By Deborah H. Anderson
Three weeks ago, I was introduced before preaching on “Fasting as a Practice of Calling Down Justice” at an Ash Wednesday service. The Sister of the Cloth said “… And when she sings, it comes from a place so deep inside of her.”
I was so grateful to hear that the source of my voice shows. Since I first sang in public at the age of two, that place has been a deep belief that healing is possible and healing happens.
Vashon was the wrong place for me and my four children to land in November 1992. I believed the little slips of paper I was handed that said the tiny country church wanted a full-time pastor and for real, a woman. I brought my expertise and spiritual practice.
But I needed sophisticated wrap-around social services for my two children adopted at age five after a horrific beginning to their lives. I needed AP classes for my other two birth children and a solid music program, both vocal and instrumental, for all of them.
Myself, having found my voice and stood up to my abusive husband, needed advanced domestic violence support like I had Overtown. There were few social services, and I was told AP classes would be bad to have in the schools as it said some students were better than others.
For sure, I did not need to bring my kids to a place where, as the county had determined, a higher than usual rate of recreational drug and alcohol abuse existed among teenagers. Those deficits were severe enough to focus Vashon as a place for targeted funds and programs to remediate toxic traditions. As Lisa Bruce, executive director of VARSA recently stated, “Because of the data, Vashon was chosen for a (prevention) coalition.”
Shepherding 25 congregants while single-parenting four kids with special needs was easier because I was scaling down. I had come from conducting a children’s choir that was three to four times the size of the country congregation. I could play the piano when the organist told me she wanted to quit. I was a pre-school teacher, so holding Sunday School and creating a mid-week after-school opportunity were no problem.
When it all fell apart, I was mysteriously and wondrously invited into the golden secret circle of goodness and love on Vashon Island. A mother came to me and said, “God told me you’re supposed to work with my son.” I thanked her, and gently told her God hadn’t told me anything about that. But I would think on it, pray about it.
Sure enough, I was meant to work with them, and so it was I walked into 25 years of supporting parents, children, and families with specific, particular, or demanding needs. Myself, horrifically disabled having been hit by a drunk driver when I was nine, found I was uniquely qualified to offer support in navigating social and medical systems. I was able to help people take a breath and do some self-care, and I enjoyed the fun of playing with, serving, and teaching kids who had frequently been given the message “don’t be” or “your needs are too much.”
Ableism on the Island was King, Queen, Judge, and Jury, adding many stones to the baskets of care parents and kids carried. Like sexism, racism, classism, ageism, any of the isms, ableism is the institutional, systemic, interpersonal and internalized belief that being able-bodied is the gold standard for what services and supports should be provided for all persons. Simply put, it means if you have a disability, or disabilities, the provisions for accommodations and accessibility are judged according to the needs of an able-bodied person.
Recently I saw that ableism is still ruling the roost in the school district. Unconscionable cruelty was thrust at a mom too tired to parry. So not OK. So time to dismantle that beast.
This past Tuesday, I completed over 20 years of rehab, particularly focused this past 13 years, with a medical team who fixed everything done poorly after my original accident.
Supposedly I am going to be 75 years old. But parts of me are very young. Establishing a baseline for my new exercise goals, my physical therapist timed my chair squats. For the first time ever, as I neared finishing, he urged, “Push it! Really push it!” Those last three chair squats had a new vivid core energy I haven’t enjoyed or been free to release in decades. Healing happens. Surely it does.
There is strength in transparency. It’s a good thing. It’s time. Truthfully, my family and I were pretty much destroyed by Vashon’s weaknesses. But reach back and pull it forward, and lend strength and input positively, and ableism can be addressed and dismantled. No more shaming special needs parents on their last exhausted breath or denying services that have been approved. Vashon has made positive changes in social services and the culture to address educational and social deficits in supporting healthy living for teenagers (and adults). I’ll keep you posted.
