nature of disability – Page 5

Working Class Hero

By Mark E. Smith

John Lennon coined it, and I’ve always believed in living it – as a father, as a bread winner and, yes, as one with a disability: A working class hero is something to be.

See, to me, a working class hero isn’t about a literal vocation or social class, but about drive and determination. Are you strong enough every morning, regardless of the challenges you face, to put your boots on and go into your day willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done, with little reward beyond knowing you’ve done right?

And, like I said, this purest form of heroism isn’t about vocation or social class. Yes, the roofer who’s on a roof in July, working 12 hours a day with 130-degrees radiating around him, all to support his family, is a literal working class hero. But, so is a full-time single parent. And, so is one sustaining sobriety. And, so is one thriving with a disability. Although each of these examples are very different – and you can insert any life path into the list that requires internal tenacity to succeed – they all demonstrate an extraordinary work ethic, they all demonstrate quiet, dignified heroics in everyday life.

And, there’s a certain rebellion to being a working class hero, where when life presents roadblocks that others don’t have the strength or courage to knock down, you utter a barely audible F-you, and fight your way through. Working class heroes punch adversity in the face and proceed on.

I want to introduce you to a working class hero of mine, Scott Belkner, who puts on his boots every day and just goes to work. There’s no one motivating Scott but Scott. He’s not someone you know, no fame or money. But, he demonstrates an internal work ethic that demands respect, that sets the bar for how so many of us should approach our lives.

Watch Scott’s story, and I bet he becomes a working class hero of yours, too.

Times of Need

By Mark E. Smith

For most of us, we’re far more comfortable giving than receiving. Yet, giving and receiving must be equally embraced if we are to truly have healthy, reciprocating relationships. Just as we strive to love and support others in their times of need, we must welcome their love and support in our times of need.

Now, I know it can be hard, where pride and ego can make it very emotionally difficult to receive in times of need. If you’ve been the bread-winner in your family, and your in-laws want to pay your mortgage because you’ve been out of work, that may be a difficult gift to receive. If you have a disability and your spouse wants to help with your daily care, that can be a difficult gift to receive. Or, if you’re a single parent and friends wish to watch your children to give you a break, that can be a difficult gift to receive. The examples go on and on, and I’m sure that you can think of examples from your own life where you’ve emotionally struggled with receiving from others on some level. However, here’s the heartfelt truth: when others offer to support us in our times of need, they do so out of love, and if we – again, out of falsities of pride, ego or embarrassment – reject their support, it will almost always be interpreted as some sort of rejection of their love. What’s more, in an intimate relationship, if we are always striving to be there for our partners, but won’t allow them to be there for us, it can be like slamming an emotional door in their face – and the inequity created will destroy the relationship. The fact is, love isn’t just about giving, but receiving.

One aspect of my life is that I can aspirate in my sleep, a very dangerous condition. Fortunately, due to preventative measures, I keep it under control, and when I do awake aspirating, I’m able to roll over and sit up, literally saving my life at times. Unfortunately, because my lungs fill with fluid, I become extraordinarily ill for 10 to 12 hours, with a 102-degree fever, till my lungs clear. As you might imagine, this can be really scary for my partner. Therefore, in wanting to protect her, I wouldn’t wake her up when it happened. In the morning, however, she’d become upset with me, knowing that I aspirated but didn’t wake her up. However, she wasn’t upset out of anger but love. When our partner is sick, we want to be there for him or her, and through my stubbornness, I wasn’t allowing her to be there for me. Not only was I wrong by robbing her of peace of mind – as she wanted to be immediately aware of the situation so she could help – but I also wasn’t fostering a reciprocating relationship. I wanted to give, give, give to her, but indirectly, I wasn’t fully allowing her to give back in among my times of need. That was painful for her to experience, and lousy on my part by thwarting reciprocation in our relationship. As a result, I became much more respectful of her concern for me, letting her know when I aspirated, allowing her to care for me. If we are to truly love someone, we must let him or her truly love us in our times of need, as well.

See, in loving, the one aspect we wish most is peace of mind. We want to know that those we love are healthy, safe and secure. The same goes for those who love us – that is, they want to know we’re healthy, safe and secure. And when we don’t allow others in, it causes them stress, anxiety and heartache. Letting others be there for us, as we wish to be there for them, offers peace of mind to those we love – and that’s one of the most humble yet powerful gifts we can give.

