Your Attitudes Off Our Genes!” I like that one. And then there’s “If We Can’t Do It, It Doesn’t Need Doing” and “Rights for the Neurodivergent.” The last one is a head scratcher for me, but then I’m new to the disability branch of the Euphemisms R Us industry.
There are about fifteen activists altogether. They march onto the running lanes marked out on the grass and stop. None of them looks disabled, but what do I know? The leader has a bullhorn and he leads them in a chant.
“Oh no, we won’t go, / we are here come rain or snow. / Stop your running, stop the schism, / stop your ugly ableism!” (Schism and ableism—a rhyme never contemplated by Shakespeare or Poe.) They repeat it a half dozen times while people gather round—some puzzled, some angry.
The activists lock arms in an outward-facing circle around the man with the bullhorn, like mother elephants around their calves when predators threaten.
I am highly perplexed, one of my default states. I’ve been too obtuse to realize that the Special Olympics are a bastion of oppression. The guy with the bullhorn enlightens me.
“Ladies and gentlemen and beloved victims. We are here to put a stop to this charade of misplaced compassion and pseudo-acceptance.”
His pronunciation of charade catches my ear—this “shah-rod” he says, with a strong emphasis on the second syllable, “this shah-rod of misplaced compassion.” I am a word collector and I start wondering where that pronunciation comes from—shah-rod—and whether it signifies anything. So I miss the next couple of sentences of his critique. Then I pick him up again.
“Your hearts are in the right place, but you are actually abusing the people you want to help. You are infantilizing them. All these hugs, all this mindless cheering. These people are, for the most part, adults, and you are treating them as though they are little children. This is not normalizing. This is not treating them as equals. We do not have huggers at the end of the races in the ‘non-special’ Olympics”—he flashes air quotes—“so why here? No one hugs you at the end of the day at the office, so why here?
“And these sponsors—Wells Fargo and Medtronic and Cargill.” He gestures toward their corporate signs around the field. “It’s all public relations. It’s feel-good propaganda. Do you think they hire these contestants? Will you find the people competing here—faux-competing I should say—behind the bank window at Wells Fargo or in a business meeting at Medtronic? I don’t think so. These are giant, soulless corporations—international conglomerates—and they eat up and spit out real people like pistachios.”
Some people start giving him pushback.
“That’s not fair.” “We’re having a good time here. Why are you trying to wreck things?” “Go save some other part of the world!”
The guy with the bullhorn seems glad for the interruption. It gives him new material to work with.
“Having a good time here? Is that what you said? Having a good time? Well, let’s see if everyone is having a good time. I have someone here who does not seem to be having a good time at all. Because oppression never creates a good time for the oppressed. Let’s see what she has to say about your good time.”
The ring of protestors opens at one point and who is led into the circle and up to bullhorn man but Bonita. How he has managed to recruit her between the parking lot and the center of the field only God knows.
“What is your name, please.”
“My name is Bonita Marie Anderson.”
“And where do you live, Bonita?”
“I live right here at Good Shepherd.”
He looks confused.
“Right over there.” And she points to our group home.
“And are you having a good time here today, Bonita?”
“No, I am not. They are trying to cheat me out of my medal, the bastards.”
More people start yelling and even pushing against the security circle.
“Now who’s the abuser, fella? You’re exploiting that woman.”
Bonita doesn’t know what exploiting means but she doesn’t like being interrupted.
“Pipe down, asshole. I’m talking here and I know when I’m being cheated.”
This is not exactly how bullhorn man wants the interview to go, so he tries to end it and move on to other issues.
“Well, thank you, Bonita, for helping us see through the ‘just having fun’ shah-rod.”
But Bonita is not one to be cut off so easily, shah-rod or no shah-rod. Activist boy keeps the bullhorn away from her, but she just starts yelling instead.
“I’m not finished yet. They didn’t give me my medal and Mote promised me a pop and I didn’t get that either. And I’m not going anywhere until I do.”
Then activist boy makes a big mistake. He puts his hand on Bonita’s back and tries to direct her out toward the opening in the circle.
No one pushes around Bonita Marie Anderson. She pivots away from him and turns back into his face.
“Take your hands off me you dirty pervert! You can’t touch me there! You can’t touch me anywhere!”
He looks stricken—and then he is stricken. Bonita kicks him in the shin. He drops his bullhorn and howls in pain, holding his injured leg while pogo sticking on the other.
Now the crowd, most of which can’t see what’s going on, is angry. They start breaking through the security cordon.
“Where’s he touching her?” “Somebody stop him!” “Get him!”
Things are turning ugly, but then people at the back of the crowd start looking behind them. A young boy is running toward us, coming from the reed marsh beyond the athletic field. He’s yelling something as he runs, but I can’t tell what. Some people start running toward the reeds as he enters the center ring of the crowd.
“There’s a body out there! I found a body! Call the police! There’s a body!”
seven
This is what everyone feared but no one would speak. It was the worst possible for Abby and her family, of course, but it was also extremely bad news for Cassandra Pettigrew and New Directions. We live in an age dominated by lawyers, commentators, activists, gossipmongers, frightened politicians, and perpetually offended people. All of them need to feed, and this promised to be a feast.
Suddenly no one cares about ableism or inappropriate touching. Some head for the marsh, others for the parking lot. I start looking for my Specials, knowing that a couple will want to lead the charge to the marsh and others will be frozen in place.
I’ve gotten everyone together except Billy when Bo Springer rushes up to me. He’s hyperventilating and looks like he’s about to cry.
“Get your residents to the group home. I’m calling a code four. We’re going into lockdown mode. Cassie is upset big time.
