My Wheelchair Gets A Paint Job

  In first grade, our class was chosen to make a friendship banner for the hallway. The teacher decided to have us do hand prints on a large paper banner. The next day she brought two large rolls of white paper and three bottles of red, yellow and blue paint. She incorporated the project into our art lesson. We were learning primary and secondary colors.

"These three colors are the--" she indicated to the red, yellow and blue paint.

"Primary colors!" we all chimed.

"Very good. And when they're mixed together, what kind of colors do they make?"

"Secondary!" we responded.

"Excellent, yes, when mixed together primary colors make secondary colors. Blue and yellow mixed together make?" I raised my hand and she pointed to me. 

"Blue and yellow make green!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. 

"Correct," she smiled. 

  The teacher continued questioning each of us, until she was satisfied we understood the lesson. Soon it was on to the most anticipated part of the project, getting to cover our hands in paint and splattering them against the white paper. We moved our desk to the side of the classroom and the teacher rolled one of the banners out across the floor, creating an inviting white road of artistic possibility.

 I got out of my wheelchair and knelt with my classmates along the banner as the teacher set down three circular aluminum pie pans in front of every other student.

"There aren't enough pans for everyone to have their own, so you will work together in groups of three and share. Decide now what color hand prints you want first. Everyone gets to make three hand prints. Only place your hands along the top and bottom of the banner," she instructed.

  I worked with the girl and boy to the left of me and they chose red and blue. I mixed blue and yellow together to make green. Satisfied I had the shade of green I wanted, I stuck my right hand into the pan and began to mix it around, covering it with paint.

"You don't need to cover your whole hand," the teacher said. "Just get enough paint on the bottom of your palm."

  But I continued to cover my hand in paint, imagining I was dipping it into a rainbow.

"No don't slap the paper," she chided a boy who was slapping his paint covered palm on the banner. Drops of blue splattered his clothes; his laughter suggested he was deliberately making a mess.

  When we'd finished filling up the first banner, the teacher had everyone line up to use the sink in the back of the classroom. I got in my wheelchair, not realizing that one of the pans of paint sat behind me. I rolled backwards, tipping it over and rolled through the paint. The rest spilled onto the floor. I turned my wheelchair around to see the mess I'd made and knocked over another pan. Now my wheels and hands were covered in green, red and blue paint. The wheels left a trail as I pushed myself over the banner, toward the back of the room.

"Teacher, I accidentally made a mess!" I panicked.

"I'll be there in a moment," she replied.

  I knew that dry paint was much more difficult to clean up.

"I just need a napkin," I said.

"Take one from the table," she instructed.

  The teacher was busy helping one of my classmates scrub his hands. I grabbed a few paper towels and turned around. I pushed myself over to my desk, leaving a colorful trail behind me. There were a few moist wipes in my backpack and I used these to wipe my hands, then I returned to the mess on the floor.

  I got out of my wheelchair and began laying paper towels down over the paint. I'd seen my mother do this anytime my siblings or I spilled something. She said it absorbed the spills and made messes easier to clean. When the main spill was covered, I set to work trying to cover the colorful trail my wheelchair had made.

  By the time it was done, my classmates were clean and coming to see what I was doing. A few even offered to help by attempting to wipe up the main spill with the napkins, but they only succeeded in creating an even larger mess. Amidst all of the chaos, the forgotten banner was ruined by the many feet which trampled it in our clean up effort.

"Stop," my teacher exclaimed, when she saw what we were doing.

  I got up and saw the trail of smudged paint leading to the large smear in the center of the spill. A few foot prints from kids who stepped in paint, faintly marked the floor. My wheelchair tires were also covered in paint.

"Everyone back to your desk and don't touch anything," the teacher instructed.

  We all went to our seats, and I was told to leave my wheelchair where it was and sit in a regular chair. The teacher pressed the intercom and asked for a janitor. Then she brought around wet paper towels for everyone to wipe their hands and shoes. When the janitor arrived, he took one look at the mess and called in a second janitor to bring extra cleaning supplies. While one cleaned the floor, the other took my wheelchair outside.

  I sat quietly at my desk wondering how much trouble I was going to be in. The first janitor finished mopping the floor and our lessons resumed. But I found it hard to pay attention. I stared at the door waiting; my wheelchair had not been returned and it made me nervous. What if they were unable to remove the paint? I'd seen my parents throw away things my siblings and I 'ruined' with paint or permanent markers. Thinking the janitor might throw away my wheelchair terrified me and I burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" my teacher asked.

"Don't let them throw away my wheelchair!" I sobbed.

  At that moment the janitor returned with my wheelchair. Surprisingly, he was able to clean off the paint. I sat in it.

"Thank you for not throwing away my wheelchair," I smiled at him, tears still on my face.

"I would never do that," he chuckled. "Is that why you were crying?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Well, next time you want to give your wheelchair a paint job, just ask me. I have a garage where my brother and I paint cars. I can make your wheelchair look really cool!" he chuckled.

  I laughed, imagining him with acrylic paints and those tiny brushes, painting my parent's car. Later when I got home, I told my brother about the paint accident.

"I want to paint your wheelchair!" his five year old eyes lit up.

"Only when you grow up. I think mom and dad would be mad if you did it now," I told him.

  Today, my brother is an amazing artist, but I have yet to let him paint my wheelchair.

