School Days

Aged 10, 1976
I am embarrassed by the intimacy and open friendship that he offers. I curl up inside, withdrawing emotionally because his honesty and innocence make me uncomfortable. I want to be kind and gentle towards him but it’s easier to be guarded; I don’t want to confront this conflict of feelings. His disability frightens and confuses me. His difference makes me feel scared and uncertain. His need of me is embarrassing. And yet, I want to relate to him and care for him.

He is the first disabled child I have ever met. I am 10 years old. I decide that this situation and the complex emotions it elicits are ones I want to avoid for the rest of my life. I don’t want to have to feel things for him or about him. I don’t want to meet him again. I don’t understand him or me. And yet I remember his name: Luke

At around the same time, I’m embroiled in a similar inner conflict in a mobile classroom in my primary school. I don’t know what makes this classmate different. No one talks about it and the word ‘remedial’ is not one I really understand.  He is one of us and yet set apart. I like him and feel drawn to include him in my life but I do not understand him or ‘feel’ like his friend.

Then the playing field changes. Someone starts to call him a name, ‘egg and chip face’. Not overly cruel but unkind and unnecessary. He becomes more isolated and separate as others pick up on this insult. I know he needs me to stick up for him and yet I’m frightened to go against the crowd. We’re all urged to use this nickname, but I know I don’t want to.

My stomach churns and I want to go to the safety of my home. I’m already ridiculed for my ‘puppy fat’ and confused by the different kind of attention my developing body is bringing. How can I join sides with a lad who is less able to fight off the taunts than me? To be seen as a friend and defender of this boy would surely weaken my position in the battles I encounter at school.

My decision is made. I cannot join the cruelty. I’m not as outspoken as I could have been and my defence of him is subtle; I quietly let him know that I am on his side and I choose to sit next to him in the classroom.

I stay in the role of shy protector until I never see him again. In September, I start at high school and he does not. I never know where he went or what happened to him. My adult self presumes that he went to a school more able to meet his needs, but my younger self worries that something dreadful has happened and that if I had been a better friend, I could have prevented it. I would have wanted there to be a better version of me in Joshua’s life.


Aged 16
There are jobs to be had in the local ‘home for the handicapped’. I already work in the old people’s home and enjoy the experience it gives me for a future career in nursing. It would be a logical step to gain additional experience in a different field. Two of my school friends work there and describe it as a lovely place.

I know this would be a good move, but it’s at this point I realise that I will never be able to work with people with mental disabilities. As I consider this possible job, everything in me revolts against the idea. I CANNOT do that. I will never be able do that. Don’t make me do that.

I never revisited this decision. For whatever reason, when I looked at the lives of those with disabilities, I felt confused, helpless and anxious. Strong feelings. I didn’t want to go there.

In 1999 we are told that our son will never live an independent life and that the syndrome he has will mean a life of severe and profound challenge. The reality of the situation hits me. God must have chosen the wrong person; I can’t be Josh’s mother. I had never wanted to work with children like Josh. I spent years avoiding the world we were now in. I loved my son, but as soon as we joined the community of special needs the old emotions and conflicts arose. This was not a place I was comfortable with and yet I was now centre stage.