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A boy would walk over to me, say something I couldn't hear. I would say, "I'm sorry could you repeat that." And he'd laugh and walk to a group of boys, and they would start mocking me. They would try to imi- imi- they would try to sound like me. One day I had had enough. I wish there had been a reason, an incident, but for some reason it just felt like the end. My mom had a pistol under her pillow. I don't think she ever found out that I knew about it. My dad left when I was young, so I'm guessing it made her feel safe at night.
Jack, 10, is a third grader with cerebral palsy. He hobbles down the street with his friend Cecilia, 10. With every step, he seems to be closer to falling. Cecilia looks uncomfortable, but is supporting him with every step. Behind the two, about thirty yards back, is Jack's mother Katherine, 40. She is driving a van, and looks nervous for Jack. Jack narrates with a voice typical of those with CP.
Jack, 24, is a man suffering from cerebral palsy. He is in a wheel chair and is racing down the street, obviously late for something. He suddenly falls to the ground. A group of people surround him, all expressing concerns but nothing audible. A voice suddenly pierces through the mutters.
Thanks for embarrassing us, again. And now we're late! We have to be at the bus stop in three minutes! And it's two blocks from here!