When My Little Brother Asked: "Why Don't I Have Crutches Like You?"

478 words

4 minute read

It was 1998 and we were climbing the stairs together when it happened.

My youngest brother was around two years old - still young enough that a baby gate was installed at the top of our stairs - when I sent him ahead of me. As I ascended with the help of one crutch and the railing, I carried my other crutch, and it stuck out behind me, like an unintentional weapon.

I didn't want to accidentally injure my little brother if he followed behind me on the stairs.  So, I sent him ahead:  "You go first.  I'm coming right behind you."

He watched me curiously and as I reached the top, he asked, "Why don't I have crutches like you?"

My youngest brother, looking out the window at age 2.

I thought about this.  I had been faced with plenty of questions as a kid, but none of those had yet come from my own siblings.

I was just seventeen myself - still more than a decade away from claiming my identity as a disabled person - and battling internalized ableism daily.  Still, I felt sure that I wanted my baby brother to have an explanation that made sense to him.  One that was solid, and positive.  I didn't want him to fear me, my CP, or my adaptive equipment.

So I said something like:  "You have really strong legs.  Strong enough to walk by yourself.  My legs aren't as strong as yours, but that's okay, because my crutches help me!"  I smiled and nodded at him in encouragement.  Then, we went on with our day.

For the next week or so, whenever we climbed the stairs together, my brother would recall this conversation, turn to me at the top of the stairs, and say:

"Your legs not as strong as mine, but that's okay!" and nod, with a big grin on his face.

"That's right," I'd say, confirming this again and again.  And off we went to eat yogurt, play Legos, or watch a movie together.

I didn't spontaneously combust, and even better, my brother learned about disability for the first time.

He wasn't afraid.

And neither was I.

***

It was 2017, and I was climbing the steps to a friend's house, followed by her 11-year-old (who, like us, had CP.)  

Related: Like Looking in a Mirror, Part 3

On the way to their home, we had discussed middle school, Slinkys and slime.  Our young friend also asked if we had other siblings.

We shared we had brothers.

As I made my way toward the house, I overheard our 11-year-old friend say: "Do your brothers have CP?"

"No, they don't," Tara answered.

"Oh," our young friend said, sounding genuinely disappointed.  "That's sad."

Because, to us, having CP meant belonging and community.

And we found that in each other.

***

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