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Title: The Handicapped Author: Randolph Bourne Date: 1911 Language: en Topics: ableism Source: Retrieved on 18 November 2010 from http://www.raggededgemagazine.com/0501/0501ft2-1.htm Notes: from The Atlantic Monthly
It would not perhaps be thought, ordinarily, that the man whom physical
disabilities have made so helpless that he is unable to move around
among his fellows can bear his lot more happily, even though he suffer
pain, and face life with a more cheerful and contented spirit, than can
the man whose deformities are merely enough to mark him out from the
rest of his fellows without preventing him from entering with them into
most of their common affairs and experiences. But the fact is that the
former’s very helplessness makes him content to rest and not to strive.
I know a young man so helplessly deformed that he has to be carried
about, who is happy in reading a little, playing chess, taking a course
or two in college, and all with the sunniest goodwill in the world, and
a happiness that seems strange and unaccountable to my restlessness. He
does not cry for the moon.
When one, however, is in full possession of his faculties, and can move
about freely, bearing simply a crooked back and an unsightly face, he is
perforce drawn into all the currents of life. Particularly if he has his
own way in the world to make, his road is apt to be hard and rugged, and
he will penetrate to an unusual depth in his interpretation both of the
world’s attitude toward such misfortunes, and of the attitude toward the
world which such misfortunes tend to cultivate in men like him. For he
has all the battles of a stronger man to fight, and he is at a double
disadvantage in fighting them. He has constantly with him the sense of
being obliged to make extra efforts to overcome the bad impression of
his physical defects, and he is haunted with a constant feeling of
weakness and low vitality which makes effort more difficult and renders
him easily fainthearted and discouraged by failure. He is never
confident of himself, because he has grown up in an atmosphere where
nobody has been very confident of him; and yet his environment and
circumstances call out all sorts of ambitions and energies in him which,
from the nature of his case, are bound to be immediately thwarted. This
attitude is likely to keep him at a generally low level of
accomplishment unless he have an unusually strong will, and a strong
will is perhaps the last thing to develop under such circumstances.
That vague sense of physical uncomfortableness which is with him nearly
every minute of his waking day serves, too, to make steady application
for hours to any particular kind of work much more irksome than it is
even to the lazy man. No one but the deformed man can realize just what
the mere fact of sitting a foot lower than the normal means in
discomfort and annoyance. For one cannot carry one’s special chair
everywhere, to theatre and library and train and schoolroom. This sounds
trivial, I know, but I mention it because it furnishes a real, even
though usually dim, “background of consciousness” which one had to
reckon with during all one’s solid work or enjoyment. The things that
the world deems hardest for the deformed man to bear are perhaps really
the easiest of all. I can truthfully say, for instance, that I have
never suffered so much as a pang from the interested comments on my
personal appearance made by urchins in the street, nor from the curious
looks of people in the street and public places. To ignore this vulgar
curiosity is the simplest and easiest thing in the world. It does not
worry me in the least to appear on a platform if I have anything to say
and there is anybody to listen. What one does get sensitive to is rather
the inevitable way that people, acquaintances and strangers alike, have
of discounting in advance what one does or says.
The deformed man is always conscious that the world does not expect very
much from him. And it takes him a long time to see in this a challenge
instead of a firm pressing down to a low level of accomplishment. As a
result, he does not expect very much of himself; he is timid in
approaching people, and distrustful of his ability to persuade and
convince. He becomes extraordinarily sensitive to other people’s first
impressions of him. Those who are to be his friends he knows instantly,
and further acquaintance adds little to the intimacy and warm friendship
that he at once feels for them. On the other hand, those who do not
respond to him immediately cannot by any effort either on his part or
theirs overcome that first alienation.
