Dear "Kids"

Dear “Kids,”

I know that not a single one of you is likely to ever know this letter exists. I have no way of knowing where any of you are and it may be that none of you remember me at all. That's okay. I'm writing this for me, mostly, and if it somehow finds one or more of you, I'll be ever grateful to the universe for making it so.

It was so long ago, it seems a different time, and in many ways, it was. It was before the word, “disabled” was determined to be a socially unacceptable label. The same thing can be said of the term “very special”. I'm not upset about the change. I get it. What most people don't know these days is that you, the “kids” that Pam and I had the privilege of spending time with, never took offense to either term.

The reason for this letter, though, is to thank you for all you taught me. I had the title of “Art Director.” What that meant was I was “tasked” with teaching you as much as I could about art and The Arts, with the goal of providing you with a means to support yourselves.

What had started out as a few hours a week as a volunteer would turn into a grant-funded, full-time paid position. Pam was later hired as my Assistant Director and was every bit as involved as me in brainstorming, planning, prepping and presenting each of the many projects we got to share with you.

Our first groups were small, 6 or 8 “kids,” once a week. I'm not sure how, but word got out. Different centers called and sent in more “students” with different causes, from Down Syndrome to brain injury. School kids to adult veterans and everything in between. And every one was an absolute joy. Even the wheelchair-bound Marine, older than all of us, who tried to be gruff and ended up in tears because everyone in that room actually cared.

It started in a tiny little classroom and expanded into a warehouse dedicated to art, complete with everything, including clay working equipment, potter's wheels and kilns. And I got to play with it all, but most importantly, I got to have fun with all of you.

And I learned. I learned how the word, “disability” had narrowed my mindset, just like most of our society. I'd never even realized it, but I was lucky enough to be set straight. From day one, I'd never felt so much at home.

You shared so much, so openly. Not just the warm smiles and bear hugs, but casually talking about things like how your brain injury was caused by a failed suicide attempt, or how years of abuse from a stepfather had caused you to shut down. Aides sent to help you get to and from the classes were amazed at how you opened up, while making sure you didn't overshare.

You taught me ASL, as if it was just the natural thing to do when I mentioned to one of the aides that I'd always wanted to learn. You made me believe in myself as an artist and a teacher. Me, a guy who had no formal training in either.

Meanwhile, the projects went on and I watched you create beautiful things. I learned to show you the basics, then step aside and be amazed.

When the organization our group worked for started to lose funding, we found our own. I learned how to deal with corporate executives and deliver convincing arguments. I learned how to recruit volunteers and direct them in one of the most rewarding projects I've ever overseen. I learned these things because you made me realize what we did, mattered.

The time would come, all too soon, when we found out the rest of the world didn't put much stock in The Arts. My heart broke, the day our Executive Director delivered the news that the worldwide Very Special Arts organization would be closing its doors.

So many years have gone by, but I still smile when I think about our classes. I miss my “kids” and I want to thank each of you for teaching me so much about life and myself. I will never forget you!

Your friend, always,

Doc