I asked my kids what to write about and they all, in unison, shouted, “DRAW SOMETHING!”
“Draw what?” I asked.
“A guy with one arm!” Claire suggested.
“Yeah…YOU!” said Anna.
Sam kept playing the Wii.
So, they gathered around and watched as I drew what you see below. They also suggested I include them. And Captain America (the Wii game Sam was playing), but, “not mom.” Also, Batman because “he’s way easier to draw than Iron Man.” Probably true.
I also had to sharpen a pencil, which was a feat in and of itself. We have one of those old-timey crank sharpeners. I’ll tape it sometime.
I will sell this to you for $1,000. Or, like, $5.
I’d love any ideas you have for me to write about! What would be helpful for you? Otherwise I’ll just keep drawing pictures of myself. And my kids. And super heroes.
This is one in a series of posts I wrote about my second trip to Jacmel, Haiti, where I spent a week at Faith Orphanage. You can read more posts about my trip to Haiti here. I started to edit this piece, but decided to leave it as is. It’s interesting to see where my head was at just twelve months ago. What a difference a year makes!
The airport in Port au Prince is hilarious. You get off the plane and are greeted at the bottom of an escalator by a welcoming band, then you’re whisked away to the baggage area on a bus, then you go through customs (sounds official; it’s not), then you try to find your luggage in what is essentially a giant warehouse with sometimes-working conveyor belts. It’s one of the least organized experiences you’ll ever be a part of.
On my recent trip to Haiti, this wasn’t even the funniest part.
Having miraculously secured all of our luggage, we got in line to head out of the airport. While in line, a portly Haitian security guard wouldn’t stop staring at me. I politely smiled. Then, he pointed at his arm and moved it up and down, then pointed at my left arm, missing from the elbow down. I smiled again and nodded. Then he did the most awesome thing ever: he raised his eyebrows, made a frown and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Ah well…sh** happens.” I started laughing. Hard. I’m not sure if that was the most appropriate response, but I can’t remember experiencing such an honest reaction from an adult before.
If I’m not cracking jokes about it myself, the fact that I have one arm never really comes up. I’ve been thinking about it a bit more than usual this year, though. In fact, in January (2011) I had a piece published on RelevantMagazine.com about it (read it here). So, on this trip, as opposed to the last one I took, I noticed it a lot more. For one, the kids were a lot more interested (read: fascinated) with my arm this time. They’d randomly come up to me and put their little faces close to the end of my arm and they’d grab it and poke at it and play with it. The fact that I allowed them to do this surprised them, I think, and gave them the freedom to explore. I already wrote about Jameley’s adorable reaction to all that. It got me thinking about the reality that they’ve probably never seen anyone with only one arm. In fact, I don’t remember seeing any one-armed Haitians on my last trip. (But, this time…oh, this time! I saw TWO! Two one-armed Haitians! I felt like Captain Ahab finding Moby Dick. Except, ya know, without all the revenge stuff.)
What’s weird is that, in reality, I rarely see any one-armers in America either. The fact that I was in an unfamiliar place that was so completely different from my normal daily reality, I believe, heightened my awareness of it. I mean, being white in a place where everyone else is really dark is one thing. But, being white and having one arm where everyone else is really dark and fully appendaged is quite another. I never really wonder what people are thinking about my arm in America, but when I was in Haiti, I was really conscious of it. And I think that’s good. It’s ok, at least.
Me and Jameley, our sponsor child.
In retrospect…how do I say this…the experience of bringing my one-armedness to the kids in Haiti was supremely rewarding. I’m proud of the fact that I was able to expose them to a physical difference they most likely have never seen before and helped them to understand that people with physical differences should be embraced and learned from, not shunned or ridiculed. It was refreshing to see their curiosity satisfied. It was also powerful to experience their acceptance and love. Impacting the kids’ lives in this way is something
I’ll never forget.
I’ll also never forget that security guard’s reaction. Classic.
Share something you’ve learned from someone who has physical limitations.
Here’s the thing: Volleyball has never been my strong-suit.
Maybe I just wasn't playing with the right people.