This sensitiveness has both its good and bad sides. It makes friendship
that most precious thing in the world to him, and he finds that he
arrives at a much richer and wider intimacy with his friends than do
ordinary men with their light, surface friendships, based on good
fellowship or the convenience of the moment. But on the other hand this
sensitiveness absolutely unfits him for business and the practice of a
profession, where one must be “all things to all men,” and the
professional manner is indispensable to success. For here, where he has
to meet a constant stream of men of all sorts and conditions, his
sensitiveness to these first impressions will make his case hopeless.
Except with those few who by some secret sympathy will seem to respond,
his deformity will stand like a huge barrier between his personality and
other men’s. The magical good fortune of attractive personal appearance
makes its way almost without effort in the world, breaking down all
sorts of walls of disapproval and lack of interest. Even the homely
person can attract by personal charm. But deformity cannot even be
charming.
The doors of the deformed man are always locked, and the key is on the
outside. He may have treasures of charm inside, but they will never be
revealed unless the person outside cooperates with him in unlocking the
door. A friend becomes, to a much greater degree than with the ordinary
man, the indispensable means of discovering one’s own personality. One
only exists, so to speak, with friends. It is easy to see how hopelessly
such a sensitiveness incapacitates a man for business, professional, or
social life, where the hasty and superficial impression is everything,
and disaster is the fate of the man who has not all the treasures of his
personality in the front window, where they can be readily inspected and
appraised.
It thus takes the deformed man a long time to get adjusted to his world.
Childhood is perhaps the hardest time of all. As a child he is a strange
creature in a strange land. It was my own fate to be just strong enough
to play about with the other boys, and attempt all their games and
“stunts” without being strong enough actually to succeed in any of them.
It never used to occur to me that my failures and lack of skill were due
to circumstances beyond my control, but I would always impute them, in
consequence of my rigid Calvinistic bringing-up, I suppose, to some
moral weakness of my own. I suffered tortures in trying to learn to
skate, to climb trees, to play ball, to conform in general to the ways
of the world. I never resigned myself to the inevitable, but overexerted
myself constantly in a grim determination to succeed. I was good at my
lessons, and through timidity rather than priggishness, I hope, a very
well-behaved boy at school; I was devoted, too, to music, and learned to
play the piano pretty well. But I despised my reputation for excellence
in these things, and instead of adapting myself philosophically to the
situation, I strove (and have been striving ever since) to do the things
I could not.
As I look back now it seems perfectly natural that I should have
followed the standards of the crowd, and loathed my high marks in
lessons and deportment, and the concerts to which I was sent by my aunt,
and the exhibitions of my musical skill that I had to give before
admiring ladies. Whether or not such an experience is typical of
handicapped children, there is tragedy there for those situated as I
was. For had I been a little weaker physically, I should have been
thrown back on reading omnivorously and cultivating my music, with some
possible results; while if I had been a little stronger, I could have
participated in the play on an equal footing with the rest. As it was, I
simply tantalized myself, and grew up with a deepening sense of failure,
and a lack of pride in what I really excelled at.
When the world become one of dances and parties and social evenings and
boy-and-girl attachments — the world of youth — I was to find myself
still less adapted to it. And this was the harder to bear because I was
naturally sociable, and all these things appealed tremendously to me.
This world of admiration and gayety and smiles and favors and quick
interest and companionship, however, is only for the well-begotten and
the debonair. It was not through any cruelty or dislike, I think, that I
was refused admittance; indeed they were always very kind about inviting
me. But it was more as if a ragged urchin had been asked to come and
look through the window at the light and warmth of a glittering party; I
was truly in the world, but not of the world. Indeed there were times
when one would almost prefer conscious cruelty to this silent,
unconscious, gentle oblivion. And this is the tragedy, I suppose, not
only of the deformed, but of all the ill-favored and unattractive to a
greater or less degree. The world of youth is a world of so many
conventions, and the abnormal in any direction is so glaringly and
hideously abnormal.
Although it took me a long time to understand this, and I continue to
attribute my failure mostly to my own character, trying hard to
compensate for my physical deficiencies by skill and cleverness, I
suffered comparatively few pangs, and got much better adjusted to this
world than to the other, For I was older, and I had acquired a lively
interest in all the social politics; I would get so interested in
watching how people behaved, and in sizing them up, that only at rare
intervals would I remember that I was really having no hand in the game.