I discussed this overall subject with my sister, and she replied that it takes tremendous humility to allow others to be there for us in our most vulnerable times of need. And, she was right. We must let down our guard and inherently trust that those wishing to be there for us do so out of unconditional love and respect, and we should never interject insecurities into the dynamic. If someone wishes to assist you out of love and respect, allow him or her, as it’s a testament to your character, too.

Ultimately, no one gets through life alone. When we’re fortunate, we have the opportunity to love and support others in their times of need. However, let us not forget that love is reciprocation, and we must allow others to likewise love and support us if we are to have truly healthy relationships. Therefore, sometimes the greatest gift that we can give someone we love is the sincere opportunity for him or her to love and support us in return – especially in our times of need.

Real Men Use Electric Razors

By Mark E. Smith

I know a lot about strength. No, it’s not because I’ve long worked out with weights, toned and trim for a man my age. Rather, I know a lot about strength because I know that’s what it takes to expose my every vulnerability to those around me.

It’s natural that all of us feel a need to “present” ourselves in the best light, not wanting others to see our vulnerabilities, possibly perceived as weaknesses, at least in our own minds. After all, our biggest fear as social creatures is rejection. And, while there are certain environments where putting only our best face forward is appropriate, such as a job interview, there are other circumstances where if we’re going to demonstrate our ultimate strength, it means exposing our ultimate vulnerabilities.

I was recently at an event where I was fortunate to be a known figure, fitting the cultural norm of “strength.” I was a bit of a celebrity or politician, you might say. I was well-dressed, poised, blessed with the graciousness of many recognizing me. And, I had the privilege of having my partner with me, where she witnessed me move through the event as a “man of strength.” And, isn’t that how we want our romantic partners to see us: successful, poised and recognized as someone of merit?

Yet, for me, there was ultimately nothing proud or strong about any of that. Sure, I was authentic in truly caring about the people around us, and humbled by the recognition. But, breezing through a crowd with my hair combed just right and people recognizing me didn’t make me strong. What made me strong was what happened hours earlier, that only one other person knew about – my partner.

See, having cerebral palsy often makes me the opposite of poised, far outside the cultural framework of masculinity, the archetypical male model we see shaving shirtless in the mirror of Gillette commercials. Rather, I have vulnerabilities. But, that in itself gets to my definition of the epitome of masculine strength – that is, having the courage to share with others your deepest vulnerabilities, where you don’t hide any part of you, allowing others to see all of you. That takes the truest form of strength.

And, although I’d strolled through the event poised, of strength, hours earlier my partner and I shared a much different reality: my vulnerabilities. I wasn’t a recognized figure in a tie and jacket, but a man with severe cerebral palsy struggling to go through my morning routine in a hotel room not set-up for my needs. And, my partner both witnessed and assisted with my struggles. And, with the truest of strength, I shared with her my utmost vulnerabilities. Yes, it was emotionally scary. And, yes, it was embarrassing at moments. However, most of all, it was ultimately liberating. Just being you, in your most vulnerable ways, and letting another see and accept you as-is, supporting you as-is, is a life-changing experience.

What I’ve learned is that the minute that we have the strength to drop all pretenses, and share our utmost vulnerabilities with someone we trust, it removes all between us, and our relationships become deeper and totally authentic. Masks create barriers to intimacy, whereas having the courage, the strength to remove them allows us to be us, and others to love us for us.

In this way, if you want to live with ultimate strength, there’s only one way to do it: have the courage to share your ultimate vulnerabilities. And, I don’t worry about being the guy in the Gillette commercial – I have an electric razor.

Surfing Mavericks

By Mark E. Smith

In 1967, three surfers and their German shepherd, Maverick, hiked down to Pillar Point in Northern California, discovering among the biggest waves on Earth, questionable whether they could be surfed?

As the three surfers paddled out into the seemingly impossible, literally risking their lives, they soon realized that Maverick, who loved swimming pools, was beside them, paddling along in the Pacific toward monster waves. Alarmed for the dog’s safety, they promptly returned to shore, tying him up, protecting the dog from his own fearlessness. Then, the three friends paddled out, opting to surf smaller waves off to the side, avoiding the giant waves Maverick was heading toward.

Gradually, word spread about the insanely large waves off of Pillar Point, where till this day, the best big-wave surfers in the world try their luck. …And, so “Mavericks” was named after the dog – an iconic surf destination off of Pillar Point.

However, it can be surmised that the legend of Maverick, the fearless dog, didn’t end with a renown surf location named after him. See, in California surf culture, there’s an acronym, F.I.D.L.E.R, which means, F- it, Dog, life’s a risk. In other words, have no fear, and just go for it – life’s short, so live it.

