Jewish Silence is Violence

Where are the Jews?

When it comes to how Black lives matter, where are my fellow Jews? Why do I hear so few of us crying out in mutual understanding and fear? Why are our voices not harmonizing with those of Black people of color and others who unhesitatingly support the #BlackLivesMatter movement (aka: call to action; aka: legitimate and heartbreaking plea for help)?

It surprises me that, as a people, we are not the first ones to join the front lines of people against genocide, profiling, overarching police action, and historic and systemic oppression. Do we not know what it’s like to be feared for no reason, hated for no reason, killed for no reason? Do we not know what it’s like to be forced into ghettos, forced into undesirable jobs, forced into compliance in exchange of our lives?

Maybe it’s a question of whiteness? After all, while most Jews in America identify as Caucasian, the verdict is out if Jews are considered white, right? If we’re not white, then we’re not part of the problem. I call bullshit on that. Regardless of whatever racial construct does or does not claim us, we will never know what it’s like to be a person of color in America. We will not be judged by the size of our noses the way BlPOC are judged by the color of their skin.

And if we can “pass for white”, isn’t that all the more reason to lend our voices to this very necessary and worthy cause? Here in Baltimore, MD a lot of Jews tend to live closely together for the sake of security, community, access to our religion. I live where I do now because my parents were part of their generations exodus into white suburbia. It bothered me then, but I was 12 and had zero impact on my own life. This past year, however, my own generation embarked on their exodus to a neighboring county in order to, and I quote, “better blend in.” This disgusted me from the beginning and several friends and acquaintances felt my growing wrath with each new announcement I heard of, “we’re moving.”

By trying to blend in, we are perpetuating the system of the oppressor, the system that says “white is right”. We’re begging to be a part of the cool kids’ group while ignoring that these so-called cool kids are power-hungry, resource-hoarding, violently murderous bullies.

Maybe it’s because they haven’t come for us yet? After all, we’re a dying breed as well, right? Best to just lie low and wait the whole thing out. Well, I call bullshit on that, too. While I feel that no one should need any personal motivation to get out and support Black people’s right to their pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness (among so many other denied accesses – i.e. jobs, healthcare, education, etc.) have we forgotten our own, deadly history?

Let me refresh you:

Let me first just say that I HATE this quotation and the paradigm it promotes. Helping others shouldn’t be encouraged just because you may need help one day, too, and, you know….tit for tat and all that. HOWEVER, if that’s what it takes, why, then, is this not enough to get all Orthodox, Conservative, and us hippie Reform Jews out there with our signs exhorting, “no justice, no peace.”

Regardless of the duplicity of their motivations, America fought a war for us. Even those of us who’s families were already in this country are brought up to “never forget” what our people have gone through, generation after generation, as people tried to beat us down or kill us off. We humbly and humorously joke that the reasons behind most of our holidays are because, “they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat!” Isn’t it far past time we invited people of color to that meal?

And let me be perfectly clear: they will be coming for us next. If we fail our BlPOC brothers and sisters now, right now, under this administration and during a monumental election year, oh yes, they will be coming for us next.

And who should stand up for us when we would not put ourselves on the line to stand up for others? No one, that’s who. And that’s exactly who will do so.

So, I ask you now, fellow Jews… Even though I know you’re scared. Even though you may think this is not our problem. Even though we, too, have our own implicit biases that we need to analyze, address, and endeavor to resolve in order to evolve as Jews, as Americans, and as humans…. I ask you now.

Where are you?

Being Extra

When people say that your kid is just like you, usually it’s meant as a friendly joke.  Like, haha, you have to deal with what the rest of us always have to deal with. Even your own parents will go so far as to wish for you a child just like yourself so that you can suffer similarly to how you’ve made your own parents suffer. 

It’s like the trickle-down economy of parental karma or something.

In all the moments this gentle joke been made about me and my own daughter, never did I feel malice or cruelty behind the words; however, they’ve always still managed to pluck at the threads of my insecurities. I’m always internally questioning, is that a good thing or a bad thing?

I deal with a good bit of anxiety, some of which is baseless. I own that. My anxiety over whether or not I’m enough is ironically based deep within the many times in my life that I’ve been told I’m too much. Literally. Those words have often been used to describe me, to my own face, that I once considered getting it tattooed somewhere large and unavoidable on my body. Parents, classmates, teachers…over and over in life I have been reminded that somewhere below what makes me me is a calmer, more palatable me whom people would generally prefer.

