The Day I Became Human

    This is a true story about the day I learned what it is that makes us human.

                                                                The Day I Became Human
                                                                            by Blue


    I remember it like it was yesterday. You see, my mother confirmed that I could remember back to when I was nine months old. So, when I tell you that I remember the day I became human, you can believe it.
    It was a warm summer day like so many others. I was three years old at the time and, like most kids, I was enjoying myself. This day was filled with sunshine, fresh cut grass and children's laughter. This was a simpler time when even a three year old was safe in the neighborhood. It was a time when all adults looked after kids and made sure they were safe. One thing, however, was different that particular day. That was the day that Karen came out to play.
    Karen was older than I was and at least a foot taller. She had long, straight brown hair and big brown eyes. And she was different. I didn't have the words at the time, but Karen had cerebral palsy. She held her right arm close to her body and had trouble walking. She couldn't run like the rest of us, but she tried her best. Even when she laughed, she sounded "different". That was the only way I understood it at the time...different. I was curious about Karen and slightly frightened of her. She seemed nice enough, but I was wary.
    We all played until lunchtime when mothers called various children into various houses. Some went with their playmates because back then everyone was welcome in their neighbor's house. I slowly made my way home, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of summer. Then, to my horror, just as I reached the screen door to my home, I discovered that Karen had followed me home! I was like a small animal that had been cornered. This was my home, my refuge. This was the place where I was safe and protected. And shuffling toward my sanctuary was someone who was "different". I paniced. I spun around and shouted, " Go home. You can't come in here!" Karen simply stared at me for a moment, her large eyes filling with tears. She turned and shuffled away toward her own sanctuary. I suppose now that Karen endured a lot of non-acceptance.
    I ran into the house, the screen door slamming behind me. My mother asked who I'd been yelling at. "Karen," I told her. "Now why were you yelling at that poor girl?" she asked as she crossed her arms over her chest. That was a sure sign that I was in trouble. "I don't like her," I said stubbornly. "And why don't you like her? She's a nice girl," Mama returned. "I don't know," I told her. I couldn't decribe my feelings so I simply said, "She's...different." "Let's talk," Mama said and pulled out a chair for me. Obediently, I climbed up onto the chair and, as Mama fixed my lunch, I became human.
    "Yes, Karen's different," she explained. "She was born that way. She can't help being the way she is." "Is she sick?" I asked. "No, not exactly sick," Mama replied. "Will she get better?" I asked. "No, she won't get better. She'll be like she is all her life," was the answer. "You shouldn't make fun of her. She has to work twice as hard to have half as much fun as you do. Do you understand?" she asked. I nodded, still not completely sure. "You should be grateful that you weren't born like Karen. It can happen to anyone," she told me. There it was. That explained that feeling of dread I had about Karen. "Will I be like Karen when I get bigger?" I asked with trepidation. "No, honey," my mother said smiling. She hugged me and placed a sandwich and a glass of milk in front of me. "You won't be like Karen. You have to remember that things are harder for people like Karen. There are a lot of people that have problems. Some people only have one arm or leg. Some people can't walk, others can't see and some people can't hear. All people aren't as lucky as we are. You're supposed to help those people. They're no different inside than you are. They just have some things they can't do or have trouble doing. Different doesn't mean bad. It just means they're not quite the same as you. Now, I don't want you being mean to Karen any more. Understand?"  She sat down to her own sandwich. I nodded  as I  took a large bite of mine.
    I did understand. I thought about Karen in a different light. I realized how hard it was for her to keep up, how she wanted to be part of the group and how she was ostracized by everyone, including me. I first felt empathy and sympathy that day and my heart broke for Karen and everyone like her. I burst into tears with a mouthful of bologna sandwich. Mama wiped away my tears and said, "It's OK. You understand now, don't you?" I nodded and wiped my nose on a paper napkin. I finished my sandwich and asked to go play. I was determined to apologize to Karen. I didn't have many words, but I was desperate to make things right with her.
    Karen didn't come back out to play that day or the next. It rained after that. We soon moved to a new neighborhood. I made new friends. I laughed and played and did all the things that small children do. I went to school, grew up, got married and had a career. My career? I became a nurse. I've met and cared for hundreds of people from all over the world who were "different" and each one has touched me in some way.  I think about Karen from time to time. I hope she' s had a good life. I never saw her again, but I will always be grateful for the part she played in helping me become human.


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