This interest just in the ways people are human has become more and more
a positive advantage in my life, and has kept sweet many a situation
that might easily have cost me a pang. Not that a person with my
disabilities should be a sort of detective, evil-mindedly using his
social opportunities for spying out and analyzing his friends’ foibles,
but that, if he does acquire an interest in people quite apart from
their relation to him, he may go into society with an easy conscience
and a certainty that he will be entertained and possibly entertaining,
even though he cuts a poor enough social figure. He must simply not
expect too much.
Perhaps the bitterest struggles of the handicapped man come when he
tackles the business world. If he has to go out for himself to look for
work, without fortune, training, or influence, as I personally did, his
way will indeed be rugged. His disability will work against him for any
position where he must be much in the eyes of men, and his general
insignificance has a subtle influence in convincing those to whom he
applies that he is unfitted for any kind of work. As I have suggested,
his keen sensitiveness to other people’s impressions of him makes him
more than unusually timid and unable to counteract that fatal first
impression by any display of personal force and will. He cannot get his
personality over across that barrier. The cards seem stacked against him
from the start. With training and influence something might be done, but
alone and unaided his case is almost hopeless. At least, this was my own
experience. We were poor relations, and our prosperous relatives thought
they had done quite enough for us without sending me through college,
and I did not seem strong enough to work my way through (although I have
since done it). I started out auspiciously enough, becoming a sort of
apprentice to a musician who had invented a machine for turning out
music-rolls. Here, with steady work, good pay, and the comfortable
consciousness that I was “helping support the family,” I got the first
pleasurable sensation of self-respect, I think, that I ever had. But
with the failure of this business I was precipitated against the real
world.
It would be futile to recount the story of my struggles: how I besieged
for nearly two years firm after firm, in search of a permanent position,
trying everything in New York in which I thought I had the slightest
chance of success, meanwhile making a precarious living by a few music
lessons. The attitude toward me ranged from “You can’t expect us to
create a place for you,” to, “How could it enter your head that we
should find any use for a man like you?” My situation was doubtless
unusual. Few men handicapped as I was would be likely to go so long
without arousing some interest and support in relative or friend. But my
experience serves to illustrate the peculiar difficulties that a
handicapped man meets if he has his own way to make in the world. He is
discounted at the start: it is not business to make allowances for
anybody; and while people were not cruel or unkind, it was the hopeless
finality of the thing that filled one’s heart with despair.
The environment of a big city is perhaps the worst possible that a man
in such a situation could have. For the thousands of seeming
opportunities lead one restlessly on and on, and keep one’s mind
perpetually unsettled and depressed. There is a poignant mental torture
that comes with such an experience — the urgent need, the repeated
failure, or rather the repeated failure even to obtain a chance to fail,
the realization that those at home can ill afford to have you idle, the
growing dread of encountering people — all this is something that those
who have never been through it can never realize. Personally I know of
no particular way of escape. One can expect to do little by one’s own
unaided efforts. I solved my difficulties only by evading them, by
throwing overboard some of my responsibility, and taking the desperate
step of entering college on a scholarship. Desultory work is not nearly
so humiliating when one is using one’s time to some advantage, and
college furnishes an ideal environment where the things at which a man
handicapped like myself can succeed really count. One’s self-respect can
begin to grow like a weed.
For at the bottom of all the difficulties of a man like me is really the
fact that his self-respect is so slow in growing up. Accustomed from
childhood to being discounted, his self-respect is not naturally very
strong, and it would require pretty constant success in a congenial line
of work really to confirm it. If he could only more easily separate the
factors that are due to his physical disability from those that are due
to his weak will and character, he might more quickly attain
self-respect, for he would realize what he is responsible for, and what
he is not. But at the beginning he rarely makes allowances for himself,
he is his own severest judge. He longs for a “strong will,” and yet the
experience of having his efforts promptly nipped off at the beginning is
the last thing on earth to produce that will.
