Instead, I choose to see in Aaron an opportunity to embrace perspective and authenticity. I don’t view my brother’s disability as a limitation. Even as Aaron’s sister, I’m deeply guilty.Īn excerpt from my college application essay to Yale:
It’s an unconscious prejudice: the assumption that a person’s worth depends on his ability to read or speak. It’s humbling to realize the difference between this pseudo-brother-the Aaron who could read my letter-and the Aaron with whom I interact every day. There’s a kind of reciprocity and equality, an assumption of shared intellect, inherent in the act of writing. The letter assumes I’m addressing an intelligent, thinking, feeling human being. The words “Dear Aaron” immediately conjure a dignity and respect that I rarely grant my real brother. I can’t help but notice how it feels to write this letter.
The qualities that define him-his laughter, his joy, his capacity to draw community around him-don’t depend at all on his ability to read or speak. In a way, Aaron’s lack of language doesn’t matter. In nineteen years, Aaron and I have never had a real conversation. A host of things make Aaron different: autism, dyspraxia, developmental delays. He won’t read any letter, or any sentence or word. But I was afraid you’d wake, so I tiptoed away. I wanted to lean down and touch you-brush a kiss on your forehead, pull the covers over your chest. I wondered if you felt the stark difference: the sounds and vibrations of a waking body you can’t control, suddenly peaceful and passive in sleep.Īs I watched, two words came to mind. Your crescendo of shouts and babbles was muted, replaced by a slow measured sigh. You were utterly still. Your hands, usually flapping, lay calm atop the sheets. Your hair was dark against the pillow, your limbs soft and spread. Last night I walked into your bedroom and watched you sleeping.
0 kommentar(er)