I like to play it and I’ve played it a lot…I’m just not very good. I was going to say that I’m not very reliable, but that’s not really true. You can rely on me to serve and spike well, and to struggle when it comes to bumping and setting. Bumping is the hardest. You have to hit the ball just right around your wrist or forearm to have any control and most of the time that hurts like the dickens. And what’s that mean, anyway? The dickens?
One thing I’m really good at, though, is trash-talking. You can hear my friend Jessica giving me the business at the end of the video below, but that’s only after I dropped this on her:
“How’s your throat, Jess?”
“Fine, why?”
“Because it’s about to be sore from me SPIKING THE BALL DOWN IT.”
“I actually know exactly what you’re talking about. I’m a congenital below-elbow amputee myself.”
I don’t think I’ve ever said that on a call at work before.
But, I said it today.
A woman called to express her concerns about our health insurance company’s lack of available prosthetists (according to her). When I revealed our similarity, I could tell she was both surprised and relieved. “There’s not many of us around, ya know!” she said. I listened intently as she explained the situation and agreed knowingly when she described an issue she had with one of the providers. I promised her, as someone who understands the situation well, that I would get the information to the decision-makers.
At the end of the conversation I told her I have a website and she was so excited about it. She said she’s always looking for people, especially those with the i-Limb Hand. Then, somewhat randomly, she said, “Ya know when people ask how lost your arm? That drives me nuts! I didn’t lose it!” It was great! We laughed and talked about the funny things people ask, like, “Are you right or left-handed?”
The i-Limb Hand. Is that sweet or what??
My favorite part of the conversation was when she was explaining what the hand means to her. “Since I grew-up without my hand, the difference with the i-Limb Hand is incremental; not night and day. But, like, I’m the president of an association and last night I held my script with my i-Limb Hand and the microphone with the other during a presentation. I got to move! I couldn’t have done that a couple years ago,” she said.
It was a blast to talk to her and to hear her experience. We were both born missing part of a limb and raised well, but have very different perspectives. And they both work for us! I haven’t worn a prosthetic in over 20 years and she’s rocking an i-Limb Hand at the age of 65! Anything is possible.
As I tell all parents of limb-different kids (and will until I’m dead)…just love your kids and do your best. Everything will work out.
Trust me.
If you’re unfamiliar with the i-Limb hand, here’s a short video of one in action:
My wife and I were walking through the mall together when out of nowhere I hear, “Ryan Haack?!” Since that’s my name, I looked in the direction the voice came from. A young woman stood there smiling and waving. “Hi!” I said. I didn’t say her name. I couldn’t remember it. Eventually I figured out we went to elementary school together. It was nice to catch-up, but afterward I felt bad.
“I hate when I can’t remember people,” I told Julie.
“Well, it’s not really fair,” she said.
“How so?” I wondered aloud.
“I mean, we all have an advantage. You’re pretty easy to remember,” she said.
I stared.
“Because of your arm! Jeez.”
Then I got angry.
Ok, not really. But, she’s totally right! You two-handers have the upper-hand (as it were) when it comes to remembering those of us with a limb-difference.
You’re welcome.
The truth is, anybody with a pronounced difference, physical or otherwise, is memorable. Could be a big nose or a bald head, Leno’s chin or Angelina’s lips, Conan’s fiery locks or Arnold’s bouncing pecs. Then there’s that total jerk. Oh, and that super nice lady. The one with the laugh.
So, what makes you memorable?
I was recently in Nashville at the StoryLine conference with Donald Miller and we talked a lot about living a better story. To me, living a better story makes you different. It makes you memorable.
We heard from a variety of people who are living better stories. There was Al Andrews, a successful therapist who decided his dream was to become a philanthropist. One problem: philanthropists need money in order to give it away. Al didn’t have it. So, he started Improbable Philanthropy. His first venture was to write a children’s book and all the proceeds will be given to charity (buy here). A noble beginning. Then we heard from Jamie Tworkowski. In 2006 Jamie met a young woman struggling with depression and self-injury. He wanted to help, so he wrote a story and then put the title of it on shirts to sell and raise money for her treatment. Eventually, Jamie founded the organization To Write Love On Her Arms; the title of his story. TWLOHA “is a non-profit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide.” The reach of TWLOHA is growing exponentially and those in need are being helped. What an amazing story!
