Spread the WORD to end the WORD

Hi. My name is Tiki. I am 29 years old and I have Down syndrome. Sometimes, the world can be cruel. So cruel, that I wonder why God put me on this earth in the first place. School is harder for me than for anyone else, good friends are rare, and I can barely even talk to my own family about certain things. Life is so hard for me already mentally, so why do I also have to look different as well?

Being different is a hard thing. It separates me from the rest of the crowd, the school, my friends, my family. Being different is something I was born with and I have to live with it for the rest of my life. I was blessed with a caring, patient family that has helped me graduate from high school with amazing grades, and get a job as a part-time children’s teacher. I love my job, and where I am in life as of now, but it hasn’t always been so easy. When I was younger, I never fully understood what it meant to be different.

To other people, being different is a good thing. It is something you strive for in a world full of lemmings. To me, being different is a curse. I can’t do anything to change how my mind works, how fast I grow, or what I look like. I was born with an extra chromosome, and because of that I am imprisoned by myself.

I am going to share a story with you now about a young, naïve girl in middle school. A girl, who, in her mind, wasn’t so different.

…

The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. It was recess now.

A smile broke out across my face as I thought of my friends I would get to see and talk to during recess. Of course, I had the smartest, prettiest, coolest friends in the entire school. I was in the popular crowd.

Making my way to the bench at the far end of the playground, I thought about my friends and all the fun times we have had together. During recess we laugh, and dance, and sing, and even after school sometimes they come to visit me.

As I got to the bench finally, I was happy to see the whole group already sitting there. They smiled and greeted me, immediately launching into our traditional activity. One girl would shout out a song from her perch atop the bench and I would begin to sing loudly and dance along to my music. My friends never failed to laugh, me laughing with them. I twisted my face into funny expressions, and jumped around like a maniac. I know I’m not the best singer, and I can’t dance, but I always sang my heart out, danced with my soul, believing myself to be completely and truly happy.

After recess was over, the girls would say their goodbyes and walk away, still giggling. I would gather my things from where they were strewn on the ground and stumble after them, only to stay in the background, always quiet, waiting for the next time that they would notice me. I lived for their praise of my performances, thriving off of their laughter when we were together.

The girls would promise me that they would visit after school, and they kept true to their word. Around an hour after school ends they would begin arriving, bringing a few boys with them, always a bigger crowd than the day before.

The laughs seemed to never end. After I would put on a last show for all of my friends, we would all collapse into a fit of laughter, simply enjoying each others’ company.

Then, on that day, it all crumbled down. A boy from among the group of giggling girls sat up and nudged his friend beside him. He looked over at them, a smirk playing on his lips and everyone quieted down to hear him.

“What a retard!”

With that everyone burst out into hysterical laughter again, as I sat there, dumb founded, finally understanding everything. Retard. That’s all I was to them, someone disabled, not on the same level as them.

Everything made sense now. They were never laughing with me, they were laughing at me. I could only feel pain. Pain and anger.

I got up and ran to my older sister, telling her everything that had just happened. She immediately told my parents who began to clean up the mess that had become my life. All of my friends were sent home and I let each of them know not to ever come around me again.

After that, I stayed away from people mostly. They didn’t want to be my friend. How could they anyway? I was different. I had a disability. And because of that, I was automatically set aside, judged, and ridiculed for something that I can’t help being.

…

Retard. That word hurts. Yes, I may have Down syndrome, but I am not dumb. I am not a child or an invalid. I am not a vegetable. I am a living, breathing human, with feelings and a functioning brain. I can feel just as anyone else, and I can think like anyone else can. I now know what those girls were thinking when they befriended me, and I know how terrible it felt was to be looked down upon.

I now ask of you something very simple. Take my life as an example to stop the “r” word from being used. Even in every-day conversation, it hurts those people around you. Even if you are not around someone with a disability, someone near you may know someone they love going through the same thing. If you hear your friend using that word, remind them not to, speak up, and make a difference. You can change the world, and change yourself for the better.

Spread The WORD To End The WORD.

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All of the information in this story is true. Tiki just recently came to my school, telling me the story above and impressing on all of us how serious one word can be. I have taken the challenge upon myself not to say the “r” word in any context, and I hope you will do the same. You can make a difference in the world, and on the lives of many people around you. Thank You.