And, yeah, when I was a kid or a teenager, that was probably obnoxious to deal with. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be involved in life! People needed help, philosophies needed discussing, points needed to be proven, ideas needed to be tested and explored! How could no one else feel the vibrations of the universe calling out for more of our involvement?! It was suffocating at times to be told to stow all that away, to pretend I didn’t feel the earth’s palpitating rhythm, or, worse, to be told to try and ignore it.

I admit that I tried to quell the calls to action. I often failed, but in so doing I grew to adulthood as an exuberant but tempered person who could maneuver through most social interactions without making a total fool of myself.

And then I had a daughter. Who is, as they say, just like me. And that terrifies me.

Currently, my girl is navigating the soul-crushing world of 6th grade. Middle school: the primordial goop that caterpillars devolve into before they can further fully evolve into beautiful, winged creatures who brighten up our sunny days and dreamy nights.

She entered 6th grade prepared to be called out for her differences – primarily noticeable: her very short, rainbow-dyed hair. And if there’s one thing middle schoolers hate more than, well, school, it’s confident individuality. She encountered her fair share of jerks and has learned to do her best to fly below the radar as much as possible. Not hiding, per se, but trying to steer clear of those who would go out of their way to make another person feel bad.

This brings us to today. My daughter rides the bus with a boy who has picked on her since 1st grade. This kid may have some home-life issues and their interactions have never escalated so whenever he throws some words her way, she usually just does her best to ignore him. Until today.

According to her, this boy was mouthing off to the bus driver today, not for the first time, and she had had enough. She tells me that she stood up and yelled at him to cut it out because he wouldn’t like it if someone were to do that to him. Story goes that he told her to sit down and mind her own business, which she normally would have just done, but instead that is when she erupted. She said she was yelling at him for always trying to bring people down all the time and that he needed to stop being so mean and a bunch of other stuff that I cannot specifically remember. And then…the people on the bus clapped.

She had a total teeny-bopper, nerd-gets-applauded-for-taking-down-the-jerk-kid-in-a-movie moment and I thought it was the most amazing thing I had ever heard about in my life! 

And then she said, “well, that’s how you raised me. I was raised to stick up for myself and to stick up for other people. You and daddy taught me to be this way.”

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is truly the most amazing thing I had ever heard in my entire life. She was so proud of herself, and a bit surprised by her public bravado as well, but she was visibly thrumming from adrenaline and the surety of knowing she did the right thing (yay for video chatting) and she was grateful to her father and I for showing her this way of life. I am … stunned.

My girl is loud, and cooky, and mouthy, and she often pushes the limits of appropriateness. She argues everything and refuses to ever back down without irrefutable proof that she is wrong (and sometimes not even then). She cares A LOT. She’s not the type to just sit down and shut up. 

She’s too much. She’s extra. And I consider it an honor when people say that she’s just like me.

 

 

Malcontent Cook: Tofu Doesn’t Suck

If you’re looking for recipes for healthy meals and living your fullest, most vibrant food-life…you’re in the very wrong place. But if you want to read about how I cooked (yuck) tofu (double yuck) and actually liked it (whaaaaaaat?), then meet me, your Malcontent Cook.

I never learned to cook. Well, that’s not true, exactly. I was never taught to cook growing up because, reasons. I was…ahem…gifted some cooking lessons as an engagement gift from my mother (part of the aforementioned reasons I never learned to cook) and it was a cruel but useful present. Cruel, because my lack of cooking skills has become a long-running joke, but useful because I did become less frightened about cooking a few meals (it’s a real thing – look it up).

Anyway, now I’m super fat because, again, reasons, and apparently changes need be made. I fear cooking and I fear healthy foods because having Crohns’ disease means healthier doesn’t always mean better for me. Definitely not easier.

This week is our first week of shopping and eating per the guidelines of my bariatric program. This week is also my third week of feeling crappy from whatever germs my loving son shared with me, so I was all ready to wallow in comfort food. But I didn’t want to give up so soon. So easily.

So I rushed home and cooked the below meal: teriyaki tofu with brown rice and steamed broccoli. Long story short: it didn’t suck. In fact, the husband and I both really enjoyed it. My son, who eats very few items, said it smelled like chicken.

