Fresh Faces in Butt Hollow

On the typical weekday, my human contact is limited to a dog walker, a pair of house cleaners, and/or my mother, with occasional cameos by a nurse or other medical-type professional. This week was a little busier than usual.

My favorite aunt was in town to give a presentation -- telling important people things they didn't want to hear, I gather. She came over on Wednesday, and we indulged in a pastime of great interest to us, if to nobody else: cataloguing the quirks of various relatives, then assigning appropriate psychological diagnoses.

It's fertile ground, God knows. As my aunt once noted, "Every family is weird, but yours is extra weird." I joined the clan by fate, she by choice -- which probably says something revealing about her, if only I could figure out what.

Yesterday's visitor was a very nice University of Maryland student who's taking a class on disabilities. (They teach that in school? I wonder if I can still get credit.) He contacted the ALS Association, which in turn contacted me. I help with outreach whenever possible, and I'm a shameless whore for attention, so he came over and spent a couple of hours learning the glamorous details of my daily existence. He even got to meet the cleaners and the dog walker.

In one respect, I fear that I disappointed him -- and myself, once I thought about it. He asked if I'd experienced any handicap-related discrimination, and I couldn't recall a single significant instance. I never miss a chance to feel aggrieved, but the only thing I could think of was the pervasive infantilization of wheelchair users. When people look down at you physically, the mentality usually follows suit, and suddenly you're a retarded child. When you also sound the part, as I do, good luck trying to change their minds.

My reaction, I explained to my visitor, is to run with it. If people think you're a kid -- and a slow one at that -- you're almost expected to act out. Might as well enjoy yourself.