At some point, I’ve all but stopped having fear, worrying or even stressing about pretty much everything. This doesn’t mean I’m irresponsible or don’t care. To the contrary, I’m ultra-responsible and take what I do very seriously. But, I don’t fear, worry or stress about much of anything. I’m like Maverick the dog – that is, I just go for it.

In a few weeks, I’m saddling up in my power chair and hitting the skies once again – Philly to LA to Vancouver to Phoenix, then back to Philly, with a monster itinerary packed in. And, while my gracious staff has covered every possible arrangement, ensuring that my travels are as planned out as possible, I’m arguably the least concerned. I have my plane tickets, my power chair, my passport and a debit card. FIDLAR – I’m ready to roll! With so much on my itinerary, aspects will go wrong. But, when they do, I’ll handle them. I have absolute confidence in being able to address whatever comes my way. I’m like Maverick the dog, just happy to be paddling into an awesome adventure.

People often think that fear, worry and stress are signs that one cares. However, the opposite is true. Fear, worry and stress say only one thing: you don’t feel in control. We know that people who perform at peak levels – surgeons, athletes, soldiers – often have lower heart rates when in a seeming situation of extreme pressure, moving to the opposite of fear, worry and stress. Fear, worry and stress typically hurts us, it doesn’t help us.

I think about relationships a lot because they are the cornerstone of our lives. And, one key I’ve learned is that feeding unsubstantiated fear, worry and stress into a relationship will destroy it. I mean, if your partner is demonstrating absolute consistent love toward you, don’t question it with fear, worry or stress, but embrace it with security, trust and comfort. If we’re going to experience life-changing love, we can’t question and hold back on an amazing relationship. Rather, we need a bit of FIDLAR in our hearts, and just go for it.

Indeed, we live in a culture where too many hold their lives back based on fear and its corresponding emotions. However, if we want to truly live our dreams – pursue an ideal career, live in the locale we wish, have a breathtaking relationship – there’s only one dog to follow, so to speak, and that’s Maverick. The best opportunities in life are like thunderous, towering waves. Most will fear and avoid them, but those seeking true success won’t back down. Instead, they prove true “Mavericks” by yelling, FIDLAR!, and paddling in the direction of big waves and a courageous heart.

Stereotypes – Spoken Word Video

By Mark E. Smith

Unfortunately, we’ve all experienced stereotypes, no matter if they were placed on us, we’ve witnessed them used toward others, or, worst of all, we’ve engaged in them. In this spoken word piece, I explore the true meaning, purpose, impact, and consequence of stereotypes.

Complex Rehab and Punk Rock

To me, punk rock is the freedom to create, freedom to be successful, freedom to not be successful, freedom to be who you are. It’s freedom. -Patti Smith

By Mark E. Smith

In finishing up my book on the evolution of complex rehab technology, I’ve read virtually every book and watched every documentary on the evolution of the music genre, punk rock. Now, if you’re wondering what complex rehab technology and punk rock have in common, the answer is, everything.

During the 1970s and 1980s in the U.S., both complex rehab and punk rock fascinatingly evolved in the same time frame, with the same inspired ideology. Neither was about money or recognition, but about just wanting to make a difference in one’s community. You were in a band because you wanted to express what was around you, and you innovated complex rehab because you wanted to address what was needed around you. It was simply about one’s core values, and living them out through a craft shared with one’s peers.

I mean, take two really obvious examples from the late 1970s, the Ramones and LaBac. The members of the Ramones knew nothing about music except that they wanted to play it, so four guys from Queens, New York, taught themselves how to keep a beat, play just three chords, and sing about stuff they knew, where songs were played at a pulse-pounding pace of under two minutes. When the Ramones made their debut at the now-legendary club, CBGB, a magazine reviewer wrote, “They were all wearing these black leather jackets. And they counted off this song… and it was just this wall of noise….” Others who saw the Ramones in the early days saw them as so musically inept, they were literally offended. Yet, the band members were so true to their vision that they just kept playing, where their authenticity ultimately changed music forever. Sure, there were experimental bands before the Ramones, but none as uniquely passionate about evolving – or, deconstructing – music as them. Interestingly, the Ramones were never a commercial success, but countless bands and the genre of punk, arguably, wouldn’t have evolved as it ultimately did without them.

