11:00pm December 2, 2014

Letters to my father — adult bullying by kids

Dear Ron,

I will never forget the look on your face this one day. It was when I began to realize that being developmentally disabled means that bullying from children is lifelong. They know that even for an adult, you’re different, and they can be just as vicious as they would be to other children.

I was walking with you to a music program for teens in the psych system. One of the other kids walked past us and did a double take at your full beard. “Hey, Rabbi!” He yelled at you as he walked past. Then he walked off, laughing to himself about his comment.

But I was watching you. You stopped in your tracks. Your eyes glazed over a little. I could tell you were hurt, but you couldn’t even put words together, much less defend yourself. You looked a little like you were in shock, unprepared for the situation. I certainly was. You were my father, you were supposed to be treated with respect. I couldn’t fathom anyone wanting to mock you.

But then I never did understand the way people saw you – lumberjack, redneck, Rabbi, hick, people called you all those and more when you weren’t around. If I ever brought it up in private, you laughed it off or sometimes said “Yeah that’s me all right!”

But I could tell, when people said it to your face, it hurt you. Your lips quivered like you were trying to think up words and couldn’t. You always went silent, but your body language spoke of deep hurt. You never spoke of that hurt aloud, but it was written all over you.

It was my first inkling that growing up wouldn’t stop kids from being cruel to me, either. When I moved out on my own, age nineteen, groups of kids would follow me down Main Street of our small rural town to “mess with the retard”. They’d laugh at my clothes, my hat, my movements, everything about me really. They’d try to get me to do things so they could laugh at me. Like you, I went silent and went about my day as if they didn’t exist. But it hurt me and I know the same things must have hurt you.

I never got mad on my own behalf but I always got mad on yours. You were my dad. How dare anyone treat my dad the shitty ways they treated me? I can’t explain. Maybe you already know what I mean. It is like when my mentor, also autistic, goes to the doctor and I see her talk and nurses acting like she’s not saying a word. It’s hard to see your role models being treated like dirt.

Love,

Mel