So, once again, the hippie/vegetarian friends in my life were correct. Tofu doesn’t suck. Damn those nature-loving SOBs whom I love so much.

PS Thank the gawds for my lovely friend Briana Michaels for talking me through my panic attack while cooking this meal. She writes awesome, paranormal romance novels and you should definitely check her out, buy her books, and send her some love.

Malcontent Cook: Breaky Eggies

I got this idea from something I saw on TV, I think. Seemed like something that even I could attempt. It’s just eggs, mozzarella cheese, green peppers, and sausage (previously made by my husband, of course). I guess it’s #keto friendly for those who follow the South Beach/Atkins system.

I haven’t tried them yet as they are supposed to be for breakfast this week, starting tomorrow. Will also try to grab a fruit with it as well, because that’s what I think I’m supposed to do. 😀

Anyhoo….I’m proud of me. And I hope these don’t suck.

WTF is Seitan?!

My main reason for journeying down the bariatric path is to speak frankly with a nutritionist about my diet. As I’ve previously mentioned, choosing healthy foods is difficult for me because:

1. Raw veggies do not agree with my Crohns’ disease very well.
2. I hate/fear cooking so putting together ‘healthy’ meals prods at my anxiety.
3. ‘Unhealthy’ foods are yummy.
4. My taste buds are not very welcoming to foreign visitors (aka, flavor of many kinds).

I was nervous when I arrived at my appointment, though I’m not entirely sure why.  My pride in being a perfect student shined, I believe, in my preparedness and my fastidious approach to following directions. I had taken each requisite quiz about my eating habits (I am an emotional eater – who’s surprised?), signed up for all the necessary classes, seminars, and appointments as instructed, and I chronicled the steps towards my weight loss goals. I even wrote out my pain as requested. I was ready to be teacher’s pet….er, dietician’s pet.

She thanked me for coming, weighed me (awesome, I gained a pound), and continued to thank me for completing each of the above mentioned assignments. But I didn’t want appreciation, I wanted personal attention. However, we spoke very little about my answers to the questions I had been asked, and she didn’t even read my letter of pain (and if I’m not validated for my writing skills am I even alive?).

I was put slightly off, but it was suddenly time to discuss food options and I this is what I was here for. She gave me some handouts with some meal ideas, what a plate of food should look like, and good options for lean protein. I quickly mentioned that I had Cronhs’ and was nervous about the amount of raw veggies of which I was supposed to be eating more. She asked me about cooked vegetables and I didn’t really have a good answer. They are supposed to hurt me less, but I’m not sure if they do. Her suggestion: trial and error.

Okay. Look. I get that maybe this is a difficult problem to figure out, but that’s why she’s the expert, right? The idea of just trying to eat and seeing what hurts me more and what hurts me less is what has framed my current eating habits. Doing this again just to qualify for a surgery did not sit well with me. The fear of certain foods is very real. But that didn’t matter because we were right back to focusing on how I was supposed to be reducing myself to 1,200-1,500 calories a day and really focusing on getting more protein and calcium.

Honestly, it was disheartening. All she could really offer was that “yeah, it may be a bit tricky figuring it all out.” Ya think, lady?! That’s why I wanted help.

So now I’m supposed to start incorporating things I can’t stand into my diet – clams, oysters, salmon, tofu, beans – along with other things I’ve never even heard of.  Seriously, what the fuck is seitan? Or tempeh? My spell-checker doesn’t even recognize these words but I’m suddenly supposed to be able to shop for, make, and/or eat this stuff? And without diet coke to wash it all down?

Honestly, I’m far from thrilled.  I was truly hoping for more guidance and support specific to my health and needs. This affects my whole family; it even affects my work place (those poor, poor people). I already knew this was going to be an uphill climb, but with my asthma and in this heat (oy vey!), I was hoping for a little more hand holding along the way.

Diet Coke Will Not Save the World, and Other Reasons I am Contemplating Bariatric Surgery

Diet Coke will not make the world a better place.

This I often have to remind myself when I try to barter with myself against considering bariatric surgery.

But the world does suck and drinking Diet Coke makes me happy. I’ve suffered some tough blows in life, I am overwhelmed with the daily struggle, and I deserve some happiness, right?

Okay… I need help.