And, the same goes for LaBac, a true innovator in complex rehab technology. Long story short (and the fascinating full story is in my book), Greg Peek was a race car builder in the 1970s in Colorado, when a local wheelchair dealer asked him if he could fabricate some sort of power seating to help relieve seated pressure points of quadriplegics at Craig Hospital. Peek immediately found a calling and followed it with unyielding intensity, evolving the power positioning industry as, arguably, no other. Again, there were some before Peek, and many after him, but from the day he displayed his seating at an industry trade show, Peek changed everything by sticking with it, successes and failures. “I remember trying to convince the industry to use solid seat pans instead of sling upholstery because they better supported pressure management cushions, and no one wanted to listen,” Peek shared with me. Of course, today, all rehab seating uses a solid seat pan.

And, so, there’s always been a common passion of those in the two crafts, one that those dedicated to it live to no end. Like punk musicians, those who are true complex rehab individuals live it to the extreme. You’re never rich nor poor, employed or unemployed, famous or unknown. You simply do complex rehab because it’s who you are and it’s the passion that you put before everything else – and no one can take that away from you or truly dictate the terms. If things don’t work out with a company, you go somewhere else where they value complex rehab. And, if you have to live in your van during the transition (and I know people who have) you gladly do it. If you’re truly in complex rehab as a life path, nothing stops you from doing it.

The evolutions of complex rehab and punk rock “counter culture” have paralleled each other, as well, where if you’re the real deal you always have a brotherhood to support you. There’s a bond that says once you’re in, you’re in. And, like-minds seek each other out, respect the elders, and support each other. Hymie Pogir is the Iggy Pop (a punk originator still as intense as ever at age 66) of complex rehab, where he reached out to me around 15 years ago, and said, “I’m an older rehab guy, you’re a younger rehab guy – let’s have lunch,” and he flew from Ohio to California to make good on his word. I felt like I was already in the fold, but when Hymie, as among the true elder statesman of complex rehab, pulled me in, I learned really quickly to shut up, listen, and learn. What Hymie and I realized from that first lunch onward is that we both have the core belief that the heart of complex rehab is the removal of any delineation of people. In complex rehab, it doesn’t matter if you have a disability or not, whether you’re a consumer or industry person, rich or poor, black or white, straight or gay. As long as you truly understand the heart of complex rehab – ordinary people doing the extraordinary simply to contribute to our community – you’re among us and we all take care of each other, period.

Of course, like punk rock culture, when you live with such intensity, you will get yourself in trouble from time to time, as guys like Hymie and I have both done. When you live with unwavering dedication to complex rehab, it’s a culture that others aren’t going to always understand – and you don’t have a lot of patience for that. It’s a lot like, OK, I get that you don’t get complex rehab, so how about you go away because you don’t have any influence over my commitment…. Among my best, worst stories was getting called into Human Resources because there was cursing in my office, and co-workers complained. Of course, you and I know that in complex rehab culture, everyone curses because there are constant frustrations, the system just gets worse, and people are rightfully pissed off. Just the other day, complex rehab user and advocate, Paul Parino, called me on my office speaker phone and explained how, in his exact words, “New York State is giving it to us up the ass again by trying to cut attendant care funding. We already have people stuck sleeping in their power chairs because of inadequate attendant care, and now the Governor wants to F’ us some more….” That’s justified language, based on real emotion and circumstances. Complex rehab isn’t the Wonderful World of Walt Disney; rather, it’s the real lives of real people living with dignity in real adversity – and if one can’t appreciate that and the visceral language used, they have no clue what complex rehab is about. I would never dream of censoring a peer like Paul, as he’s on the front lines and deserves utmost respect.

So, I got called into H.R. a while back by a well-meaning young man, doing his job and supporting his family, which I respected tremendously. But, other than my employee file, he had no idea what I did in my role, how I fit in the complex rehab community, or what complex rehab is. So, I answered his questions with brutal honesty: Of course there’s cursing in my office. My community lives in the real world, and it isn’t always pretty. Imagine going from an able-bodied, employed father of three, to being hit by a drunk driver on your way home from work, becoming a quadriplegic. Not only can’t you walk, you can’t dress or bathe yourself. You can’t pick up your two-year-old or reach out to hold your wife’s hand. Your days are spent not just trying to physically survive and emotionally cope, but you’re in dire financial straits, fighting with insurance companies, and struggling to get attendant care. And, then your power chair breaks…. What kind of language are you going to use when you call me? And, do you want me to be a cold, corporate stooge on the other end of the phone, or be who I am, who goes through some of what you go through, where shitty circumstances are rightfully acknowledged as shitty circumstances?

