CHAPTER SIX
Breaking Down Walls
Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.
—Joshua 1:9
The first rule of tumbling is that you need to stick the landing: feet together, standing strong and tall without wavering or taking a step. Of course, this was virtually impossible for me. My body automatically “bounces” as I complete a tumble. I needed to figure it out: How could I stick my landing and not get points deducted from my score? My coaches and parents considered talking to the judges and agreeing on some kind of special allowance. But I was determined: no special treatment. I would do the same thing that every other gymnast in my competition category did. We came up with this way for me to sort of “sink down” at the end of the routine and hold that position—my version of sticking it. It required the same strength and concentration as someone holding their legs firm, so it met the criteria.
No matter what sport I competed in, I always determined that to win a medal or a trophy, I had to earn it. I put in the same blood, sweat, and tears as everyone else competing, and no exceptions were made. Did it hold me back from advancing? Maybe. But to me, that was better than someone accusing me of having an unfair advantage (a few competitors did that anyway). It was never about the actual win for me; it was about proving that nothing is impossible.
My coaches saw I was a talented power tumbler. I had a natural sense of body and air awareness. And I was strong! I had defined biceps and triceps from the time I was five years old. About a month into fourth grade, Beth asked me to start competing on the gymnastics team. Fancy leotards with sparkly stripes down the arms! Team jackets! I was so excited to be part of this world. During competition season, my team would drive every weekend to a different city or state for a meet. I would do two different “passes” utilizing different skills, such as half twists, backflips, tucks, and round offs.
When I showed up at a meet, people would, of course, notice that I didn’t have legs—and I don’t think they understood I’d be competing. How could I? But after a few meets, I became known not just for my lack of legs but for my skills and sociability. I was always friendly and curious. I wanted to know where the other competitors were from, what their team colors were, their favorite moves. I was always full of questions about everyone’s life!
When I participated in the Illinois power tumbling championship, I competed against competitors with legs. No one without legs had ever made it so far. One of the news media outlets said I was forging new ground as the first “handicapped” person to compete. I never thought of it that way though. I was simply doing what I loved to do, following my passion as far as it would take me. I see now that God put me here on earth to pave the way for many different people. I think He proves numerous points and busts countless stereotypes through me. But I wasn’t conscious of this for a long time, especially not when I was a kid. I went all the way to the AAU Junior Olympics, where I placed fourth all-around in my division. For me, competing fueled my fire—not the idea of being “the first” in anything.
Breaking the Rules
God’s path for me has been filled with obstacles and roadblocks. I’d be lying if I told you I’ve tackled each one with grace. Some have tried me to the point of fury and exhaustion. Some still do. Because of who I am, how I look, how people perceive me to be, I know there will always be walls to break down. I learned that lesson very young. When I was in fifth grade, my parents took me to a theme park about an hour and a half away from our house. I was so excited! Everyone in my family was a roller-coaster junkie, and I’d never been on one. I’d been waiting and waiting for that day. We piled into our car and took my friend Kara along. When I remember the day, it’s as if I’m watching it play back in slow motion: getting out of the car and rolling up to the ticket booth in my wheelchair, then climbing out and strapping myself into this pendulum-like ride that pitched you around in a circle.
I pulled down the harness and watched the guy running the ride watching me. I saw a look of panic in his eyes. Then he got on his radio and called someone else over—his supervisor or a park manager. They whispered, they stared at me, they whispered some more. At this point, since the ride was going nowhere, I had a hunch I was the cause of the holdup.
“I’m sorry,” he said, walking over to my row of seats. Kara and my entire family were strapped in next to me. “You have to be a certain height to ride this ride.”
Translation: “get off.” I get that the guy was doing his job and following the park rules, but the rules were wrong. To make matters worse, I had to make my way back through a long maze of people waiting in line. I felt as if each one was looking on me with pity.