My mom was fat I watched her battle with it and hate herself for it until she died. She measured her whole life according to how much she weighed and I despised how her yo-yo dieting and jumping from weight-loss fad to fad impacted so much of our daily lives. What we ate, where we shopped, how she framed her self-worth, how she felt physically and mentally, and subsequently, how she treated the rest us because she could never stop the cycle.

My father was fat and I watched him care nothing about it at all until he died. He measured his whole life according to what he accumulated and I despised how he was never satisfied with what he had. Food, time, drugs, money, someone’s attention – he never had enough. And worse, it was never his fault. He would take and take all while complaining he didn’t have enough and doing nothing about it. Just wait for change.

I have always been fat and in all my efforts to avoid copying my parents’ unhealthy attitudes towards food and weight, I developed my own. I tried a few weight- loss programs, but I refused to keep trying new trends that I knew I would ultimately quit. I convinced myself that maintenance was better than constantly losing and gaining. But I didn’t do nothing. I went out, I kept up, I worked hard. I put on bathing suits and went swimming, and played racquetball with my friends, I sat in teeny-tiny theater seats even when I could barely breathe. I told myself that I was balancing being fat and living life well. I loved me for me and all that.

But life changes, and even if we don’t believe it, so do we. My relationship with food has been terrible since I was diagnosed with Crohns’ Disease in 1999. I’ve been on countless medications, with the effects of some still lingering, and cannot find a diet plan that meets my needs. I’ve fallen victim to my own excuse that “the healthy foods are the ones that hurt me the most”. And while that may be true, I realize that all the bad foods I eat aren’t helping me, either.

I also realize that I have been using food as an emotional crutch and I need to make a clean break from that perspective. However, when I’m honest with myself, I know that I cannot do that alone. I am truly lost and I can either choose to stay lost and alone and watch my health deteriorate, or I can call out for help and actually accept it.

Change is scary but stagnation is death. Fearing change is natural, but accepting a status quo that leads to the grave is stupid. I need a new status quo. If I can get the help I need planning meals, shopping for appropriate foods, and exercising in ways that don’t hurt, then I can take the second chance that surgery would provide me to make better decisions. The right decisions.

I am fat and I’ve always been fat. And I need to do better than my parents. For myself, for my husband and children, and for the many people I am blessed to have care for me in my life. Bariatric surgery represents a commitment to these life changes.

This Rosh Hashanah, please don’t wish me L’Shona Tova

This Rosh Hashanah, please don’t wish me L’Shona Tova.

Please do not wish for me a sweet new year. I am blessed with the sweet kisses of my children every day while mothers fleeing war-torn homes are burying their babies in the streets. I am blessed with a sweet spouse who works to make me happy every day while these rights are being denied to our LGBTQIA friends. I am blessed with sweet tasting food on full plates every day while many people cannot even afford the basics.

Please do not wish for me a healthy new year. I have access to clean water while families in Flint, Michigan remain largely ignored. I have access to health insurance while families all over the country must wait on the whims of politicians who won’t be affected by their own choices. I have access to safe neighborhoods while families just twenty minutes away from me deal with crime and violence every day.

Please do not wish for me a prosperous new year. My home has not burned in wildfires. My place of business has not washed away in hurricanes.

Please do not wish for me a happy new year. I will be welcoming in 5778 tonight among family. Among friends. 

And, please, do not offer me the opportunity to perform Tashlich. I wish to remain aware of my sins, my disgraces, my privileges. I do not wish to be forgiven; I wish to be reminded. I wish to remember every day that my sins, whether purposely committed or arbitrarily inherent, affect others and that it is up to me to spend the next year trying to make bring sweetness, wellbeing, prosperity, and happiness to others.

So this Rosh Hashanah, please don’t wish me L’Shona Tova. Wish it for others, instead.

There is no alt(ernative)

This past week in America has shown us just how far we have not come in our country’s short life.  And the spin…wow; the spin has been most impressive.  It reminds me of a popular and beloved book wherein a generous spider uses her talent for spin to create labels of love and adoration, whereby saving a sweet little pig’s life.  Unfortunately, the plot of Charlottesville Web would be written quite differently. 

I fear our need to label has dug us deeper into the rhetorical grave.