Life, particularly if he is brought into harsh and direct touch with the
real world, is a much more complex thing to him than to the ordinary
man. Many of his inherited platitudes vanish at the first touch. Life
appears to him as a grim struggle, where ability does not necessarily
mean opportunity and success, nor piety sympathy, and where helplessness
cannot count on assistance and kindly interest. Human affairs seem to be
running on a wholly irrational plan, and success to be founded on chance
as much as on anything. But if he can stand the first shock of
disillusionment, he may find himself enormously interested in
discovering how they actually do run, and he will want to burrow into
the motives of men, and find the reasons for the crass inequalities and
injustices of the world he sees around him. He has practically to
construct anew a world of his own, and explain a great many things to
himself that the ordinary person never dreams of finding unintelligible
at all. He will be filled with a profound sympathy for all who are
despised and ignored in the world. When he has been through the neglect
and struggles of a handicapped and ill-favored man himself, he will
begin to understand the feelings of all the horde of the unpresentable
and the unemployable, the incompetent and the ugly, the queer and
crotchety people who make up so large a proportion of human folk.
We are perhaps too prone to get our ideas and standards of worth from
the successful, without reflecting that the interpretations of life
which patriotic legend, copybook philosophy, and the sayings of the
wealthy give us are pitifully inadequate for those who fall behind in
the race. Surely there are enough people to whom the task of making a
decent living and maintaining themselves and their families in their
social class, or of winning and keeping the respect of their fellows, is
a hard and bitter task, to make a philosophy gained through personal
disability and failure as just and true a method of appraising the life
around us as the cheap optimism of the ordinary professional man. And
certainly a kindlier, for it has no shade of contempt or disparagement
about it.
It irritates me as if I had been spoken of contemptuously myself, to
hear people called “common” or “ordinary,” or to see that deadly and
delicate feeling for social gradations crop out, which so many of our
upper-middle-class women seem to have. It makes me wince to hear a man
spoken of as a failure, or to have it said of one that he “doesn’t
amount to much.” Instantly I want to know why he has not succeeded, and
what have been the forces that have been working against him. He is the
truly interesting person, and yet how little our eager-pressing,
onrushing world cares about such aspects of life, and how hideously
though unconsciously cruel and heartless it usually is.
Often I had tried in arguments to show my friends how much of
circumstance and chance go to the making of success; and when I reached
the age of sober reading, a long series of the works of radical social
philosophers, beginning with Henry George, provided me with the
materials for a philosophy which explained why men were miserable and
overworked, and why there was on the whole so little joy and gladness
among us — and which fixed the blame. Here was suggested a goal, and a
definite glorious future, toward which all good men might work. My own
working hours became filled with visions of how men could be brought to
see all that this meant, and how I in particular might work some great
and wonderful thing for human betterment. In more recent years, the
study of history and social psychology and ethics has made those crude
outlines sounder and more normal, and brought them into a saner relation
to other aspects of life and thought, but I have not lost the first glow
of enthusiasm, nor my belief in social progress as the first right and
permanent interest for every thinking and truehearted man or woman.
I am ashamed that my experience has given me so little chance to count
in any way toward either the spreading of such a philosophy or toward
direct influence and action. Nor do I yet see clearly how I shall be
able to count effectually toward this ideal. Of one thing I am sure,
however: that life will have little meaning for me except as I am able
to contribute toward some such ideal of social betterment, if not in
deed, then in word. For this is the faith that I believe we need today,
all of us — a truly religious belief in human progress, a thorough
social consciousness, an eager delight in every sign and promise of
social improvement, and best of all, a new spirit of courage that will
dare. I want to give to the young men whom I see -who, with fine
intellect and high principles, lack just that light of the future on
their faces that would give them a purpose and meaning in life — to them
I want to give some touch of this philosophy — that will energize their
lives, and save them from the disheartening effects of that poisonous
counsel of timidity and distrust of human ideals which pours out in
steady stream from reactionary press and pulpit.