A Wheelchair For A Walker

  In elementary school, because of my brittle bones and the need to sit out some days during physical education, during the twenty minutes my classmates were playing dodge ball or other rough sports, I attended special physical education. I'll admit that this was not my favorite class. Despite my physical limitations I was quick witted, hyper and admittedly eager to impress. 

  The kids in my class had a variety of conditions: a boy with down-syndorome, another with cerebral palsy and a little girl with Spina-bifida. The girl had a walker that she used to get around school.

"Why don't you use a wheelchair?" I asked her one day. "It would be a lot faster to move with."

"Yeah, I'll probably have to get a wheelchair someday," she confessed, "but I want to walk for as long as I can. My doctor says if you don't use your leg muscles, they will shrink and you won't be able to walk anymore."

"Is that true?" I asked our teacher.

"In a way," he responded. 

"I want to do my leg exercises today," I said to him.

"Alright," he replied. 

  I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much time I spent in my wheelchair. I began to worry that the school was trying to take away my ability to walk by making me stay in it all day. Later at home I voiced this fear to my parents. 

"Well, I was against getting you a wheelchair, but they wouldn't let you attend school without it, because the teachers are afraid we'd take them to court if you got hurt," my dad explained. 

"What if I got a walker?" I asked my dad. "There is a girl in my class who has a walker that she uses and she has a crooked back." (This was before I developed scoliosis)

"You have one," my dad reminded me.

  I'd forgotten about the little aluminum walker that came with my first wheelchair. My parents must have left it in the storage shed since I never used it. They brought it out that evening and showed me how to use it. 

"The only problem is your backpack," my dad said as he adjusted the straps. I slipped my arms through them and my parents laughed.

"It's as big as you are kiddo," he chuckled. 

  Not only was it too big, but filled with my school supplies, the bag was too heavy. I felt frustrated as I tried to figure out a way to carry my backpack. I sat in front of my walker when I noticed the front handle bars. They reminded me of the push handle bars on my wheelchair so I took my backpack off of my shoulders and slid the straps onto my walker. 

  It was a perfect fit. 

"Can I take this to school tomorrow instead of my wheelchair?" I asked my parents. 

"Yes," they agreed. 

  The next morning I pushed my walker out to the bus. 

"Where is your wheelchair?" The driver asked. 

"I'm going to take this from now on!" I proclaimed. 

"Okay, but let me carry that walker up for you," she said, and I let her. 

  It was a steep climb up the bus steps. I'd seen other kids climb up easily, but I didn't understand how. I had to hold on to the rail with one hand and use the other to pull myself up each step. I took a seat in the middle and the bus driver wedged the walker between the seats. It was a monumental moment for me, sitting in the wide seats. Without the restrictive belts that normally held my wheelchair down, I felt like I'd achieved freedom. I hummed happily to myself as we made the drive to school.

  With the backpack secured to the front, I pushed my walker into the elementary building, being mindful of each step I took. My parents cautioned me before I left not to behave recklessly. I entered my second grade class feeling proud. I was now on level with my peers, because I could walk. A few of my friends came up to me. 

"What happened to your chair?" she asked.

"I don't need it anymore," I proclaimed. "I can walk now." I said looking up. 

  For the first time it dawned on me how much shorter I was than kids my age. I barely came up to their elbows.

"What's that?" another asked.

"It's a walker," I answered dismissively. 

"Can you walk without it?" he asked.

"No, she can't, don't be rude," the other friend snapped at him.

"I can so!" I protested.

"Then why do you have it?" she queried.

"Because of my backpack," I said, omitting that the school wouldn't let me walk without it.  

  This seemed to satisfy my friend's curiosities. The rest of the morning went okay - I walked to and from my cubby hole, leaving my walker at my desk. It remained forgotten during science lab, story time and art. I was extremely tired from walking around the classroom all morning, but my dream of being treated like every other student had finally come true, However, when recess came that dream was crushed. 

"You have to sit at the picnic tables," my teacher told me. 

"Why?" I asked. "I'm not in a wheelchair anymore."

"You still have brittle bones," my teacher reminded me. 

  It was then that I realized my wheelchair wasn't to blame for my banishment from the playground. Now I understood what my parents told me. The teacher was afraid of me breaking my bones.

"I know you are scared of me breaking my bones, but I'm not scared. I do stuff all the time at home - I climb trees, build forts and play outside with my brother and sister, but I am not scared," I said boldly. 

"Exactly," my teacher replied, turning to watch my classmates. 

  I was dumbstruck by her words. 

  When I got home from school, exhausted from pushing my walker with the heavy backpack, I told my mom what the teacher said. 

"Why is it bad to not be scared?" I asked. 

"It's not," my mom assured me. "She doesn't think you know anything about having brittle bones, which is stupid because you know better than anyone. Heck, you learned to spell it when you were four--" 

"O-S-T-E-O-G-E-N-E-S-I-S I-M-P-E-R-F-E-C-T-A!" I spelled triumphantly."

"Smart aleck!" she hugged me and we laughed. 

"So are you gonna take your walker again tomorrow?" my mom asked.

"I think it's better to take my wheelchair, because I can't keep up with my friends, using the walker, and the other kids are really tall," I admitted. "I don't like it."

"That's never gonna change," my mom said.

"I know, but at least in my wheelchair I can run over them if they're mean!"