The truly well-meaning H.R. young man looked at me like, Now what do I do? because I’d just given him a soliloquize on complex rehab at its most real, gritty level, the world you and I live in. Fortunately, my big boss is complex rehab at heart, so I didn’t get fired over “inappropriate language.” Instead, they moved me to a nicer office in a different department, and asked me to control the language use.

Alas, if complex rehab is punk rock, Greg Peek is the Ramones, and Hymie Pogir is Iggy Pop, where’s that leave me?

Well, I see a lot of parallels with Henry Rollins, best known as the lead singer of Black Flag, the all-immersed Renaissance man of punk rock. We both come from very little, and entered our cultures mid-stream. Many came before us, and some after – and we respect all. Henry left a job at Haagen-Dazs in D.C. to move to California to pursue punk at all costs, and I left a job at a community college in California to move to Pennsylvania to pursue complex rehab at all costs. Both of us knew that we weren’t going to compromise or fail, as while there are a lot of people smarter and more talented than us, few are as dedicated. As long as no one gets in our way or questions why we do what we do, we work till the flesh falls from our bones, and strive to honor our peers even when it gets us in trouble with those who aren’t part of our cultures. We both work at practicing intensity toward our crafts, where, as Henry puts it, intensity will always pull us through any bouts of exhaustion, poverty, and bad circumstances. Henry’s run 2.13.61 Publishing, just as I’ve run WheelchairJunkie.com, both remaining authentic to our core cultures, where we’re not just about the end product, but the history, people, and future elevations of the crafts we serve, where no one can take that extraordinary independence from us. While Henry has his Black Flag tattoo embodying who he is, I have my wheelchair tattoo embodying who I am. We’ve both built our lives as public but relatively solitary men, where our sole focus is the cultures in which we live, work, and breathe.

And, so, the cultures between complex rehab and punk rock are the same: It’s not about where you work, where you come from, or how society labels you. As long as your heart and soul is in it – where it’s a true life calling that you’ll sacrifice all for – you’re with us. …Now, get on the bus and let’s go – we’ve got work to do.

The Power of Abandonment

Mark Sit Skiing 1987 — Mark Sit Skiing 1988

In art and dream may you proceed with abandon. -Patti Smith

By Mark E. Smith

The only sport that my disability level ever truly allowed me to compete in was downhill sit-skiing in the 1980s, when the technology – a kayak-type device, steered with short poles and edges on the bottom – just matched my limited coordination well enough to allow me to snow ski. In fact, it taught me a lot about how having the courage to push our boundaries isn’t about risks, but rewards.

It was the 1988 Western Regionals for what then was called National Handicapped Sports and Recreation, the governing body of adaptive snow skiing. In order to qualify for Nationals, one had to time in at Regionals, and my region was especially competitive because it was home to world-class athletes like Marilyn Hamilton, Dave Kiley, and Peter Axelson. However, I was lucky in that adaptive ski technology was rapidly changing that year, and those three ultra-skiers were in a new class called “mono-skis,” a technology that my lack of balance wouldn’t allow. So, the sit-ski class that I raced in was much smaller that season; yet, ultimately no less competitive.

My foremost competition was Mike Moleski, a paraplegic who was almost twice my age and definitely twice my size. I was a skinny 17-year-old kid with cerebral palsy, and Mike was a 30-something jock with muscles galore. He was also a bit of a loose canon. He appeared every bit your stoned surfer dude, right down to bleach-blond hair, and he sit-skied like he was on fire. I don’t know why, but when everyone else moved to the newer technology mono-ski class, he stayed in the sit-ski class with me.

And, I had no hopes of beating Mike, no matter how well I skied. He was too big, too strong, too coordinated, and too daring for me to realistically compete against on the race course. And, my coach knew it. “You’ve got three possible outcomes here,” my coach told me. “You can ski your own race and finish the course, but likely not qualify for Nationals. You can ski with abandonment and risk blowing out of the course, getting disqualified. Or, you can ski with abandonment and at least have a shot at keeping up with Mike and qualifying for Nationals.”

Of the three choices, only the two made sense to me: Ski with abandonment. Taking the safe way would get me down the course, but likely not with the time that I needed, so why even race? However, while skiing with abandonment would risk a disqualification if I got out of control and missed a gate, blowing the course, I still had an equal chance of ranking a leading time if by some miracle I could pull it off. I figured out of the three choices, only skiing with abandonment – and pulling it off – gave me a shot at qualifying for nationals.

