to call during the day. He is in Vermont with Hannah and her family. I put him on a greyhound Monday morning, reaching up to hug his hard broad shoulders and to kiss his impassive face. Even though I felt some trepidation for him, traveling four hours on his own among strangers, I also felt the excitement he must be feeling, setting out on his first journey alone, to be with his very favorite person. I remember being nineteen, and getting on the train at Stamford, to make the four-hour journey up to Boston to spend time with my amazing boyfriend Ned. The breathless moment of stepping off the train and spotting his handsome face in his ratty clothes. Knowing we had all that time just to be together, in this fantastic fun town. My head swims with the high of that moment.

Max was a little sheepish at first, knowing that he had not done what I had asked him to do. But there was something else that shaped his tone, a softness, a curl of happiness that I had never heard from him on the phone, or perhaps had not heard in a long time. What surprised and touched me even more was the content. He kept offering information, descriptions. He told me how cows were "really disgusting, because they lick their noses, and so their faces are always wet with either saliva or snot." And laughed. He described a beautiful large house, an icy cold pond. Crazy stars.

When I got off the phone, I felt happy, full. I think it was because for the first time in a long time, Max really wanted to talk to me.

Here are the latest no-fail objects or things to do that always please me, or do exactly what they promise, in no particular order.

1) Gewurtzraminer wine
2) Spanx
3) NY Times Sunday Crossword
4) My Cape house
5) Joe's at the Barley Neck in Orleans
6) Dinner with Ruth
7) Mad Men
8) Greg's artistry with my highlights
9) My weed whacker
10) All my sons at home

I was gazing at my Nat's face in the previous blog post and I thought, "Beautiful. You would never know that he is someone that some jerk could call "retarded." I was thinking about Tropic Thunder, and all the latest uproar over the use of the "R" word, uproar that I have participated in. I thought now that perhaps there should be a different kind of slogan campaign to raise awareness about the nastiness of using the word "retarded" as a substitute for "stupid," or "confusing," or whatever, but not the way we have been merely shutting down the word itself.

Here is an example of why I don't think the censure is all that effective. The other day I was at the beach and two young women walked by. One said, "I know! I'm so retarded!" I looked up and I said, "Don't use that word. Please."
She stared at me and I waited for what would come next. I was ready for a fight, actually aching for it. I could take her, I thought...
Her friend said, "I know. I'm always telling her that."
My breathing started up again. But I wondered if the young woman had actually learned anything, other than being shamed. Was shame enough? Would she stop using the word, but still think it is a terrible thing to be retarded? And isn't that the point we really want to get across, that there is nothing wrong with being retarded, cognitively impaired, developmentally delayed, or mentally challenged, or whatever? Just like there is nothing wrong with being autistic! But we don't make everyone say, "neurologically challenged."

How much more meaning this little interaction would have had if she could have gotten just a bit of all the wonder that is Nat. Now, of course, that would be impossible, because she would never get to know him in the brief time we had. And I don't know how he would have felt about getting to know her, since she had such limited judgment as to reduce her own actions to such a narrow level.

So I got to thinking some more about the whole "retarded" thing. And I have to admit that the PC aspect of it does challenge me a little bit, because it does not really address our concerns. It does not educate the offender in a meaningful way. It merely seeks to close mouths against the word. It is authoritarian, rather than informative. It closes the subject, rather than to open a discussion and truly educate. Do we learn by being told, or by being helped to understand and then come to a more accurate conclusion? I submit it is the latter, Your Honor.

And the fact is, there is nothing wrong with the word itself, nothing wrong with being retarded. Some (actually, only one) of my best sons are retarded! Or at least, that's how he tests on those meaningless tests psychologists use (if you ask me, it is the psychologists and others who fail to interpret Nat's very depth of character who are ----- well, you know).

It's that the context has come to mean a put-down. What is wrong with the use of the word is that it seeks to reduce a person to one thing. And that is wrong to do, especially if it is done with nasty intent. (For example, when my husband says, 'you're just a big pile of sugar,' I don't mind it in the least. We both know that I'm more than that, but he is saying it with love and admiration. But when someone says, "Sugar buns," as someone un-Ned called me in college, it is insulting and demeaning, as well as inaccurate.) But when you ridicule someone who can't really think the way typically developing people can, and only see this particular ability as defining them, then that is making fun of that, dehumanizing the person.

It is not the word, that bothers me, exactly. It is the use of the word, the intent. It is even the way people say it, with the emphasis on the first syllable: "RE-tard." Or, here in Boston, "RE-tahd." I thought about Nat's loveliness, and completeness as I looked at his picture and then thought: "The face of a retard," as in the way ad campaigns put a face on a concept: "The face of hunger," with a starving child, etc. But of course that would probably seem to some as horrible, when what I want to do is get them to think about the limited, narrow way we view people with cognitive disabilities. They are so much more than a test score.

How much power there would be in taking back the night, in owning that word rather than running from it. Why don't we consider taking the Eleanor Roosevelt view of the thing, and declare that we cannot be offended except by our own permission?


Retarded.
It's not what you think.

or

Retarded.
It's much more than you think.

or

Retarded.
Think again.

What do you think?

Shanyna Punum. Only Yiddish can capture the feeling here.

Or maybe a Beach Boys song. You see, The Beach Boys were never my cup of tea. But now, they are one of my all-time favorite groups. They had the power to make Nat smile like this, when he saw them in concert Sunday night at the Melody Tent in Hyannis. Heather, his counselor took this picture.

Or maybe it was the fact that he was with Alternative Leisure, his social group organization! (They are the Special Olympics of socializing, and you know how much I adore Special Olympics.) Heather said, "He looked at me when the music started, and I said 'Nat if you want to stand and dance you can.' He was dancing the rest of the night! "

I often feel guilty. I have a difficult time just being happy. I allow myself to be happy on vacations, when one is supposed to be. But regular days: it's tough to slip below that thin but sticky layer of remorse.

Nat is back at the House; Max is going on a trip with friends. Away, away, my darlings. Wistfulness descends. I find nagging thoughts poking around in my head: Should have gone with Ned to drop off Nat, didn't kiss him goodbye. Should take Max to the station myself. Should have listened more animatedly when he described that stupid movie, Clone Wars. Should have gone with Ben to the festival, rather than letting friends take him. Should make better, healthier dinners. Should spend less time on the computer. Should straighten out boys' drawers. Vacuum the filthy laundry room.

Shouldshouldshouldshouldshouldshouldshould

Really, what it is is I should have just been happy when I was younger. When I was a young mother. A young woman. But back then fear ate me alive. And now guilt nibbles. I guess nibbles are better than being devoured. But when will I learn to just be in the now and not only when on vacation?

Good night.

One of our goals for our vacation week was for Ned to go surfing. Et voila!

Our last week at the Cape. What can I say? It was a sparkling jewel.
We picked up Natty on Thursday after his talent show (!) I can't even begin to write about that...

And then we were all together!