It is hard to tell just how much of this philosophy has been due to my
handicaps. If it is solely to my physical misfortunes that I owe its
existence, the price has not been a heavy one to pay. For it has given
me something that I should not know how to be without. For, however
gained, this radical philosophy has not only made the world intelligible
and dynamic to me, but has furnished me with the strongest spiritual
support. I know that many people, handicapped by physical weakness and
failure, find consolation and satisfaction in a very different sort of
faith — in an evangelical religion, and a feeling of close dependence on
God and close communion with him. But my experience has made my ideal of
character militant rather than long-suffering.
I very early experienced a revulsion against the rigid Presbyterianism
in which I had been brought up — a purely intellectual revulsion, I
believe, because my mind was occupied for a long time afterward with
theological questions, and the only feeling that entered into it was a
sort of disgust at the arrogance of damning so great a proportion of the
human race. I read T. W. Higginson’s The Sympathy of Religions with the
greatest satisfaction, and attended the Unitarian Church whenever I
could slip away. This faith, while it still appeals to me, seems at
times a little too static and refined to satisfy me with completeness.
For some time there was a considerable bitterness in my heart at the
narrowness of the people who could still find comfort in the old faith.
Reading Buckle and Oliver Wendell Holmes gave me a new contempt for
“conventionality,” and my social philosophy still further tortured me by
throwing the burden for the misery of the world on these same good
neighbors. And all this, although I think I did not make a nuisance of
myself, made me feel a spiritual and intellectual isolation in addition
to my more or less effective physical isolation.
Happily these days are over. The world has righted itself, and I have
been able to appreciate and realize how people count in a social and
group capacity as well as in an individual and personal one, and to
separate the two in my thinking. Really to believe in human nature while
striving to know the thousand forces that warp it from its ideal
development — to call for and expect much from men and women, and not to
be disappointed and embittered if they fall short — to try to do good
with people rather than to them -this is my religion on its human side.
And if God exists, I think that He must be in the warm sun, in the
kindly actions of the people we know and read of, in the beautiful
things of art and nature, and in the closeness of friendships. He may
also be in heaven, in life, in suffering, but it is only in these simple
moments of happiness that I feel Him and know that He is there.
Death I do not understand at all. I have seen it in its cruelest, most
irrational forms, where there has seemed no excuse, no palliation. I
have only known that if we were more careful, and more relentless in
fighting evil, if we knew more of medical science, such things would not
be. I know that a sound body, intelligent care and training, prolong
life, and that the death of a very old person is neither sad nor
shocking, but sweet and fitting. I see in death a perpetual warning of
how much there is to be known and done in the way of human progress and
betterment. And equally, it seems to me, is this true of disease. So all
the crises and deeper implications of life seem inevitably to lead back
to that question of social improvement, and militant learning and doing.
This, then, is the goal of my religion — the bringing of fuller, richer
life to more people on this earth. All institutions and all works that
do not have this for their object are useless and pernicious. And this
is not to be a mere philosophic precept which may well be buried under a
host of more immediate matters, but a living faith, to permeate one’s
thought, and transfuse one’s life. Prevention must be the method against
evil. To remove temptation from men, and to apply the stimulus which
shall call forth their highest endeavors — these seem to me the only
right principles of ethical endeavor. Not to keep waging the agelong
battle with sin and poverty, but to make the air around men so pure that
foul lungs cannot breathe it — this should be our noblest religious aim.
