Breaking the Mold
By Mary Allison Cook
“Seven, eight, nine, ten. Ready or not, here I come!”
Hide and seek was the game of choice during the summer when my sister and I were young. One particular game, I will never forget.
“There is no way she is going to find me,” I whispered as I wedged myself between the wall and kitchen table.
About 10 seconds into my sister’s search she exclaimed, “I found you!”
“How did you find me so quickly?” I asked.
“Easy,” she replied as she pointed to my wheel jutting out into the door frame next to the table.
“Aw man.”
In my mind the rules of hide and seek were simple: find a secretive spot to hide your body so the seeker can’t find you. So I did. As a young child, my wheelchair was almost never a consideration – until someone pointed it out.
I acquired a spinal cord injury at the age of three. Yes, I knew I used a wheelchair, but I never really felt like I had a disability. I had friends, was involved in sports, and enjoyed school, but as I grew, things began to change. Or perhaps, I began to change. I began to notice the stares in public, overhear questions from inquisitive kids, and feel excluded at school. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a little kid in a big purple chair. I was no longer just Mary Allison. I was Mary Allison, the only kid with a physical disability in a 100-mile radius.
Just like every other human being on the planet, I came to a point in my life where I realized that I was different. In my case, my body, and the way it worked, did not fit a specific norm established by society. So society handed me my first known label, which was accompanied by a multitude of label-specific stereotypes. However, even more life altering than the realization of my difference was the revelation that followed. As a 10-year-old kid, I understood that the image of disability in my community, my small piece of society, rested in my hands. Suddenly I felt powerful. I had the opportunity to tear up my label and remold it into what I desired. I changed the appearance of my wheelchair, ripping off the arm rests and handle bars. I participated in kickball during recess and sprinted passed my classmates to hold the door open for them. I took every advanced class, joined every club, and participated on able-bodied sports teams at school as well as disability sports teams in my state. I was the ultimate overachiever.
Like most girls, my time spent in front of the mirror reached its apex during my late teens and early twenties. By this time my chair had slimmed down both physically and psychologically, and my body and chair had morphed into one. I took pride in my toned arms, and the trend of skinny jeans paired well with my atrophied legs. Not only did I accept my disability, I enjoyed it. I was proud of it.
Sure, my disability is not the singular cause of my achievement and positive body image. I was born in a supportive environment, have a competitive drive and a wonderful family. But sometimes I have a radical thought: would my body image be less positive if I did not have a disability? Could the one thing deemed so tragic by society, be one of my greatest attributes?
I propose we all take our labels, our differences, our insecurities and use them to fuel our success. Forget about fitting into society’s mold. Positive body image is not achieved just by altering your appearance, it’s achieved by changing the world – even a small piece of it – with the body you are given.