I had every intention of going to the Y this morning but awakened so stiff and clumsy that I did not trust myself to drive Jay’s little Prius even those few blocks.  I sat on the porch with a warmed over cup of coffee and the morning newspaper instead.  I scanned photos online of the tornado, last night’s moon, today’s birthday celebrants. I read a few emails and decided not to answer any of them until later in the day.

Stumbling back into the house, I debated whether or not to keep that YMCA membership for even a second month.  I’ve only gone a half-dozen times.  I’m sure if I could force myself to go every day or even two or three times each week, I would feel better.  But it’s not only physically difficult, it’s also depressing.  I have always had trouble making myself use my body in front of other people.  I see the octogenerians besieged with the ravages of age pushing themselves to work out and envy their resolve.  People admire the elderly who keep on going.  For those like me, eyes avert — they always have.  First the solid stare with gaping mouth, then the quick dart to another spot, somewhere just beyond my left ear.  Back away:  it might be contagious.

I admire people with “differently abled bodies” who disregard the stares.  I’ve never been able to do that.  I shrink inside; I quiver.  The inevitable questions still astonish me —  What’s wrong with your legs? being the most common.    I know people with one hand, crooked arms, prosthetics — and most of them seem unconcerned about the judgment of passers-by.  I’ve never gotten there.

Yesterday a little girl looked over her shoulder at my feet as she trailed behind her mother and brothers.  She never once met my eyes, never raised her gaze higher than my calves.  I judged her to be about eight.  I understood her curiosity and in fact, the probings of children are often a bit easier to bear.  But not yesterday:  Yesterday, her gawking cut into the mild happy state that an afternoon frozen-yogurt pick-me-up had given me.  I stood as she turned away, slipped through the door, spoke to her mother.  I saw the mother fix her attention on me through the window, then gather the children close and hurry off.  I felt naked.  I felt unclean.  This is what prejudice feels like, I thought, for the millionth time.  That woman thinks I am a threat to her babies.

After sixty years, this encounter should not have bothered me.  It’s happened hundreds of times.  I’ve written of it often.  One of my very worst poems speaks of this phenomenon:  My soul is in my spinal cord / I know it’s there / When I walk across the street / People stare.  .  .

I tell myself to get over it.  I tell myself that people love me for my spirit, my soul, dare I say it, Wayne Greer? even  my spunk.    I know I have it so much better than many.  My belly never grumbles with unsoothed hunger; my light switches work; I have cable, internet, a sweet little bungalow in Brookside.  I don’t have cancer.  The viruses which rage inside me can, it seems, be controlled to some extent — enough to buy me a couple of decades if I’m careful.  I don’t have to use a wheelchair; all my digits remain reasonably intact if a little gnarled.  I should not complain.  I should not complain. 

And I’m going to keep on telling myself that until I believe it.  I’ve got a lot of people who support me, who think I’m worth something even though I walk funny, hold very strong opinions, and am cursedly stubborn.  So I’ll lift my coffee mug and tip it in the direction of those who see something good in me.  I salute everyone who can find the good in all the haunted fools like me who see only clouds when they look in the mirror.

Cheers to the faithful hearts among us.