by Rebekah Taussig
United States
The evening of Family Fun Night at Carousel Park, I was nervous. An entire evening of unstructured play in a giant indoor amusement park with all the kids in our elementary school, plus their families, didn't really sound like a 'fun' night to me. I'd just started fifth grade, I was ten, and it wasn't going great. My class was crowded with twelve rowdy boys and five girls who held hands with those boys at recess and wore shirts with the words 'Gap' and 'Old Navy' and 'Limited' printed on the fronts.
My family couldn't afford to shop for clothes in stores like these. We went thrift shopping twice a year, when I would scour the aisles for shirts with the most expensive brands printed across the front. I thought maybe this would trick people into believing I was the same as them.
More than almost anything in the world, I wanted to fit in. It was more important than figuring out long division or being kind or drawing something that made me proud. The only problem with this goal was that 'fitting in' wasn't something I could really do. At least, not in the way I'd imagined it. I'd been using a hot pink wheelchair to get around since I was six. I wore leg braces that were strapped against my shins with brown Velcro. I used the bathroom in the nurse's office, while everyone else used the stalls. Every single person in my fifth-grade class was different in some ways and the same in others, but everyone noticed my differences right away, and there wasn't much I could do to hide them.
It's not that the kids at my school were mean to me. People didn't make fun of me or call me names. But I found myself alone a lot - sitting on the edge of the playground or relegated to the very end of the lunch table (the only spot my wheelchair could scoot under). Every once in a while, I was even a trend. For a week or so, the kids in my class would clamour to be my 'helper'. It wasn't an official title, but a self-appointed role. They'd get in line to push me to recess or carry my lunch tray. It wasn't a literal line, but a list I stored in my desk to make sure I kept it fair - if someone wanted a turn, they had to wait until everyone else on the list got a chance. I thought it should feel good - isn't it nice when people want to be around you? Instead, I felt a little more like the class hamster than anyone's friend. An object of affection, but not an equal.
That feeling of separation only grew when, a few weeks before fifth grade started, I was one of six nominated for our city's Outstanding Community Kid Award. I was ten years old. The local newspapers covered the story, recounting my life of 'painful treatments and surgeries', concluding, 'her courage inspires others to have faith and hope.' My mom snipped the articles out of the newspaper and sealed each behind the magnetic paper of my photo album, a black-and-white preservation of Rebekah Taussig, unconquerable fifth grader.
The gap between me and the kids around me felt wide. I lived on an island all of my own, and I didn't know how to build a bridge. So, I begged my mom to take me shopping in one of the expensive stores. My mom relented. I was allowed to pick out one top and one bottom for the new school year, despite the fact she really didn't have the money for either.
On Family Fun Night, I put on my brand-new khaki corduroy overalls and a long-sleeved striped top. It was a sweltering choice for that humid September, but wearing them made me feel a little bit like I belonged. Carousel Park was supposed to be a hub for family entertainment, sprawled across the basement of a mostly abandoned mall. My parents dropped me off by the doors, and I pushed myself across the sidewalk in the bright heat of the late summer evening hours, sweat trickling down my neck. What games would I be able to play? Would anyone want to hang out with me? Or would they let me tag along out of pity? How would I know the difference?
Inside, my eyes adjusted to the dim party-scape. I pushed myself across the thick carpet covered in bright geometric shapes and tried to keep track of all the lights flashing across arcade games and small rides. Every minute I spent alone was a slow hour of torture. I felt people's eyes on me. Imagined? Real? Did it matter? I just needed to find a group of humans who wouldn't be annoyed by my presence. I tried to twist my mouth into a casual smile and kept rolling. Finally, I collided with a group of boys from my class playing an arcade game called Skee-Ball. The game was low to the ground, almost the perfect height for a girl in a wheelchair to throw a small ball and see what happens.
I didn't know these boys very well. There was the boy with a billion freckles who drew cartoons in his notebook during recess; the boy who mumbled nervously when he did math problems on the board and always got them wrong; the boy who wore a Pokémon sweatshirt every other day - one that had started out white but turned pale pink because of what I could only assume was a laundry accident. I quietly approached, stopping a couple of feet from their circle, hoping I could seamlessly join their group without making waves. They smiled in my direction, but no one said anything to me.
Chad, the kid wearing the pale pink Pokémon shirt, threw the little skee ball towards the hoops and missed the bullseye by a mile. He threw up his hands dramatically, making a show of his misfortune: 'I was so close!' I thought about making a joke, like - 'So close - to the gutter!' - but suddenly my tongue felt very big, and my throat felt very tight. This was my moment to wave a friendly flag! I swallowed several times, but it didn't help. I couldn't will myself to speak. And suddenly, in the silence, a voice broke through - 'Rebekah, you take a turn!' Chad held out a small ball to me.
The invitation felt like sunshine cutting through a heavy cloud, a brief quieting of a violent windstorm, the rainbow after the flood. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve this miraculous invitation, but I grabbed hold of it with both hands. 'Yeah, OK,' I said, holding the ball and pushing myself into just the right position to throw.
That night, we were the awkward bunch - a group of outsiders clinging to each other in the blinking beeping jungle, travelling from Skee-Ball to air hockey to the mini basketball hoops as one bubble. Together in this chaotic, flashing wilderness we were foragers on an adventure, surviving only because we'd joined forces. We started collecting our tickets and wondered together if pooling our resources would mean we could get something extra cool. But first, we wanted to go on the biggest ride on the floor - the Flying Dragon.
As I sat in the plastic car - one part of this wild, mechanical beast whipping across the tracks - I felt like I was actually soaring through outer space, passing friendly alien spaceships, glittering stars and big bright moons, my pals beside and behind me. My cheeks ached from smiling. As I pulled myself out of the ride and back into my wheelchair waiting by the entrance, one of the managers approached me. Had I broken some kind of rule? Maybe they didn't want kids who used wheelchairs on this ride?
The man pulled his trouser legs up a couple of inches and crouched low so his eyes were level with mine, his forearms resting on his thighs. 'Hi, Rebekah!' he said, loud enough to be heard above the noise of games and noisy kids. 'We heard about your "inspirational kid award", and we just wanted to be able to do something special for you.' He had such a giant, expectant grin on his face.
I looked back at my new-found group of friends. They stood in a cluster, watching me and the man from a few feet back, unsure what to do. I wasn't terribly interested in the special thing this man had in store for me. At the same time, I didn't want to take away the good feeling he had about giving it to me, and I didn't want my friends to have to wait for me either.
'You guys go ahead,' I said. 'I'll catch up with you.'
I followed the man towards the middle of the arcade where the bright booth full of prizes radiated rewards: snap bracelets, whoopee cushions, neon plastic yo-yos, inflatable penguins, miniature basketballs, all kinds of candy.
'Do you see those bears on the very top shelf?' he asked, leaning down to talk directly in my ear. I pulled back and smiled, looking up at a row of giant bears I hadn't noticed. Each bear was dressed in a different outfit and sat about three feet tall. They were enormous and childish. I nodded to the man.
'Those are our very biggest prizes, and we would like to give one to you,' he said, beaming.
I didn't have to ask the man why. Despite the fact that I hadn't earned more than thirteen tickets the whole night, I already knew. It was the same reason I'd been given the Outstanding Community Kid Award. For inspiring everyone with my 'painful treatments and...