Education — knowledge and training — I have felt so keenly my lack of
these things that I count them as the greatest of means toward making
life noble and happy. The lack of stimulus has tended with me to
dissipate the power which might otherwise have been concentrated in some
one productive direction. Or perhaps it was the many weak stimuli that
constantly incited me and thus kept me from following one particular
bent. I look back on what seems a long waste of intellectual power, time
frittered away in groping and moping, which might easily have been spent
constructively. A defect in one of the physical senses often means a
keener sensitiveness in the others, but it seems that unless the sphere
of action that the handicapped man has is very much narrowed, his
intellectual ability will not grow in compensation for his physical
defects. He will always feel that, had he been strong or even
successful, he would have been further advanced intellectually, and
would have attained greater command over his powers. For his mind tends
to be cultivated extensively, rather than intensively. He has so many
problems to meet, so many things to explain to himself, that he acquires
a wide rather than a profound knowledge. Perhaps eventually, by
eliminating most of these interests as practicable fields, he may tie
himself down to one line of work; but at first he is pretty apt to find
his mind rebellious. If he is eager and active, he will get a smattering
of too many things, and his imperfect, badly trained organism will make
intense application very difficult.
Now that I have talked a little of my philosophy of life, particularly
about what I want to put into it, there is something to be said also of
its enjoyment, and what I may hope to get out of it. I have said that my
ideal of character was militant rather than long-suffering. It is true
that my world has been one of failure and deficit — I have accomplished
practically nothing alone, and can count only two or three instances
where I have received kindly counsel and suggestion; moreover it still
seems a miracle to me that money can be spent for anything beyond the
necessities without being first carefully weighed and pondered over —
but it has not been a world of suffering and sacrifice, my health has
been almost criminally perfect in the light of my actual achievement,
and life has appeared to me, at least since my more pressing
responsibilities were removed, as a challenge and an arena, rather than
a vale of tears. I do not like the idea of helplessly suffering one’s
misfortunes, of passively bearing one’s lot. The Stoics depress me. I do
not want to look on my life as an eternal making the best of a bad
bargain. Granting all the circumstances, admitting all my disabilities,
I want too to “warm both hands before the fire of life.” What
satisfactions I have, and they are many and precious, I do not want to
look on as compensations, but as positive goods.
The difference between what the strongest of the strong and the most
winning of the attractive can get out of life, and what I can, is after
all so slight. Our experiences and enjoyments, both his and mine, are so
infinitesimal compared with the great mass of possibilities; and there
must be a division of labor. If he takes the world of physical
satisfactions and of material success, I at least can occupy the far
richer kingdom of mental effort and artistic appreciation. And on the
side of what we are to put into life, although I admit that achievement
on my part will be harder relatively to encompass than on his, at least
I may have the field of artistic creation and intellectual achievement
for my own. Indeed, as one gets older, the fact of one’s disabilities
fades dimmer and dimmer away from consciousness. One’s enemy is now
one’s own weak will, and the struggle is to attain the artistic ideal
one has set.
But one must have grown up, to get this attitude. And that is the best
thing the handicapped man can do. Growing up will have given him one of
the greatest, and certainly the most durable satisfaction of his life.
It will mean at least that he is out of the woods. Childhood has nothing
to offer him; youth little more. They are things to be gotten through
with as soon as possible. For he will not understand, and he will not be
understood. He finds himself simply a bundle of chaotic impulses and
emotions and ambitions, very few of which, from the nature of the case,
can possibly be realized or satisfied. He is bound to be at cross-grains
with the world, and he has to look sharp that he does not grow up with a
bad temper and a hateful disposition, and become cynical and bitter
against those who turn him away. But grown up, his horizon will broaden;
he will get a better perspective, and will not take the world so
seriously as he used to, nor will failure frighten him so much. He can
look back and see how inevitable it all was, and understand how
precarious and problematic even the best regulated of human affairs may
be. And if he feels that there were times when he should have been able
to count upon the help and kindly counsel of relatives and acquaintances
who remained dumb and uninterested, he will not put their behavior down
as proof of the depravity of human nature, but as due to an unfortunate
blindness which it will be his work to avoid in himself by looking out
for others when he has the power.