Bob is the kind of guy you just want to be around. All the time. I mean, his sweet wife would probably have to push me out of their bed if I had my way. Bob just released a book, Love Does, wherein he shares some of his more famous stories. Like how he became the consul for the Republic of Uganda…by accident. Or the one abut the parade. See, one year Bob’s kids were talking about how boring New Years Day was, so he asked what they wanted to do. One of his daughters suggested having a parade. Bob thought it was a great idea, so they dressed-up and out they went, inviting all the neighbors. One rule, though: You can’t watch. You can only be in the parade. A perfect metaphor for life; we’re all in this together. And for years now, the New Years Day parade has grown. Families who have moved out of the neighborhood fly back to San Diego just for the parade! Here’s this year’s:
Personally, I was blown away when, as I walked-up to greet him, he looked at me and shouted, “Ryan!” He gave me a great big hug. “I love reading what you’re writing!” he said. Me. Ryan. A guy he’s never met. Bob knows thousands of people, many of them world leaders, and yet he recognized me from our few Twitter connections. And I’m sure it didn’t hurt that I was wearing my LOH shirt. Either way, I felt loved and cared for and encouraged by this man I was meeting for the first time.
Me and Bob
Everyone says Bob is one of the best story tellers in the world. But you know why that’s even a possibility? It’s because he lives great stories. He has them to tell, because he lives them. And while it’s tempting to whine, “But he knows way more amazing people than I do and he has more money and influence and opportunity…I could never do the things he does,” I implore you not to. I’ve done it. While reading the incredible stories of limb-different people like Josh Sundquist and Kevin Connolly and Jim Abbott, I’ve thought to myself, “Why would people want to hear about my life?” Well, here’s a secret:
It’s not about me.
It’s about other people. When we help other people, we live better stories. And when we live better stories, people remember us. Know why?
Because most of us aren’t living very good stories.
Most people are letting life push them around; me included. It’s time to be more intentional. It’s time to be known for more than a big nose or a strong chin or a missing left hand. It’s time for you and me to choose to live better stories. To discover good ambitions and overcome conflict and help other people; to make a difference in the lives of those around us.
I’m fine with being recognized because of my arm, but I’d like to be known for much more.
It’s an amazing world we live in now. People everywhere are able to connect instantly. I just saw my friend Molly introduce two people to one another on Facebook in a single post. And with online forums, chat groups and communities, someone in North Dakota can simply ask if anybody around them has a limb difference and they’ll get a response. It’s crazy nuts. And pretty awesome.
This is EXACTLY how the internet works.
Growing-up, I never knew anybody “like me.” I can’t remember a single person with an arm like mine. I’ve been told that when I was younger I was taken to support groups, but I don’t remember them at all. My mom says I mostly went to help other parents see that their kid would be ok. Is that ironic considering what I’m doing now? Maybe just foreshadowing. Something like that.
The thing is, I was always treated as if I wasn’t different. I was just a kid. I played and learned and got hurt and got in trouble just like anyone else. So, my missing limb was never a defining characteristic for me. I never had a desire to have friends with one arm or anything. My limb difference was always a part of who I was, but never a big part.
Now it is. And I’m embracing it.
My mother-in-law asked me the other day, “What’s the secret to your success?” I had no idea how to respond. My wife is always talking about how much I overcame, but I didn’t experience it that way. Most people grow-up learning to do things two-handed…because they have two hands. I grew-up learning to do things one-handed, because that’s what I had. I never once thought, “How will I ever do this with only one hand??” I just did it.
This all brings me to the rub, as it were. I love making the videos for LOH and I love that they’re popular and helpful. Especially for parents and grandparents. I totally understand the desire to be able to show our limb-different kids how to do things with one hand. But…they’re going to figure it out. They’ll show you how they do things. And they won’t be thinking about adapting, they just will adapt. It will be second nature because that’s all they know.