First, we were introduced to the alt-right, compliments of Steve Bannon, previous executive chair of so-called alt-right website Breitbart News before joining the Trump administration. Bannon currently serves as White House Chief Strategist (which is a made up position, by the way). The term alt-right has now become the vernacular of those who do not wish to come right out and claim Nazism, white supremacy, bigotry, antisemitism, racism…you get the point.  

Then we were handed alternative facts by Counselor to the President, Kellyanne Conway.  Perhaps she meant that the recently resigned White House press secretary Sean Spicer was offering the people a different perspective or merely wanted to share with us a diverse point of view. Perhaps. Regardless, something is either true or untrue. A fact or not a fact.

And now, President Trump himself informs us of the alt-left. In a press conference just yesterday (8/15/2017), Trump explained that the tragedy in Charlottesville, VA could have been possibly avoided if only members of this alt-left would have left the protesters alone while they wielded (tiki) torches, Nazi flags with swastikas, and saluted each other like Hitler reincarnate.

And let us not forget the myriad of other labels bandied about minute-by-minute in the vitriol-fueled world of internet discourse: liberals, conservatives, Democrats, Republicans, snowflakes, deplorables, sheep, butterflies, libtard, conspiratard, birther, teabagger, and of course all the colorful curse words included as well.

All these labels do, though, is separate us more. Instead of accepting responsibility for those who share our common beliefs but who also take them to a too far extreme, we push them away from us just like we do the people who believe a whole lot different than we do. We’re pushing people away in all directions when we should be bringing them in closer and opening ourselves up to them and trying to teach them more productive words and ways to achieve progress.

We’re creating an alternative reality. A world so unlike the one many of us expected to be living in almost two decades into the 21st century. A world where our children cannot play outside, a world where violence is an expected outcome, a world where the value of gold outweighs the value of love.

We have to do better. For our children and their future, we just have to. We have no choice but to do better, be better; give them a world that is open and free and challenging and full of possibilities.

We have to. There is no alternative.

Daily Dis

I have so much dissonance right now; it’s depressing. I don’t know how to reconcile it all.

1. I am sad. Not just because I disagree with many of the steps our new President plans to take and is now taking, but because of how divisive we’ve all become. Maybe we’ve always been this oppositional and I never noticed before because I am older now, and/or because social media’s presence in our lives is like a gossiping friend in our ear that never shushes up. 
2. I am frustrated. There seems to be little objectivity left when it comes to standing by our leaders. When did it become all or nothing? Can’t we support a leader but not all of her/his points of view? Can we not disapprove of some actions without disavowing a whole person? 
3. I am confused. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Clickbait and 24-hour news broadcasts have me running around in circles. How can we be impartial arbiters of the issues facing our country and world when our leaders shy away from the truth like it’s a spitting pot of boiling water?

4. I am thrilled. Did people even know who their state or congressional senators were prior to this election? Did they know the difference?  I know I’ve never known the name of any other potential Secretary of Education until now, when it matters to me and mine.  People want to know and want to be involved. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this level of passion and activism from others. It tastes like a breath mint in my mouth.

5. I am scared. Violence has become a commonly spoken language and I don’t understand what everyone is saying. We hurt some, refuse to help others, and call it the ‘American Dream’.  I want to be successful, too, but not at the expense of others.  I want to help fix what’s wrong within our own borders but cannot do so while ignoring the outstretched arms from without, begging for a piece of the peace I surely take for granted every day. We’ve built emotional walls around ourselves for protection and now it looks like we’ll build a physical one; however, the results will be the same: we’ll be stuck with what’s on the inside, not protected from the out.

6. I am hopeful. So many people seem to believe what I believe and there is solace in that. So many believe that people should make decisions for and about their own bodies without government regulations, that all people deserve to marry for love, that Black lives need extra protection and support right now (still), that taking in refugees may be a hardship and that maybe there is danger involved and that maybe we aren’t prepared to help so many helpless people and that maybe it is the right thing to do and we should do it anyway.

So yeah, I’m all mixed up and it is distracting from, you know, trying to still continue each day and live life.  And yet, my five-year-old son clung to my arm this morning and told me that I was his true love, and all became right in the world for me.  Focus, peace, simplicity.  Proof that love is still, and always will be, all that we need to make the world go ‘round.

 

Unsung Heroes: Sibs

I should have never doubted her for a second.

My girl, my first born, my continuous maelstrom of emotion and mood.  My Annika.