The mono-ski class raced first, and the course was so steep and fast that they decided to start us sit-skiers off lower on the course. Mono-skis are a seat frame mounted to a single ski, with exceptional turning and edge control, so they handle high speeds and steep terrain better. Sit-skis are more of a sled, so they drift and speed can quickly become difficult to control. So, when I saw the steepness and speed of the course – even at half way – I was scared. I was no longer worried about blowing out of the course, but actually getting hurt.

Mike went first, and I saw his ski drifting as he flew down the hard-packed course, barely making each gate. If he was having trouble holding turns at speed, I was really in trouble. But, he finished the course, with a time I knew I couldn’t match – unless I skied with abandonment.

As the buzzer went off, I thrust myself out of the starting gate, and was immediately accelerated by gravity. Mike was smart in that he tried to stay in the trough carved by earlier racers, using it like a bobsled shoot to help steer his course. But, it likewise seemed to slow him down, so just past the first gate, I jumped out of the trough and opted a straighter, faster, more dangerous line, struggling to stay center course, hitting speeds that made it seem like the gates were much closer than they were. But, I soon figured that I really needed no technique, just abandonment. I applied no speed control whatsoever, and just used all of my strength to center the sled on each gate. And, as I hit the finish line, I had no hopes of stopping but to throw the sit-ski on its side, skidding to a stop in front of the crowd. Everyone cheered, including Mike – my time within a second of his – with my coach picking me up, sit-ski and all.

Sometimes in life – no matter sports, love, career, or disability, to name a few – the safest way isn’t always the surest or most rewarding way to accomplish what you wish. Sometimes you have to take calculated risks, and say, I don’t know how this is going to turn out. But, I’m going to put it all in my own hands, and give it a shot….

It Gets Better

Morgan Duffy & Crew, Stanford Class of 2013

By Mark E. Smith

Author’s Note: There’s a disturbing undercurrent that, in this modern day, some teens with physical disabilities still feel isolated, depressed, even suicidal. So, let us talk about being a teen with a disability, and how life gets better….

As a teenager struggling with having a disability, you need to know only one truth: Life gets better – remarkably better.

I remember being a teenager with cerebral palsy and, like you, I remember struggling with it all – feeling different, but wanting to fit in; being treated different, but wanting to fit in, or, at times, feeling completely “normal,” but not being accepted as such. No, high school for me wasn’t all terrible – there were some good friends and good times, as I hope there are for you. We should all see good where there’s good. But, it wasn’t easy for me being different. But, it did get better. And, I know it may not be easy for you right now, but it will get better – remarkably better.

See, high school is tough for everyone, typically a confusing time, and everyone just wants to fit in. I have a 16-year-old daughter who “fits the mold,” and it’s even tough for her and her friends at times. Like you and my daughter and her friends, I just wanted to fit in, too – to have the right friends, have the right persona, and get invited to the right parties. And, for me, maybe like you, sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Well, a lot of times it didn’t work. And, when it didn’t work – the occasional bully calling me “retard,” or not getting invited to different events and such – it really, really hurt. At points, I, too, just wanted to give up and die. And, before it gets better, sometimes it gets worse.

I remember at among the lowest points in my teen years, I had a girlfriend who I thought truly accepted me, but when it came time to dance at the prom, she wouldn’t dance with me because I used a wheelchair. I remember thinking that my disability was the blame, that if I wasn’t plagued by cerebral palsy, I’d have all of the friends, girlfriends, and coolness in the world. However, I would never be accepted or successful because of my disability.

But, I was wrong. High school and my peers had no impact on my ultimately living a happy, successful life. The day that I graduated, virtually everything got better for me. I went from bullies calling me “retard,” to being a writer, speaker, and academic. I was soon invited to real parties, with amazing people, even getting to meet the President of the United States. And, while no relationship is perfect, I had my ultimate dances with amazing women since – loving, accepting, sincere. It all got better – remarkably better.

My daughter and I were planting Marigolds this spring in a flower bed in front of our home. It was a 70-degree sunny day, where our English bulldog lay on the ultra-green grass. And, although my life, again, isn’t perfect, I was reminded of all I’ve been blessed with – my daughter, a career that helps others, a nice home, the respect of those in my community – and I thought back to my days in high school, wondering where those who treated me poorly are today? Oddly, when I was on Capitol Hill recently, none were there. I don’t see any of them in magazines that I write for, or any with Internet followings. And, I have to wonder with a smile, is their grass as green as mine?

