(inspired
by reading the Loud Hands Anthology)
They
thought I was normal. I wasn’t.
See the little girl, watch how she jumps up and
down and flaps her hands when she’s excited or upset, rising up onto her toes; or
how she twists and jiggles her whole body when she doesn’t understand. How she runs
her fingers over the rim of a glass, the handle of a door, the smooth roundness
of a stone. How she becomes absorbed in the ribs of a blade of grass, the
delicate inside of a flower, the clouds ribbing the sky. See her explore her
world through her fingers and her eyes, express her joy or fear or sadness
through her hands, and let it out through her whole body.
See how she’s told to ‘sit quietly, keep still,
don’t fidget, don’t touch you might break it, don’t get so excited, what are
you jiggling for, have you got ants in your pants?”
See the adolescent girl, how she still jiggles and
twists or flaps sometimes, how she likes to suck the collars of her clothes,
chew her fingernails, fiddle with objects, wiggle her toes or tug at her ears, or
‘doodle’ in her schoolbooks. Watch how she likes to lie awake at night, huddling
into the safe cocoon of her bed, staring out the window, and how sometimes she reaches
her hands up, clasping and unclasping as though she could touch the stars.
See how she’s sniggered at, how she’s told ‘leave
that alone for heaven’s sake, pay attention, God you look weird when you do
that, what’s with the dance?’
See the young woman, socially inept and
bumbling, trying to find her place in the world. Observe how she doesn’t need
others now to tell her to be still - increasingly as the years go by, she hides
her ‘weirdness’, stills her hands, her feet, her whole body. See how she only
lets herself move properly when alone. Watch how she slowly develops chronic
pain and stiffness in her neck, back and shoulders. And how sometimes, in the lonely
night, she still stretches her hands out into the dark, as though reaching for
all that eludes her.
See the ‘mature’ woman, how well she can
behave, the social skills she possesses, the polished façade she presents.
Observe how she seems to navigate the ‘normal’ world so easily. Disabled? Not
her, surely.
But if you look closely, you can see the little
signs. The times she stutters, or uses the wrong ‘script’ under pressure. The
deep reserve, as though she is continually holding herself back, for fear
no-one will understand. The shift from one foot to the other, or the sudden
jiggle or shrug of her shoulders. Or the twitch of the hands by her sides, like
she’s flexing cramped fingers. Even now, she cannot entirely quiet her hands.
And if you could see her when she’s absolutely sure
no-one’s looking, especially when her mind is busy but her hands aren’t, you
would see how sometimes she does a sort of flap-twist-shake of her hands, pushing
at the air as though shoving away personal demons, the memories of all those
who demanded she be something she intrinsically isn’t.
They think
I’m normal.
I’m not.
