Free Say What You Will by Cammie McGovern Page A

message that was subtle, but not cloying. Appreciate it, people. Having friends is great. She wrote a few drafts and tried the first one on her mother, who laughed politely throughout and afterward asked if the assignment was meant to be comedy.
    “NO. I WANT TO MAKE IT LIGHT, BUT I ALSO WANT TO MAKE A POINT.”
    “Oh!” her mother said. “It’s just that comedy is so hard anyway, and your Pathway can’t really do the timing it takes. That’s all, sweetheart.”
    “YOU’RE NOT HELPING,” Amy screamed.
    “Why don’t you read one of your old essays. Those were so good. This one, I’m less sure what you’re trying to say.”
    Amy cut most of the jokes and added a different point—something she wanted to say to all of her peer helpers about how grateful she was, how thrilling it felt to hear about their lives and tell them about hers. It was what she’d wanted to say to Matthew for months but hadn’t found the right opportunity. Maybe this was it. Then she went a step further and added another point, something she also wanted to say to Matthew. She didn’t read this draft ahead of time to her mother. She didn’t want anyone to stop her. She wanted to just say it.
    The day of her speech, Amy’s Public Speaking class of thirty swelled to include six extras: her parents and all four of her peer helpers. Two people spoke before her: one pretty good, one not so good. When it was her turn, Matthew stood up and walked over to where she was sitting. She could have walked up alone, but she was nervous enough to be grateful for his hand as she climbed the three stairs to get to the stage. At the last minute, he squeezed her elbow. “You’ll do great,” he whispered, seeming more nervous than she was.
    To simulate the heightened pressure of a speech-making situation, a single light shone on an otherwise darkened stage, where she stood behind a lectern—both hands holding the sides for balance, her Pathway placed on the lectern, a microphone pointed directly down toward it. She looked out at the audience and pressed Play. She listened as the automated voice spoke:
    “We who are disabled know what it’s like to have our bodies behave in unpredictable ways. Some mornings I wake up surprised by some new change. A knee that won’t bend. A fist clenched tighter than it was the day before. What’s this? I think. Yesterday I was fine. Now I’m really disabled.”
    It was meant to be a joke, but only two people laughed—her parents.
    “Making peace with a disabled body is a daily struggle. When I am out in the world, I must not only get from point A to point B, but I must also wear a face that says, ‘Don’t worry! I’m okay!’ Failing to do this means I’d move through a world of concerned strangers offering unwanted help. Making peace means forgiving both my body and the world. For the disruption I will make to any room I walk into, for the conversations I must have about it over and over.
    “Oh, to meet someone and not have our first conversation be about my talking board! It would be my greatest wish, but I’ve started to think recently, maybe it’s the wrong one. Talking with my computer, about my computer, I’ve had a thousand versions of the same exchange but I’ve also made surprising discoveries, like this one: we never move from that conversation onto the weather. My obvious struggle opens a door and makes other people more honest about their own struggles. After three years of high school, I understand this is rare.”
    She let her head drop so her hair hung in front of her face. She couldn’t look at her peer helpers for the next part.
    “For the first time in my life, I’ve gotten over the barrier of my body and I have made what I consider the first real friends of my life. Doing this has taught me a lot about the world of able-bodied people. I have learned that some people who look fine are more crippled than I am, by fears they can’t explain. Other people are held back by shyness, or anger.