Learning Disabilities
February 16, 2008
My ex-girlfriend Sam works in London, in a residential home for adults with learning difficulties. There’s a similar home not far from my house. The residents (or “clients”, as they’re called in the Third Sector) of both homes are a terrific bunch of people. I’ve never had any problem communicating with them, because I don’t patronise them or treat them differently from anybody else.
My friend Helen has two children with “special needs”; widowed young, she’s struggled to bring them up from infancy. When I was young, we didn’t use these politically correct terms to describe people like her children, or Sam’s clients. We called them “mentally handicapped” or “retarded” or “remedial” – because we were young and cruel and knew no better.
The first time I met Helen’s children was the day of the carnival a few years ago.The four of us sat outside the pub and chatted for a while, then went inside and I played a couple of games of pool with her son Nathan. At the time he was about 14, a big strong lad with a gentle, almost timid, soul in his oversized body. Ashleigh, his young sister, was more talkative and boisterous. Everyone agreed it had been a great afternoon – better, probably, than going to the carnival.
That evening, Helen sent me a text message. I can’t remember the exact wording, but it went something like this:
“N & A wanted to know if you were my new boyfriend. I told them you were a friend from way back. A thinks we should get together. N said you are the only adult who doesn’t treat him as a retard.”
I didn’t treat Nathan as a retard because he didn’t strike me as such.
Adults who can’t operate the ticket barriers at Cardiff Station, or read the price printed on the back of a book, or come to terms with CHIP & PIN two years after its introduction, probably are retards.
Sam always said I’d be great dealing with her clients. I met them all one Christmas Day, when I was invited round to the care home. I had a most enjoyable afternoon, talking to Violet about what life had been like during the Blitz. She didn’t seem like a “retard” at all, just a lovely old Cockney lady with a wealth of stories.
I was talking to one of the publisher’s reps when Sam and I first got together, and he asked what she did for a living.
I said, “We’re in the same line of work.”
“Oh,” he said, “she’s in the book trade too?”
“No,” I replied, ” she works with adults with learning disabilities.”
So do I.
A lot of them come into the shop on a regular basis. At least some collect a monthly salary for doing so. Maybe I should I apply for Attendance Allowance for looking after them all day long.
