Head On Crash with Humility

It was fast approaching 9 a.m. on the Fifth of July. I was 19 years and two days old, changing clothes in the backseat of a Plymouth Fury. My friends Nicki and Mary Ellen were in the front. We were still 30 miles from work. A flat tire had set back our little adventure—altogether we had spent 15 hours driving, to spend 2 hours at a party. I made it to work 15 minutes late, running on pure adrenaline, and sorely disappointed that no one believed where we’d been.

The weather had promised rain, but delivered a bait-and switch, turning the day into a 94 degree mass of humidity—the kind you can touch it in the air. I had bet on the rain and a drop in temperature. I wore a long-sleeved cowboy shirt, boots, and heavy denim jeans. I was wrong and paying for it in the pressing heat.

My job was Art Director at a Day Camp for Kids with Handicaps. Really it was a refuge for waifs and strays. We had kids with behavior problems, kids with Down’s Syndrome, kids with birth defects, kids who could learn very basic tasks, and young adults still in diapers who had never spoken beyond a grunt. Thinking of who they were, who I was, and the current circumstances, I planned a quiet day for all of us. I hadn’t yet learned that I’m not in charge of such things.

Dana, a 16-year-old girl with Down’s Syndrome and a stutter, decided she would be my helper. Fair-haired Dana stood about 5’1” and weighed nearly 160 pounds. She had the shiny personality mix of a cheerful, hard worker and a phenomenally affectionate puppy. She was most happy when she was hugging or hanging onto someone to express her good feelings. Dana's abundance of affection in the summer heat could cause an Art Director to pass out from lack of oxygen, especially if the Art Director already suffered from lack of sleep.

Since such was the case, I went for some creative problem solving. My growing-up name was long and musical. If I could get Dana to focus on learning to say my name without a stutter, I might get some room to breathe. It sounded like a plan to me.

We sat on a picnic table under the trees. Dana sat unbearably close to me. We talked about words, about how names are the most important words that we know.

“Dana and Maribeth,” she said. I smiled to think she got there first.

“Do you know my last name?” I asked. She shook her head, leaning a bit to look at me.

“It’s Monterastelli. That’s a long word. Don’t you think?” Dana moved a little, curious to see what would be next.

“It’s Italian,” I said. "I don’t suppose you know what it means?” Again she shook her head, but her eyes were bright with anticipation. This child was alive, no doubt about it.

“I didn’t either for a long time,” I said. “but I do now. It means star of the mountain.”

The idea of speaking Italian and the image of the star on the mountain are enough to catch any kid’s attention. It sure enough gets mine. So in no time at all I taught her how to say Monterastelli. She practiced. Dana moved over so that she could draw a picture of a star on a moutain while she practiced. I had space. That was 11:00 a.m.

When she finished drawing, she moved back next to me, and I spent the next four hours hearing:
“Mar-i-beth-Mon-ter-a-stelli.-Mar-i-beth-Mon-ter-a-stelli.-Mar-i-beth-Mon-ter-a-stelli.-Mar-i-beth-Mon-ter-a-stelli. . . .”

Wasn’t I clever? It was 94 degrees with 99 percent humidity. And now I had a cheerful, hammer in my head beat-ing-out-my-name, and an affectionate child, who had a good 40 pounds on me, hanging on my arm relentlessly.

Around 3:30 when the air turned to steam, I needed her to let go of me.

“Dana,” I said barely breathing. “Do you KNOW what you’ve been doing

ALL DAY?” I asked, speaking slowly, clearly, emphatically.

“Loving you?” she said innocently.

“Yeah.”

What had I been thinking?

It was a head-on crash with humility.

—me strauss Letting me be