When he has grown up, he will find that people of his own age and
experience are willing to make those large allowances for what is out of
the ordinary which were impossible to his younger friends, and that
grown-up people touch each other on planes other than the purely
superficial. With a broadening of his own interests, he will find
himself overlapping other people’s personalities at new points, and will
discover with rare delight that he is beginning to be understood and
appreciated — at least to a greater degree than when he had to keep his
real interests hid as something unusual. For he will begin to see in his
friends, his music and books, and his interest in people and social
betterment, his true life; many of his restless ambitions will fade
gradually away, and he will come to recognize all the more clearly some
true ambition of his life that is within the range of his capabilities.
He will have built up his world, and have sifted out the things that are
not going to concern him, and participation in which will only serve to
vex and harass him. He may well come to count his deformity even as a
blessing, for it has made impossible to him at last many things in the
pursuit of which he would only fritter away his time and dissipate his
interest. He must not think of “resigning himself to his fate”; above
all he must insist on his own personality. For once really grown up, he
will find that he has acquired self-respect and personality.
Grown-upness, I think, is not a mere question of age, but of being able
to look back and understand and find satisfaction in one’s experience,
no matter how bitter it may have been.
So to all who are situated as I am, I would say — Grow up as fast as you
can. Cultivate the widest interests you can, and cherish all your
friends. Cultivate some artistic talent, for you will find it the most
durable of satisfactions, and perhaps one of the surest means of
livelihood as well. Achievement is, of course, on the knees of the gods;
but you will at least have the thrill of trial, and, after all, not to
try is to fail. Taking your disabilities for granted, and assuming
constantly that they are being taken for granted, make your social
intercourse as broad and as constant as possible. Do not take the world
too seriously, nor let too many social conventions oppress you. Keep
sweet your sense of humor, and above all do not let any morbid feelings
of inferiority creep into your soul. You will find yourself sensitive
enough to the sympathy of others, and if you do not find people who like
you and are willing to meet you more than halfway, it will be because
you have let your disability narrow your vision and shrink up your soul.
It will be really your own fault, and not that of your circumstances. In
a word, keep looking outward; look out eagerly for those things that
interest you, for people who will interest you and be friends with you,
for new interests and for opportunities to express yourself. You will
find that your disability will come to have little meaning for you, that
it will begin to fade quite completely out of your sight; you will wake
up some fine morning and find yourself, after all the struggles that
seemed so bitter to you, really and truly adjusted to the world.
I am perhaps not yet sufficiently out of the wilderness to utter all
these brave words. For, I must confess, I find myself hopelessly
dependent on my friends, and my environment. My friends have come to
mean more to me than almost anything else in the world. If it is far
harder work for a man in my situation to make friendships quickly, at
least friendships once made have a depth and intimacy quite beyond
ordinary attachments. For a man such as I am has little prestige; people
do not want to impress him. They are genuine and sincere, talk to him
freely about themselves, and are generally far less reticent about
revealing their real personality and history and aspirations. And
particularly is this so in friendships with young women. I have found
their friendships the most delightful and satisfying of all. For all
that social convention that insists that every friendship between a
young man and woman must be on a romantic basis is necessarily absent in
our case. There is no fringe around us to make our acquaintance anything
but a charming companionship. With all my friends, the same thing is
true. The first barrier of strangeness broken down, our interest is
really in each other, and not in what each is going to think of the
other, how he is to be impressed, or whether we are going to fall in
love with each other. When one of my friends moves away, I feel as if a
great hole had been left in my life. There is a whole side of my
personality that I cannot express without him. I shudder to think of any
change that will deprive me of their constant companionship. Without
friends I feel as if even my music and books and interests would turn
stale on my hands. I confess that I am not grown up enough to get along
without them.
But if I am not yet out of the wilderness, at least I think I see the
way to happiness. With health and a modicum of achievement, I shall not
see my lot as unenviable. And if misfortune comes, it will only be
something flowing from the common lot of men, not from my own particular
disability. Most of the difficulties that flow from that I flatter
myself I have met by this time of my twenty-fifth year, have looked full
in the face, have grappled with, and find in nowise so formidable as the
world usually deems them; no bar to my real ambitions and ideals.