shrivers

We all need heroes, those people who give our society guidance by their own deeds.

One of my heroes was Eunice Kennedy-Shriver, who died yesterday.  While the world was mesmerized by those handsome, powerful Kennedy men, I kept looking at their sisters.  And I saw that Eunice and her sisters were born to serve the people.  In a time when women were not allowed in The Boys’ Club, this one woman made her own mark on the world and changed the lives of millions.

Eunice Kennedy-Shriver valued each person’s worth. Inspired by her mother Rose, Kennedy-Shriver witnessed the joy and strength that her disabled sister, Rosemary, gave to their family.  Eunice championed the rights of people with mental disabilities. She pushed her brother, President Jack Kennedy, to address the needs of people with mental retardation, to set up commissions that would reveal the abhorrent conditions of injustice that our most vulnerable citizens suffered.  She worked to establish programs that would provide decent education for people with special needs.  She helped countless families  learn to accept and even love their fate, to embrace and celebrate their special needs children.

The Summer of 1969, an American walked on the moon and I had just finished my first year of college. I needed a job in order to pay for books the next Fall.  I saw an ad to work with kids, right up my alley. But not just any kids.  This job was at The Hospital for Exceptional Children in Long Beach, CA, a “home” for mentally retarded children.  I was so excited that I could serve.  Like Eunice, I would make these children’s lives richer.  

I got hired! I’d be a daytime aide for 20 children.  One other worker and I fed, bathed, diapered and watched 40 children.  From sun up until sundown, I ran around trying to keep these children safe, happy and clean.  But there were no toys, no books.  There was no program or curriculum.  No one had ever even encouraged these kids to speak, to find their words.  Instead, they were warehoused, thrown away, out of sight from “normal people.”  Forty children slept in one big dormitory room, beds crammed in row after row. I have faint recollection of any professional staffer coming to check on them.  When someone did come, it was to administer meds…sedatives.  “Keep them quiet and calm,” that was our edict.

None of their families ever came to visit.  Oh, there was one girl.  
She was the only one who had any words.  She was 13 and had severe autism.  She’d go to her family home every other weekend.  When she returned she would mimic T.V. ads…that’s all. Over and over and over, singing jingles, echoing the ads’ messages.  When I’d feed her, she’d sing and chant:  “Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is,”  Or “Mystery Date,”  Or “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.”

For exercise, we would take them to the “play area”– a small concrete courtyard wedged in the middle of the building.  There were no swings, no slides, no sandbox.  And one tricycle.  Even the plants were all dead.  Most of the children could not really walk, but not because they weren’t capable.  They weren’t allowed to run or walk.  “Keep them still”–another edict.  

But all they wanted was to be touched, held, rocked.  In those few free moments, I’d sing songs, recite nursery rhymes and do fingerplays.  One two-year old boy with Down’s Syndrome looked like a 10-month old baby.  He loved to cuddle and be held, nuzzling against me. It was easy to nurture him.  He was adorable, filled with smiles and coos.  I wanted to take him home.  

It was much harder to give love and nurturing to the 14 year-old boy.  He needed to shave, and when I changed his diapers…Well, you can imagine.  He was a teenage boy, and how he loved me to clean him up (and I mean, UP).  I can remember telling him, “Take it easy, Mikey.  Don’t get so excited.  Let’s get this diaper on and be done!”  

But 8 year-old Jason, another Down’s Syndrome child, broke my heart.  This boy was a mischief-maker!  He had a funny little “evil” laugh that would echo through the cavernous room when he escaped the clutches of the well-meaning aides.  He’d throw food, bounce on his bed, and grab anything in his reach.  A wild child!  No one liked Jason…except me.  His will, his burning desire to be a regular little boy held my heart.  

I begged the supervisors to let me take him for walks, to read to him, to play with him.  “There’s no time for that.  You have to take care of the others, too,” I was told. Ah, yes, keep the Warehouse clean.  That was my job, after all.  

At night, we’d get all forty  kids ready for bed.  No sweet night-lights, no lullabies.  As the door closed, the night-shift on detail, sad, lonely whimpers and sighs slipped into my ears.  And of course, Jason never wanted to go to bed.  He wanted to play!  Like a wild monkey, he would escape from us, scurrying across the floor on all fours. Night after night the orderlies came in to put a net over Jason’s bed…to keep him tied up.

Then one night, they told ME to tie up Jason.  That moment blazes in my memory as I draped the big heavy net over his crib.  As I tied down the corners, he wailed and looked deep into my eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Jason. I have to do this, to keep you safe.  Forgive me.  I don’t want to do this either.”  Tears streamed down my face as my heaving sobs rocked in chorus with Jason’s sobs. Eight years old, powerless.

The next day I quit. At 19 I could not take the pain, the sorrow and injustice.  Like Jason, I was powerless, too.  I only lasted six weeks on that job, but I’ve never forgotten one moment.

So, today I thank Eunice Shriver for she changed their lives.  And like all true heroes, she did this almost single-handedly while building a devoted army to join her worthy cause.   When The Hospital for Exceptional Children closed, I rejoiced, knowing that those 40 kids had been given a chance, a new beginning.  Eunice had unlocked those doors and given their families hope and direction. 

In her later life Eunice Kennedy-Shriver, the daughter and sister of kings, stood by her husband when he sunk into Alzheimer’s. Sargent Shriver was his name.  A giant was he–The founder of America’s most influential international relations program: The U.S. Peace Corps.  

The Shrivers lived a graceful, generous life.  They knew the importance of authentic public service, and they understood that putting a price-tag on humanity is evil, is immoral.  The Shrivers worked to help the disenfranchised find dignity and compassion, education and empowerment.  Two great American heroes.  Tonight I will look for their stars in Heaven.

I’m B.Z. Smith.  This is one story from my life.  What’s yours?