Don’t Tell Him He’s Different
Differences define us, but do we always embrace them wholeheartedly? Sebastian Junger wrote a book called Tribe, about the human instinct to want to belong. It argues that modern society has weakened this sense of inclusive community, igniting a sense of divisiveness and isolation. We all want to feel a part of something, validated- rooting for the winning team. What happens when the star quarterback gets injured and goes down for the season, or we develop a visible abnormality that separates us from the herd?
“Many people will look at a person who is physically disabled and say: “What’s good about a bird that can’t fly? Tell them, ‘Birds sing too!’”
It can be scary to be or feel different: to understand that you have a disability that sets you apart from the others. You are no longer with the tribe or on the winning side of the ball game. You are different, unique, quirky, and disabled. But let me ask — are you actually all of those things? That depends on how you think, your choices, and how you live your life.
Henry (Hank) Wightman’s story follows. He has a clear answer to that question, especially for those who are disabled.
A Remarkable Story
Hank was born in 1924 and diagnosed with polio at 20 months, making his arm and both legs extremely weak and useless. His parents refused to put him in a wheelchair because they thought he would be bound by it. He hated wheelchairs because people (back then) often (or always) considered the inhabitant to have lower intelligence.
He crawled, even at school (back then). He used a tricycle his father made with hand pedals. In the winter, a neighbor dragged him to school on a wagon or sled (including back home for lunch). When he got older, he used a little motor car.
At age nine, Hank had to sleep strapped on a board with his hips higher than his body to correct his spine. But he rarely missed a day of school. Back then, you went to school. Every day. His parents fought school administrators who advocated for him to attend an institution.
After Hank’s last surgery, he could finally walk with crutches (at the forearms). He got himself a scooter later in life.
Ontario cut down the corners of the roads, making them navigable for his scooter.
He got his driver’s license at age 16 and used his right arm to lift his leg from the accelerator to brake! He drove all over with no accidents and could load his scooter onto the hatchback of a vehicle when he was 70 years old. He drove until the year he died.
His mother taught him to play the piano (his left arm managed OK), and he played in bands throughout high school and college, playing "by ear." He enjoyed playing the piano for the rest of his life, such as at adult parties.
Birds Sing Too
Many articles were written about Hank. The first was published in MacLean’s Magazine in 1946, when he graduated from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, and was titled “He licked polio.” He was embarrassed by the article.
He hated photographs of himself unless he was seated (and crutches were not shown). Reporters or photographers rarely photographed him, showing his physical handicap or wheelchair.
A friend once told him not to worry about his appearance because people are more preoccupied with their own.
Hank ultimately learned that said audiences will focus more on your words if you get rid of their curiosity about your crutches (or visible handicap) by including a very short explanation right at the start, before the presentation.
“You do as much as you can to make the child mobile and then you leave him to cope, he must not start with the idea that he’s in any way less than anyone else.”
A second article was published in The Ottawa Citizen in 1981 in which the author conveys Hank’s view that to tell a child “he’s different” is the “worst damn thing you could do.
Hank believes kids are not naturally unkind but rather flexible and easily accept differences if given the space to do so. It’s adults who are the problem and don’t want their kids associating with those who are disabled.
Standing with the Tribe
“A handicap is not a ticket to a special category, a passport to separation from the general populace.”
Hank came from a modest, loving family that was never overprotective. Nothing was offered on a silver platter, and he was forced to make additional efforts throughout his life.
And he did. He became a successful father of four children, a newspaper reporter, and a businessman.
He never saw himself as different.
He was the scorekeeper or timekeeper when other guys were throwing baseballs or footballs. As an older gentleman, he pleaded with parents to avoid instilling a handicap mentality in disabled children. Kids can absorb “different as less, and we want to avoid that.”
As I write this blog, I realize that perceptions have changed over the years, and people are not quite as quick to assume incompetence in those who are different. Understandings of what “disability” is have morphed with the passage of time and yet, Hank’s voice still rings deeply in my ear.
“Don’t tell him he’s different.”
It wasn’t until grade eight that Hank realized how physically disabled he was. He would not be called different, and he led his life accordingly. Hank always hated special-ed groups and handicap associations and was relieved when he learned that parents could decline special education services. I wonder if he would feel the same way today.
I have learned many lessons from Hank’s story. Different can be absorbed as “less than,” and we must be vigilant in making sure that when we diagnose students with disabilities, we do not label or exclude these individuals from the tribe to which we are all entitled to belong.