The fact is, while those who hurt you today in school may seem so powerful, they’ll soon enough get lost in the world. But, you. You were born into the extraordinary, with capacities toward life success that they’ll likely never realize. Let’s wish them well, but they don’t have what you have – that is, potential waiting to explode. And, it will, where your life is going to get better – remarkably better. You’re a survivor and a thriver, and that which seems to work against you now, will work for you soon. You’ve been given the gifts of tenacity, perseverance, and empathy – traits that are rocket fuel for life, just waiting to ignite your life in the most rewarding of ways.

My young friend, Morgan Duffy, graduates from Stanford University in a few weeks at this writing. She’s a Dalai Lama Fellow; she’s done an internship on Capitol Hill; and, she’s studied abroad. And, get this, she’s accepted a job with Genentech – without even applying (the recruiters found her based on her accomplishments). But, I’ll let Morgan’s own words explain the rest of her story:

So I’d like to tell you that I am your average 21 year old, living life and learning through mistakes and experiences. Most of my experiences, however, are less than average. Three years ago, I packed up my life and moved from the small city of Scranton, PA to begin my college education at Stanford University. I am a Cross Cultural Health and Intervention major with interests in disability, health policy, social justice, women’s health and choice. Like most, my interests are based in experience. I am a woman with a physical disability, who navigates the world in a wheelchair. And I like to feel the world beneath me in that way, taking each bump and knock consistently and steadily. My mother is a nurse, and through my years listening to her complain of the inefficiencies and inequities of modern US health, I have been motivated to learn how to change this. Social justice was the foundation of my high school career at Scranton Prep, and I have vowed to never forget.

Morgan isn’t an exception, she’s the rule – just as you are. You, too, will leave your town and “feel the world beneath you,” as Morgan puts it, going on to successes that won’t just change you, but will change the world.

It may all seem tough today, but the strength to hold on was born into you – there’s a purpose for who we each are, and yours is extraordinary. Tough out the tough times, as it all gets better, remarkably better. And, yes, the grass will be greener on the other side. I’ll see you there.

Find A Way

By Mark E. Smith

I’m not a miracle worker, but no matter what problem you throw at me, I can tell you in three words how to solve it: Find a way.

If there’s one life-changing, ever-empowering truth that disability experience has taught me, it’s that there’s always a way to resolve or accomplish what we wish – we just have to find a way to do it. It may not be initially evident; it may not be easy; it may not seem practical; and, it may even seem ludicrous. Yet, to any challenge or situation in life, there is a way to resolve it – we just have to find the way.

I often share the story of my shoe laces. For the first 25 years of my life, I couldn’t tie my own shoes based on my lack of dexterity and coordination. Now, in the grand scheme of life, not being able to tie one’s own shoes may not seem like a big deal – after all, there are far more serious limitations in life – but it was one of the last pieces to my physical independence. The ability to tie my own shoes meant the difference between being able to fully dress independently or forever rely on others.

For years, I tried all sorts of shoes, with all sorts of practice. But, alas, I could never coordinate shoe laces well enough to tie them. I even got to the point where I could make the loops, but as I went to cross them, all fell apart. It was forever frustrating, to say the least, right down to my brother having to tie my shoes on my wedding day.

Yet, after years of practice, trial, error, and failure, I was so close to tying my own shoes that I knew that I could do it – I just had to find a way. And, so I reanalyzed my process, and realized that where the issue was, was that when I went to cross the shoe lace loops, my poor coordination over-extended the shoelaces, causing them to come undone. If only I had more shoelace length to work with, I could cinch the loops before pulling the ends out…. And, in that was the answer: get longer shoelaces! Indeed, I found a way, and till this day, 72” shoelaces are the solution I use to tie my shoes. It wasn’t that I couldn’t tie my own shoes; rather, I simply had to find a way to do it.

Finding a way is amazing because it empowers us to find a solution to any problem rather than accepting it. A task or situation may seem impossible, but if we truly believe that there is a way to successfully solve it – we just have to find it – it inspires us to not just try, but try harder, as well as go into situations with a can-do attitude.

I admit, I’ve become pretty skilled at finding a way, where when I encounter a challenge, I don’t shy from it; rather, I go into find-a-way mode. I recently wanted to interview a business titan for a book I’m writing. The individual is bigger than life, worth an estimated $2-billion, and has an insanely busy schedule. I remember thinking, How am I going to track this individual down, let alone get a several-hour interview? The answer immediately struck me: Find a way.

