Other secrets leave a lump so big that words are lost somewhere in the depths of sadness. And if I could give one visual to describe what living with this secret has been like, it would be like watching a trapeze artist.
The truth is I’ve spent a good portion of my life thus far convincing those with whom I meet that I don’t need their pity; that despite all the obvious limitations of living life in a wheelchair, I live a full, meaningful and rewarding life.
In fact, I’ve gone to extreme measures to reinforce this point.
Truthfully, one of my main motivations for becoming an attorney besides the opportunity it afforded to advance and advocate for social justice, was to prove something to all those naysayers who said a guy in a wheelchair could never do that. Ironically, it was this pride that led to one of the saddest and lonely days of my life — the day I graduated from law school.
Certainly, I felt the weight of this achievement as my name was called, but I also felt an awesome letdown. With the degree, the act was over. For three years, I basked in the prestige of being that guy in a wheelchair chasing what was illusive to many, let alone someone with a physical disability. My mind raced as I plotted what the encore would be and how I would set myself apart from the unrequited dreams that littered my own landscape and the lives of others.
For instance, I saw how the dream of higher education had been bestowed on many persons with disabilities. However, outside of the grand ivory tower was still a world waiting with closed minds and doors.
I was given one of this society’s great equalizers, a formal education. But that alone did not take me out of poverty’s grip. It didn’t keep me from food stamps or energy assistance. It didn’t keep me from nearly two years of joblessness and ensuing hopelessness.
My sharing of a tale such as this calls into question all of my efforts to live a life free of your pity and severely weakens my proposition that my life is indeed as full as yours. And with it, my secret trapeze high wire act is revealed.
The truth is I really don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be marginalized as an object of anyone’s charity. If I’m given an opportunity, I want it on the merits and not because someone wanted to feel good about giving that guy in a wheelchair a shot.
On the other hand, I also yearn for you to understand, to the extent possible, what it is to be me — that amid the backdrop of achievement and its many blessings, has been a life of stunning isolation and deep loneliness; that not even a law degree can erase those long summer days filled with television instead of bikes and baseball games with friends.
So, here I am, on the same high wire I’ve found myself on for so long: the balance between your pity and your understanding.
The show must go on, I suppose.
Shawn Murinko is the state Department of Transportation’s ADA compliance officer and serves as a commissioner on the state Human Rights Commission. A member of The Olympian’s Diversity Panel, Murinko, who has cerebral palsy and uses a wheelchair, can be reached at smurinko@comcast.net.