My parents exploded. They were livid, more livid than I’ve ever seen them in my life. “How dare you!” my dad said, getting right in the guy’s face. I was afraid he was going to punch him, but I was so upset that I didn’t want to hold him back. “Are you kidding me?” he shouted at the employee. “You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to!”
We were now all making a huge scene. But no matter how hard any of us argued, pleaded, sobbed, there was no budging the park staff. They offered to let my family and Kara ride—just not me.
This made my dad even more furious: “What is she supposed to do?” he screamed at them. “Sit there and watch us?”
In the end, they gave us back our money, and we left in a huff. The only rides they would allow me to go on were the ones for toddlers. I couldn’t even go down a waterslide.
“They don’t know you,” my father tried to reassure me. “They don’t know how strong you are and what you can do—or they’d know how ridiculous these rules are.”
I sat silently in the backseat, trying not to cry. My mom was doing a good enough job for both of us. I was just so disappointed and stunned. All my life, I’d never accepted the word can’t. Now here was someone telling me “you can’t,” and there was nothing any of us could do about it. It shook me to my core. Had my parents been wrong all along? Were there some things in my life that I would never be able to do?
The way my parents handled it next was spectacular. We could have sued. We could have alerted the media and made a huge stink. We could have played the handicapped card. Instead, my mom got on the phone with our state representative and told him, “There are laws that are wrong, and we need to do something about them.” She called OSHA, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Then she got on the phone with theme park after theme park, educating them. In order to meet the height requirement for a ride, I would have to strap on prosthetics that would not be safe on a high-speed thrill ride. The safety belt would hold me just fine at the height I was at, and if they were so worried, they could add a second harness to reinforce it. I wasn’t the only one missing limbs who wanted to ride a coaster. Why should anyone have to miss out?
Fast-forward about a year later, and we were all welcomed at Indiana Beach Boardwalk Resort amusement park. My mom had reached out to the owner, and he personally escorted me into the park and onto my very first roller coaster. I screamed with joy and rode every terrifying ride to my heart’s desire. But not every amusement park is this way. To be honest, most aren’t. I write this in the hopes that others will educate themselves and voice their objections to rules that don’t apply to all people equally.
Every time I go to a theme park, it gives me anxiety, which is so ironic. Isn’t it supposed to be a place where people cut loose and have fun? For me, it’s a stressful mental and emotional exercise. I have to arm myself with patience. I have to be the bigger person and swallow my pride every single time. I also have to use my knowledge rather than lose my temper. I understand why the laws were made and how they work, more than any park manager, owner, or employee.
Not too long ago, a manager at a major theme park proceeded to explain to me why medically I couldn’t go on a ride. “It will be impossible for you to hold yourself on the ride,” he said, trying to sound very astute. “It has to do with your balance and equilibrium.”
I took a deep breath. Dude, you better stop talking. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I wasn’t even going to waste my time and tell him that I can “balance” and “hold” myself thirty feet in the air from a silk just fine, thank you. I spin at lightning speed during my performances, and my equilibrium is just dandy!
Instead, I marched right past him, into guest services, and phoned OSHA. They set him—and everyone else who worked in the park—straight. After two hours, the staff escorted me back to the front of the line, and I got on the ride. A lot of time was wasted when I could have been enjoying the park instead of arguing with the staff, but I won. Unfortunately, I always have to be prepared for a fight—the intellectual kind. And it can be exhausting, but it’s well worth it. I’m fighting not just for me but for everyone who has been told “you can’t.” Common sense is gone because people are so afraid of being held liable.
I think back to that day in fifth grade and realize my dad could have simply said, “Jennifer, the man said no, so no it is.” Plenty of my friends grew up being told “rules are rules” and not to challenge authority. But that’s not how my parents raised me. I was raised to be fierce, to fight the good fight nobly and with conviction. Today you may not win; tomorrow you may not win. But down the road will be one small victory that can change everything.
BELIEVE IT!