Originally, I had every intention of spouting off to my local paper in Greeneville where I live and work. But when I was given the chance to write for this column, I thought this was an even better idea.
I still think my title is important, so humor me, pretty please, with a margarita on top (we’ve got to think age-appropriation here).
To whom it may concern, which is every one of you:
I am writing this letter on behalf of a specific portion of our community. I have recently become more aware of the sad fact that these individuals are routinely, openly discriminated against in almost every aspect of their daily lives.
I’ve seen footage of town meetings where neighborhoods rally against the idea of living next to “these kinds of people,”- ordinary hausfraus, spraying spittle and waving around signs in protest, gathering together fellow neighbors and screaming their opposition through a bullhorn.
Whoa. To say that Mom and Pop Public were adamant on this subject is the grand understatement of the year.
The footage was as old as I am, a tender 20 years, when I watched it a few months ago, but obviously, from what I’ve born witness to here lately, attitudes are changing at roughly the speed at which a sloth scratches its derriere.
Who are “these people”? Sexual deviants? Ex-convicts out on parole? Any one of the rainbow of minorities who make up the population?
Nope. I’m talking about folks who are developmentally disabled.
I work for a local agency that supports people with mental disabilities in their own homes. They go to school and work in the community; they attend church, turn out for festivals, see movies, and go out to eat in restaurants.
They have the legal right to live normal lives, something that they did not have 40 years ago. Here’s the catch.
There are, supposedly, laws that protect the rights of the developmentally disabled – I ought to know, being a support staff employee. Yet, there have been so many instances where I have seen or heard about the breach of this sacred contract.
For defamation reasons, I am not allowed to name the businesses or persons involved – so I’m forced to rely on a heavy amount of hinting. However, I can tell you about one example.
Allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Wesley Morrell. Had I been born with the same amount of chromosomes as he, we would share many of the same physical traits.
Wes has Down’s Syndrome, a developmental disability that alters the facial features slightly, slanting the eyes, sometimes affects the heart, can limit hearing and slurs the speech.
Wes is only slightly older than I. When he was diagnosed soon after he was born, the doctors advised my aunt and uncle to “send him to an institution.” Thank God they realized that those doctors were idiots, as I have found a disturbing number of doctors to be.
Wes is like my brother. We grew up together; we’ve fought and played just as much as my sisters and I ever did. He still lives with my aunt, and he can drive, has graduated high school, attended the prom and owns a four-wheeler, which he races around our lake property. It scares me to death, but I harbor a distrust for machinery in general. And, until very recently, Wes also worked.
Now while Wes has been known to slack off on household affairs, he took his busboy job at a local pizza joint very seriously, as he had his previous jobs. So when he began to show anxiety about going to work, that was very unusual for him. We talked about it, and he told me that the dishwasher yelled at him frequently, and sometimes she would not acknowledge him at all if the restaurant was busy.
It was as if, to her, he did not really exist. He was a non-entity.
Weeks later, my aunt went in to talk to the owner after Wes started telling her more about what went on at work.
In so many words, the owners (one of whom was the bitchy dishwasher) basically told my aunt that, while Wes would require extensive coaching, they would really like to keep him because “to have a disabled person on staff really makes us look good.”
She said thanks, but no thanks. Politely. Wes was relieved to be able to look for work elsewhere. My boyfriend recommended that we order 50 pizzas and never show up to get them. I still might take him up on it.
This same pizza place in Greeneville will only serve food on paper plates, with plastic utensils and cups, to the folks from Greene Valley. For those of you who do not know, Greene Valley is an institution for the developmentally disabled.
Yes, there are larger numbers of individuals together on outings who are from the Valley, but I guarantee you that, if a business office went out to eat there once or twice a week at this restaurant, they would be treated entirely differently. I guess people think that mental disabilities are contagious. That just goes to show you that prejudice is real.
There is a drive-in restaurant that will flat-out refuse to serve a vanload from the Valley. Legally, how they can refuse to serve, which IS their JOB, astonishes me, and personally, I don’t understand why food businesses get so snotty when they could be making a killing in profits.
I will say, though, that Shoney’s has been the most gracioius of hosts for all of the clients that I have ever taken out to eat. But that is the rare exception.
There are always going to be stares from kids in public. But when dentists refuse to treat patients who have disabilities, or when I hear the slur, “Man, that’s retarded,” or, “Don’t be a retard,” it gives my stomach a lurch.
I, too, used to be guilty of using that expression. I simply didn’t

think about the implications. I don’t say it anymore.
Life is hard for everyone. But if you are not even considered a part of your community, if you existed as a “non-entity”-life would be doubly hard.
The expression of disgust on the face of your waitress whose job it was to serve you food would hurt anyone’s feelings.
Being eyed suspicioiusly by your neighbors because they believe that, beingmentally retarded, you would be naturally inclined to rape and kill their children, would only serve to push you further fromwhat is considered a “normal” life, which is unfair in the worst sense.
Has anyone else but myself read To Kill A Mockingbird? Obviously, if they have, the message behind it has not sunk in.
The American Disabilities Act and the class member lawsuit of Tennessee was supposed to bring these new neighbors out of the darkness and into the shining light of acceptance. But sometimes I’d swear that we’re still fumbling around for the lamp switch, and we’ve stubbed our toe on the way to the dresser.
Just nobody’d better mess with my cousin. That I can control. Anybody hungry? I think there’ll be some surplus pizza in da house tonight. Just not my house.

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