Today at work, I surprised a fellow associate when I told him that I had been born with cerebral palsy, which had affected my left side since I was a child. He had a surprised look on his face since he could not detect that I had anything wrong, much less a disability. I am a fire safety officer with the security department ata New York City hospital, and my job requires that I be ready to rumble and jump into action at a moment’s notice. But had you seen me when I was 4 years old, you probably would not have thought that I would go that route. In those days, in the middle 60s, my mother had her hands full taking me to the hospital every 3 months to see the doctors at the prestigious Hospital for Joint Diseases on 124th Street in East Harlem. One of the first things we’d do is go over to see Jimmy the cop. Jimmy was a security officer in the hospital, and he always made me feel like a little giant whenever my mom brought me to see him. Then it was on to the doctors where we’d do the same exercises over and over again to see if I needed any special tools to button my shirt or tie my shoe.
As a result of my condition, I walked with a limp, and I also dragged my left foot behind me. When I was three and a half years old, I was fitted with a metal brace on my leg to alleviate this condition.The brace was attached to the ugliest looking Brown looking brown orthopedic shoe you ever laid eyes on. I was always pleading with my mom to let me wear sneakers like the other kids, but she would just console me that one day soon she’d buy me a pair. Along with this special challenge was the added pressure of being a small kid. But, as I was soon to learn, my challenges did not define the size of my heart and the scope of my mind. Starting in 1967, I was part of the national United Cerebral Palsy telethon held at the Ed Sullivan theater in New York City. I remember the special party events we would attend in those days before and after the late autumn telethon. The Christmas parties were a kid’s dream. Even though it was a lifetime ago, I can still remember my name being called, and walking with my mom down the center aisle to meet Ed Sullivan, who shook my little hand. But nothing could top the candy at these parties. Yep, candy was life for a 4-year-old kid. Everything was larger than life when seen through the eyes of a four-year-old. I still walk by and the glance through the windows of the glass door of the old Ed Sullivan theater on West 54th Street which years later became the setting for the David Letterman show in the early eighties. I remember meeting Edie Gorme and her recently deceased husband Steve Lawrence. Every year they supported the telethon and all the kids. Our moment was when they paraded us on the stage and one of the hostesses would sing her song every year.Look at us we’re walking, look at us we’re talking. I can still hear that voice in my head. But it was in 1968 when something happened that made me see things differently. That summer, my sister and cousin were entered into the Little Miss America Pageant at the Palisades Amusement Park, and my mom put me in a several weeks long sleepover camp for kids with CP. I remember arriving at the camp and seeing all these kids who had it much worse than I did. Many in wheelchairs, and some severely disabled. But they smiled and laughed, and did the best they could in the face of their challenges. The counselors were so friendly, and my first crush was a 20 something year old blonde who I thought had taken a special liking to me. Well, at least that’s what I tell myself nowadays. Then, one day it happened. We were at the pool when she shattered the illusion.She proceeded to unstrap her left leg and hop into the pool. My little four-year-old mind was mortified. But she could really get around in that pool though, I’ll tell you that.
As I became familiar with all the kids, I tried my best to help when I was able. Helping them in their chairs, or making life easy whenever I could.
One fine summer day, we were sitting in the group playing our kazoos. There we were, just drooling along to Peter Paul and Mary’s only number one hit song, “Leaving on a Jet Plane”,
when I spied one of the kids 50 ft away on an embankment, tossing rocks at a tree. I left the group, and limped over to where he was in his wheelchair. As I got closer, I could see that he was throwing stones at a hornets nest. I tried drawing attention to us as to what was going on, but it was too late. As I approached his wheelchair, he let loose with a stone, and struck the nest. Faster than you could say lickety split, we were surrounded by hornets who zeroed in on us, stinging to their hearts content. I struggled with his wheelchair trying to roll it down the grassy hill, but try as I might, I was no match for the grassy hill or the hornets. Help arrived, and we were hurriedly rescued by a couple of counselors and taken to the nurse to be patched up with calamine lotion. But the events of that day stood with me for the rest of my life, because it taught me that with great power comes great responsibility. Yeah, I know it sounds cheesy, but I have always tried to live up to that awareness.The next year, I had my leg operation, and the brace came off. I finally got those sneakers. They were skippy’s, but wore them proudly. All these years later, I became a hospital security officer where I continue to make a difference. I especially like to go up to the young kids that are wheelchair bound or get around with the aid of a walker and give them words of encouragement. I’m no Jimmy the cop, but if you need help escaping a hornets nest, I’m your man.