My Brother's Keeper
I’m a sister to a special needs brother. Jim was born in 1958 with what the doctors then diagnosed as brain damage. Based on what we know today, he would be considered severely Autistic and Asperger.
As a child, I remember Mom telling stories of how the doctors wanted them to place Jim in an institution and forget about him. My parents stood their ground and said no. They took him home and did their best to raise him as they would any other child.
For the next few years, they would take him from doctor to doctor for tests. Each doctor told them the same thing, “institutionalize him, he’ll never learn”. After once such visit, Mom said Jim was really quiet on the way home. She asked him what was wrong. He looked at her and said, “The doctor is wrong. I can learn”. From that point on, my parents did everything in their power to find a school for him.
And he was right, he learned how to potty-train, clothe himself, and feed himself. He taught himself to read my books I had as a child. (I am two years younger.) I remember him crying as I would go out to get on the bus for school because he couldn’t go and it broke my heart. I wanted my brother to go to school too.
Then, shortly after I started second grade, my parents found a school with classes for children with disability. We moved from Marion, Indiana to Huntington, Indiana. My brother and I would walk to school each day. I made sure he got to his class, then went to mine.
In those days, we could walk home for lunch, so I did, making sure my brother got home safely, as he only went half-days. One day, while walking home, some boys came up behind us, spitting at him and calling him names. Even at seven years old, I was very protective of him. I got angry and got between him and the boys, making sure none of their spit hit him. I yelled at them and told them to leave my brother alone. My brother, however, never said a word. He just walked on with tears streaming down his face, which made me even madder, because they made my brother cry.
That was my first lesson in how people who are different were treated and I never forgot it. I spent the rest of my childhood defending my brother from those who were cruel. To this day, I get up on my soapbox anytime someone says something about the disabled and really get angry when the word retarded is used as a derogatory insult or joke.
We didn’t stay long in Huntington, and before the school year was over, we moved again. I finished second grade in my third school for the year, then that summer, we moved again to Indianapolis. With the help of our parents and other parents of disabled children, a school was created for just them. Mom helped with lunchtime and Jim thrived. He learned so much there with other kids who were like him. No more taunts or cruelty. After several years, he learned all they could teach him and he now spends his time learning what he can from shows, books, and magazines.
We are both adults now (obviously), and things have gotten better, but there’s still a long way to go. My brother still gets dirty looks when we go out, but not like it used to be. As a tattooed woman, I get just as many dirty looks as he does, but I just smile sweetly and stare them down for both of us. It breaks my heart to see there are still so many who regard those with “special needs” in a derogatory manner. It is my hope, with time, hearts and minds are changed.
Until then, I have picked up where our parents left off, taking care of my brother. I have been his caregiver since 2010 when our mother died. (Dad died in 2009, six months earlier.) We’ve had our challenges, and I’m sure we’ll have more, but have settled into a routine that gets us through the day. I don’t mind taking care of my brother. In a sense, I have been doing so since the day I was born.
If you'd like to more about our story, check out our book, My Brother's Keeper. It's available in the Mystic Book Shop on this website or you can find it at your favorite retailer through this link:
Until next time...
Raven
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