The Other Way Around Read Free Page A

use of curriculum time that led to the unfortunate dental incident. But Geneseo was a different kind of town, and Roz’s parents probably had problems, dental and otherwise, far worse than a chipped tooth.
    After each of these experiential activities, we had to answer some questions in a workbook about what it felt like to try out the disability for the day. Week three was called Developmental Disabilities, which someone had figured out was grownup code for retarded. By the time the volunteers arrived the classroom was buzzing with anticipation. How were they going to simulate this? Everyone was trying out their best retard voice—surely not what the program initiators had in mind when they wrote the curriculum. Andrea Peterson’s cousin told her that they had a machine that could turn your brain retarded for short periods of time.
    Much to our disappointment, our task was a lot more mundane than what we had all imagined. Pennies were spread out on the desk—this was a good start. And we were given oven mitts to wear and told to pick up as many pennies as we could. This, we were told, was what it felt like to be mentally retarded. In my own defense, I think we were
all
a little disappointed. I raised my hand and asked what I felt was on everyone’s mind: “Why does picking up pennies make you seem retarded?”
    â€œPeople who are
developmentally disabled
have to struggle to complete tasks that are simple for people without disabilities,” the volunteer explained patiently.
    â€œYeah, but why are they picking up so many pennies?”
    The volunteer stared at me, screening my expression for any possible signs of cheekiness or insubordination. “The pennies are just an example,” she said, this time a little less patiently. It wasn’t really the explanation I was looking for, but I knew enough about adult signals to let it go. The lesson went on without interruptions until one of the volunteers tried to explain to our class that people with Down syndrome are often sweet, good-natured, and childlike. This time it was Matt Hider who objected.
    â€œNo they’re not,” he blurted out without raising his hand. We all looked smugly at the volunteers. We knew something they didn’t.
    â€œWell, actually,” the volunteer began.
    â€œMy sister’s got that and she’s a real brat,” Matt announced. “Especially if she doesn’t get her way. She hits all the time too.” Matt was the second youngest of seven. His family squeezed into the tiny ranch at the end of our street. I knew for a fact that he was the one who took care of his younger sister every day after school until his parents came home from work. I nodded as he spoke, as though living on the same street as the kid with Down syndrome lent me some sort of secondary authority.
    â€œWell, I’m sure she doesn’t mean it,” the volunteer said and smiled brightly at Matt.
    â€œOh yes she does,” Matt insisted. “Once when I took away the potato chips because she was going to make herself sick, she bit me.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the distinctive scars of bite marks. Now it was getting good. We all jumped up from our seats to look at Matt’s wounds. Mrs. Wilcox, roused from her stack of papers by our sudden movement, stood up toretake control of the class. “All right everybody, that’s enough,” Mrs. Wilcox said in an elevated tone. Disappointed, we began to drift back to our seats. The best part of the class was clearly over.
    â€œI bet she doesn’t sit around all day picking up pennies either,” I blurted out louder than I meant to.
    â€œNo way, man, she’s not
that
retarded,” Matt replied. The whole class snickered, and for a moment, I reveled in being the kid who had cracked up the whole class.
    â€œAndrew West.” Mrs. Wilcox drew herself up to her full height. A piece of hair had come loose from her otherwise