I thought for a moment who might have the individual’s personal contact information – as I wanted to get direct to the source – and with a single email exchange, I scored both the individual’s and the individual’s assistant’s contact information. Bingo! I then sent an email to the assistant, and within 20 minutes, I had an interview scheduled. I flew to the individual’s headquarters, and ended up with an amazing two-hour interview. If I had told most folks who I wanted to interview and where, they would have thought it crazy. There’s no way you’ll pull that off, most would have said. However, knowing that I just had to find a way to pull it all together made the seemingly impossible ridiculously easy. There I was, having flown partly across the country, sitting in the individual’s stately office, hearing amazing, never-before-told stories to include in my book.

See, that’s the eloquence of find a way – it immediately makes the impossible totally plausible. Are you having difficulty accomplishing a goal? Find a way. Are you struggling to get the results in a particular aspect of your career that you want? Find a way. Do you want to make major changes to your life? Find a way. Do you want to live your dreams? Find a way!

No, anything truly worth striving for isn’t easy, nor without complications. But, if it’s truly worth doing – if you’re truly dedicated to accomplishing it – there’s a way to do it. Find it. Live it. Never give up hope, as there’s always a way….

Dream On

I never doubted that equal rights was the right direction. Most reforms, most problems are complicated. But to me there is nothing complicated about ordinary equality. -Alice Paul

By Mark E. Smith

When I was born, there was no humility in disability, just the medical authority calling people like me the vegetative minority. No, I couldn’t walk, speak or crawl; but, with my toddler eyes and ears, I saw and heard it all. Dream on.

And, as I grew, no one knew what my fate would be, a prognosis based on speculative hyperbole. But, still, with ignorance, everyone all labeled me – crippled. …Yep, that was me. Yet, inside hid the person I knew I could be. And, at night, when I cried — trapped by an ignorant society — even my mother couldn’t comfort me. Dream on.

When I was seven and sent to the back of the church, I was taught children like me didn’t go to Heaven. How could a God, who I came from, not let me with a disability into his kingdom? It wasn’t some Father’s place to say we aren’t anointed by the Lord based on physicality, when inside me, I knew I was appointed, worthy of spirituality. Dream on.

Mainstream education brought taunts and stares – kids who didn’t know better, teachers who didn’t care. I could read but I couldn’t write, so I bought a thrift-store typewriter and clicked the keys, teaching myself to type one night. And the words that flowed were bold and grew, and I knew I had something to say to the world – even at eight years old. That’s right. Dream on.

My family fell apart, ignorance toward my condition stung at my heart, and back in those days, a step into a store meant I could get in, and they had the right to refuse me service, a hypocrisy to no win. America the beautiful, the bold and the brave; but, my wheels of steel made everyone my master, gave me little more than the rights of slave. A country founded from oppression, surviving wars and the Depression, and I still I faced daily oppression? Stigmas did follow me, and I felt this: Where was truth in equality? Dream on.

But, for me segregation didn’t stop my education, and I wouldn’t give up my mind’s elevation. Heart strings tatter, but a spirit that wouldn’t shatter, I’d just move on; different day, same song. Things went wrong, but I’d move on. Dream on.

I remember at the prom when she wouldn’t dance with me, then going home that night, questioning my sexuality – for months it went on, the depression, a repeated song. I awoke in the hospital despite the pills taken, and it registered with me that I wasn’t a soul forsaken. I was who I was and just had to be me, why drown in self-loathing when I could swim in a sea – of acceptance. That had to be me. Dream on.

It all got easier as I went, worth the sweat and the tears that were spent – but who knows. I was always told that life goes as it goes till we grow old, and the forces that once held us down soon push us up from the ground. Our weaknesses become our strength, and those who’ve wronged us, we should thank – adversity from diversity is a character that we build, and successes that are earned create lives that are willed. Dream on.

Still, think what you will, but when I travel from the Pacific Northwest to Capitol Hill, there’s ground to be gained, equality sustained, where one nation for all is exactly where we fall – short. And, until everyone – regardless of disability, gender, sexual orientation, race, or religion, of unity, not division –is seen as humanly proficient, not different or deficient, I will continue to question America, the bold, the beautiful, and the brave as it holds up discrimination and prejudice to save – yes, even in this so-called progressive age. Until there’s equality for all, as a nation we fall. But, as for me, I’m optimistic. I dream on.