Tonight Annika was a panel presenter about what it’s like to be a sibling of an individual who has intellectual and/or developmental disabilities (part of a community educational series offered by The Arc Baltimore) and it will go down as one of the times I was most proud of her in both our lives.

Annika has been attending The Arc’s SibShops for almost a year now and it quickly became one of her favorite social events. For several hours a month it is all about her, her friends, and her fun.  And not about her brother.  And that is awesome for her, because her baby brother is on the Autism spectrum and it tends to take up a lot of our family’s time and energy which is not always fair to her.  At the shops, she and the other kids play games, cook snacks, do crafts, act crazy, and get to kvetch openly about how they feel about having brothers and sisters who have extra needs.  (Also, I get to go to Starbucks and sit quietly. Alone. And read.)

Anni is a friendly and outgoing kid, but still I was bit surprised when they asked if she’d be a part of this presentation.  She is only 8 years old and even the most gregarious of children can get shy when placed in front of a group of strangers and asked questions about a topic she may or may not completely understand.  Plus, she herself had recently been diagnosed with ADHD and Anxiety Disorder, so I was nervous about how she’d hold up under all that scrutiny.  She was all for it, though, so how could we say no?

Now of course, last night, both kids had trouble sleeping, so all three of us were exhausted and worse for the wear this dreary, rainy Tuesday (not my husband, though; he sleeps through it all the rat bas–, I mean, that lucky duck).  Considering that our kids usually go to sleep by 7:30, all day I have been dreading dealing with a tired, cranky, anxious Annika.  Throw in last minute dentist appointments in between school and the presentation, and I was certain that neither of us were going to get through the evening unscathed.

I’ll tell you what, though…Annika was super impressive.  She was the youngest panelist, joined by a 14 year old (and even more impressive) boy we’ll call J, a late 30’s mother of three we’ll call L, and a grandmother we’ll call C.  It was a long evening of sitting and having to listen which is not easy for Annika to do.  She was bouncy and distracted and played with water bottles, her bracelet, and alternated between dancing emo style in her chair and just slouching down so that her eyes were level with the table.  But when it was her turn to talk, she didn’t miss a beat.  She was on point, profound, sweet, funny, and yeah, a bit rambley at times, but it was audibly endearing to the people in attendance.

I’m sad that I didn’t record Annika early on because she was saying some of the sweetest things about her brother, but I couldn’t break away from just experiencing it:  hearing it in my head, feeling it in my heart, and memorizing it in my soul.

The whole discussion was truly eye-opening and perspective giving.  The range of experiences traversed generations and disabilities and really made it clear to me how much support is provided by siblings. They support the individual as their liaison to the outside world and possibly first (if not only) peer to peer connection, and they support the parents by handling all sorts of important tasks before, as many do, eventually supplanting the parents by having to eventually become their siblings’ primary caretaker.

We talk about this generation being the “sandwich generation” because of the number of people who are having to take care of both parents and children at the same time. But what about these siblings who are also part of an “appetizer platter”?  We take care of our kids because they are our kids, and we take care of our parents because they are our parents. But providing for brothers and sisters? That’s like a meal you didn’t order but have to eat anyway without getting to complain that it isn’t what you wanted off the menu.  It’s not fair and it’s not glamorous and it also isn’t often publicized.

There was another moment in particular, however, wherein the group became a single collective of emotion and spirit.

The oldest panelist, C, was describing the secrecy under which her brother with Down’s Syndrome was kept.  Forty to fifty years ago, she said, most kids like her brother were just called “the R word”and put in an institution.  Her family wouldn’t put her brother away, but nor was he allowed out in public or spoken of very much, either.  Then the mother of three, L, and others in the audience started discussing how times have changed and how “the R word” went out of fashion and has been replaced many times over the years.  The 14 year old, J, spoke about how angry it makes him when he hears kids call his brother, or other similar kids, “the R word” because he knows they mean it in a negative way.  And then Annika out of nowhere asks, “what’s the R word?”  There was a pause, and then someone spoke up that it stood for “retarded”, to which Annika replied, “what does retarded mean?”

And you could hear the whispers and wows and sighs of awe because she didn’t know.  Because at one end of the table was a time when a boy with Down’s Syndrome was a family’s secret shame, and at the other end of the table there was hope and relief and awareness. And acceptance.

And not just from the mouths of babes, but from the mouths of siblings.