R. J. Palacio, Wonder
“What’s wrong with your dad?”
When I heard those words, my heart sank.
I was picking up the kids from their first day of school, surrounded by dozens of other parents waiting for their kids to emerge from the building.
My boys were veterans on campus, children finishing their first days of fifth, third, and first grades, respectively. They knew the teachers, understood the flow, already had their friends. They had this thing covered.
Grace, our youngest, had just started kindergarten.
Our baby was leaving the safety and carefree days of early childhood for the rigor of full-day school. Not only would her days expand, her network of friends was certain to expand, too.
Apparently I was more emotional than Grace, because she’d already made a new friend. I watched as they came hurtling out of the school, arms locked, skipping.
I waved to get her attention; Grace waved back and guided her new friend over to me. With a massive smile on her face, Grace hugged me and handed me her backpack. She talked with the speed of an auctioneer, reporting the details of her first day, a radical departure from what I experienced with her brothers, who never shared more than a grunted “fine” or “good” before they headed off to play.
Grace’s friend stood back at a safe distance, having never met me before.
As Grace continued chatting, I could see in her friend’s face raw curiosity as she stared at me. Her eyes darted from hand to hand, her forehead furrowed, as a look of pained confusion settled on her face.
Then, with the sweet directness of a child, she pointed at me and asked Grace in a loud voice: “What’s wrong with your dad?”
I knew immediately what the little girl was asking.
But Grace didn’t understand.
She was so used to the shading on my face, and the unnatural curve of my hands, that she’d never even considered that something might be wrong with me.
I’m just her dad. I’ve always been this way.
Confused, she looked back at her friend and said, “What do you mean?”
The little girl responded, “His hands look like puppy dog paws.”
After hearing her friend’s question that day on the playground, five-year-old Grace looked up at me. Her big white bow held back her blond hair; her pink-rimmed glasses framed her sparkling blue eyes.
She then turned back to her new friend and, without any semblance of embarrassment, shame, or anger, responded: “Nothing’s wrong with my dad. He just got burned when he was a little boy. But he’s fine now. He’s all better.”
Her friend looked down at my hands, then up at my face.
Her suspicion faded.
Her face softened.
Acceptance settled in.
She smiled sweetly and said, “I’m glad you’re all better.”
Then she handed me her backpack and the two ran off to play.
Kids. They don’t know not to point, stare, and gawk.
But they are honest. Unashamedly, brutally, and, this is the important part, beautifully honest. From What’s wrong with your dad? to Why is her skin that color? to Mommy, your stomach is like a soft, squishy pillow! they say what is on their minds.
Yes, sometimes this leads to awkward encounters.
But their honesty also liberates them to enter into conversations that matter. What might first come across as judgment leads to understanding. They call out what makes us different, ask who we are, and wonder where we come from. Once their questions are answered, the confusion cleared up, the seemingly out-of-place explained, it’s no longer an issue. They move on and get back to the important stuff.
Connecting.
Playing.
Living.
Loving.
In no other area can we learn more from our children than through their acceptance of others, and most important, of themselves. This doesn’t mean they don’t see differences. They do. But they don’t ignore them. They don’t shy away.
They engage.
They inquire.
They ask. They seek to understand.
Instead of being closed off and shut down, they have their arms open wide, and they meet the world with a transcendent willingness to see what it has to offer. They make friends, invite and spread love, and feel like the world is a big, beautiful playground filled with potential playmates.
They are still in touch with their sense of belonging.
As someone who is familiar with being different, I never mind when people ask me what happened to me. I mind much more when they do not.
In the hopes of being polite or not offending, adults tend to look away or ignore what makes us different. But what does that do? It builds a wall.
My friend, each time we look away, ignore, or assume, we add another brick onto a barrier that was never intended to be there.
It’s time to return to the state where we knew deep down how connected we all are.
While speaking at the University of Southern California, I had the opportunity to meet a man named Augie.
Augie Nieto has lived with the brutal realities of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis for over ten years. Knowing the trajectory of the disease and the certainty of losing everything, Augie tried to take his own life shortly after receiving the diagnosis at age forty-seven.
He survived the attempt. And the experience ignited within him a deep desire to not only refuse to surrender to the disease, but to become a masterful example of abundant life in spite of it. He had the same spirit that coursed through Morrie Schwartz, who endured the same disease, and the same desire to still contribute, like Tempt.
We connected after my talk and spoke for almost an hour. I asked what the most difficult aspect of this brutal disease was.
He responded, “I…”
Augie sat motionless in a motorized wheelchair. Today he is unable to move any muscle other than the big toe on his right foot. Using technology he helped design, he’s able to use his toe to type letters and communicate with friends.
“Don’t…”
Augie was a pioneer and leader in the fitness industry before his ALS diagnosis. He founded, grew, and eventually sold the hugely successful brand Life Fitness. For Augie, fitness wasn’t just work, it was life. He epitomized health and was a world-class athlete.
“Want…”
This one sentence had already taken him more than a minute to type. It was laborious, requiring all his mental effort and physical strength.
“To…”
He occasionally glanced over to make sure I was paying attention—and to let me know he was enjoying being heard.
“Be…”
At this moment someone approached thanking me for speaking. I asked him if he’d ever met Augie. He hadn’t. The gentleman then stuck out his hand to shake Augie’s. Augie stared back. After an awkward silence, the gentleman pointed at Augie, told him he looked great, turned, and walked away. As I watched the man exit the room, Augie finished his sentence.
“Ignored.”
While he cannot undo his diagnosis and can’t change his reality, he does wish one thing from those around him: “I don’t want to be ignored.”
What terrifies Augie is not the painful progression of ALS, or even the inevitable loss of life. It’s that in almost every room he’s in, people look past him, ignore him, or feel sorry for him.
We long to be seen.
We are a social species. We descend from tribes. We are wired for connection. We are created to go through life together.
So why aren’t we willing to ask questions? To reach out a hand, open our hearts, and truly connect? About the good, the bad, and the beautiful parts of life?
It’s because we don’t want to expose ourselves.
In order to connect with others, we’ve got to let people in, instead of keeping them out. We’ve got to lower our guard and realize that, no matter what we’re hiding, we still belong.
So instead of walking away, what if we pulled up a chair? Instead of shutting our hearts, what if we opened them wide?
It’s time to tear down the walls that we have erected.
It’s time to stop hiding who we are.
It’s time to get back to seeing one another fully and celebrating who we are, so we can journey through life together.