So, it’s this weird back-and-forth for me. Part of me wants to say, “Don’t show your kids the videos! Don’t draw attention to their difference! Let them figure out how to do stuff on their own!” And it’s funny because it’s like, “Hey, everybody – my greatest pieces of advice are to treat your kids like they’re not different and not to draw attention to their difference. So, here’s my website that is completely about drawing attention to that difference.” But, I know that’s dumb. I know my insight is valuable and helpful, because you’ve told me so. I know the videos really do give ideas and launching points for your kids to learn how they do it best. And I don’t plan on stopping any time soon. I plan to help and encourage as many people as I possibly can, however I can. And I’m excited about it.
Thank you all for allowing me to grow and learn and explore what it really means to be a limb-different person. Thank you for encouraging me to share my experiences. And thank you for sharing yours! Every email and Facebook post and Tweet I get gives me a jolt of energy. You really are the reason I do this.
“We concede the precarious position of living a difficult life and affirming our bodies as whole, good and beautiful.” – Nancy Eiesland in The Disabled God
The Disabled God by Nancy Eiesland is a difficult read.
But, it’s worth it.
In it, Eiesland “draws on the themes and advances of the disability rights movement to identify people with disabilities as members of a socially disadvantaged minority group rather than as individuals who need to adjust. In doing so, she highlights the hidden history of people with disabilities in the church and society and points the way to a fuller version of humanity and justice.”
I’ll tell you right now, my thoughts on this will be nowhere near as analytical or intellectual as Eiesland’s. You’re welcome.
Eiesland’s work really got me thinking, though. She spends the first portion of the book detailing the Disability Rights movement. And I’m so glad she did. Honestly, “disability rights” is a somewhat alien idea to me. Unnecessary almost. Which is kind of the point, right? Now it seems like a non-issue (though I realize it still is) precisely because courageous people fought/fight for them. I’ve never encountered discrimination in my own life (that I know about) and I have these people to thank. It was eye-opening to hear of the discrimination that was and the advances that have been made.
That leads me to something I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around. It’s the idea of realizing the necessity of being identified as part of a minority group while demanding to be treated as part of the majority. It’s hard for me because I feel like saying, “You can’t have it both ways.” On the one hand saying, “You must recognize that I am different,” and then on the other (so to speak) saying, “But you mustn’t treat me that way.” I can understand why those without obvious physical disabilities might be confused on how to treat me. And while it’s a bit confusing to me, I see the importance of it. Especially, say, 30 years ago. Drastic changes needed to be made. By identifying disabled people as a minority group and fighting for their rights a generation ago, the need for such a pronounced designation has been significantly reduced.
The main reason I got this book was because I wanted to hear Eiesland’s reframing of God as “disabled.” She did not disappoint. Her brief history of the hypocrisy of the church was interesting, also. If you look at all the Biblical references to those with “disabilities,” you mostly see one of two explanations: Either he is cursed for something he or his parents did, or he is “that way” to show the miraculous power of God. There’s very little middle ground. Either I’m being punished or I’m a miracle. Eiesland suggests that most disabled people don’t fall into either of these categories. They are simply people God created and loves and has enabled to bring Himself glory through their “normal” lives. I especially liked this quote: “For people with disabilities who have grasped divine healing as the only liberatory image the traditional church has offered, relinquishing belief in an all-powerful God who could heal, if He would, is painful! Yet, who is this god whose attention we cannot get, whose inability to respond to our pain causes still more pain? This god is surely not Emmanuel – God for us.”
Now, does God heal? I believe so, yes. Always? Obviously not. It’s logical then to believe that perfect health should not be equated with God’s favor. A person can be sick or hurt or different and still be exactly how God wants them to be. In fact, I’ve always been told that I’ll have a “perfect body” when I get to Heaven. Really? What does that even mean? Is that according to what I perceive to be perfect? Will I look like George Clooney? Yes, he’s my benchmark. The truth of the matter is, even Jesus’s “disabled” body remained after His resurrection. The holes were still there. I believe there is perfection in our imperfection. This applies to the Body of Christ, the Church, as well. We are broken, but He loves us and embraces us as whole.
These are only a few of the ideas The Disabled God sparked within me. Like I said, it’s a very heady book, but an important one if you’re up to the challenge. Eiesland does a solid job of taking her research and analysis and making it accessible to the reader.
And yes, this post is going to be mostly self-serving, but gosh dang, I’m excited. Also, I’m dramatic.
Today I spoke to my first class (of 3rd graders) about treating others with physical differences respectfully. We talked about how it’s natural to notice differences, but not ok to stare. We talked about being curious and how to ask questions politely and respectfully. We talked about how important it is to not make fun of others. And I left them with this thought: YOU are valuable. Every single person is valuable. I asked if they knew what “valuable” meant and a sweet little girl raised her hand and said, “It means you’re worth something.” Perfect. I think there were a number of kids in that room who might have heard they were valuable for the first time. Or at least the first time in a long time. I was honored to tell them.
I’ll admit that the five minutes I stood in front while the kids were coming in was somewhat uncomfortable. One kid came right up and said, “You have one arm.” “I know, right?” I said. Awesome. I told him we were going to talk about it and he seemed good with that. There was a lot of staring going on. And you know why it was uncomfortable? I wanted to engage them all! But I had to wait to be introduced, ya know? Once Mrs. Robinson introduced me, though, it was game-on. “So, you guys are all, what…7th? 8th graders?” I asked. “NOOOOOOOOO!” they yelled. Putty in my hands. Er, hand. I was so comfortable with them and loved engaging them in the conversation. And they had wonderful questions! I showed them the jumping-rope video and they all laughed at the funny parts and clapped at the end of it. I was never more proud of what I do. “Wow…people really do like these!” I thought. I mean, I know that already, but it was a totally different experience to see it; to see their reactions.
At the end I fielded questions and juggled for them. They all ooh’d and aah’d as I juggled and cheered when I was done. It was awesome. And a mob of them came up afterward requesting LOH cards so they could go the website later! One kid even said, “I wish I had an arm like yours.” Was I really that good? So good that I made fully-limbed children want to have less arms? Eh, he was probably an exception.
But, my very favorite part was right as I was leaving. I had demonstrated how I tie my shoes as they all gathered around me a minute before, so as I packed-up I heard one of the teachers say, “Ok, so I know you’re all very excited to try tying your own shoes one-handed, but we need to move on now and you can try that at home tonight.” They were ALL trying to tie their shoes one-handed! The teacher looked at me and playfully said, “Thanks a lot.” I could only smile.
As I left, I called my wife. “Well…that’s it. Game over. This is what I’m supposed to be doing,” I told her. And I believe that. I need to be out telling kids and adults that they are valuable and helping them to see that this is true for everyone.
And this was as good a start as any.
(I’d like to thank my friend Pakou for inviting me to speak and the staff and kids at Leopold Elementary for having me! It really was a life-changing experience. See? Dramatic.)
(I videotaped the presentation, but haven’t checked to see if it turned-out yet. I’ll let you know.)
Tony Memmel played a show in Madison, WI last night and it was awesome.
I could basically end the post there, but I won’t.
It was a blast to connect with Tony again and finally meet his beautiful and talented wife, Lesleigh! They are just such kind and down-to-earth people. Plus, his beard…I’m so jealous. My wife and I brought our kids to meet them, too, and it was priceless to see my son Sam watching Tony’s every move. And later, my wife would say to me, “I wish we lived closer. They’re so great. Plus, I have about a MILLION questions for Lesleigh! She’s the only woman I know who is also married to a one-armed man!” Love it.
Haacks and Memmels showing-off our Lucky Fin bracelets!
Tony’s performance was fantastic. He made Redamté Coffee House his home and made us all feel comfortable. He even played One Week to Philadelphia, just like I “asked” him to! (I demanded it on Facebook, actually) Lesleigh sang with him on a few of the songs and their voices blend beautifully. The tour was sponsored by the Lucky Fin Project and Tony gave a nice plug and thank you from the stage, which was really cool. I hope to have video of the concert up soon!
After his performance, Tony graciously agreed to do a short interview for LOH. Enjoy!
.
