“Night lift up the shades
let in the brilliant light of morning
but steady there now
for I am weak and starving for mercy.”—Sarah McLachlan, “Stupid”
I want to tell you about Michael.
I want to tell you how I didn’t want to talk to him when I sat behind him on the Number 1 bus from the North Lamar Transit Station to Guadalupe and 24tth Street. I want to tell you that it wasn’t the fact that he was in a wheelchair or the fact that his speech was slow or the fact that his movements were jerky that made me not want to talk to him, and yet that it was exactly because of those things that I was so afraid. That I was afraid I would say the wrong thing or not know what to say at all. That I was afraid to step out of my comfort zone. I want to tell you I’d already been sociable enough chatting with the patrol officer who had to stand with me to protect me because I’d been naïve to think it was okay for a teenage girl to ride the bus by herself late at night. I want to tell you this so you don’t think that I didn’t want to talk to Michael not because he was different, but because I was already uncharacteristically extroverted that day and while I enjoyed it, it made me tired. I want to tell you what I’m sure you already know: that really, neither is a valid reason to not have wanted to talk to him, and that there never really could be one for not wanting to talk to a person aside from just having had a root canal.
I want to tell you how Michael was the one who took the first step to get my attention, and after asking how I was doing, told me I was pretty. I want to tell you that for the few times that someone had ever said that to me, this was the first time I believed it because there was sincerity in those eyes. I want to tell you that I could see him building up the courage to talk to me because it must have been hard. That he called himself slow and asked me to forgive him and I felt guilty because really I needed to be begging forgiveness.
I want to tell you that he made me feel like a good person for smiling at him and being patient with him as he spoke. Then I want to tell you that I felt like a bad person for feeling good about that because how could I even have thought of being anything else?
I want to tell you that in those eyes I saw the soul of a teenage boy who had not always been trapped in an unwilling body. That I saw the spirit of a flirtatious smooth-talker who’d probably charmed girls like no other in his day. That my thoughts were confirmed when he started to tell me about his accident but couldn’t finish because my stop was coming up.
I want to tell you about how his smile took over his entire face because I told him that I let my friends call me Andi and he realized that I’d told him to call me Andi, too. I want to tell you that at that moment my heart melted into a soggy, messy puddle on the floor of that Capitol Metro bus. I want you to feel the pain I felt knowing that Michael had probably once had dreams that did not include being confined to a wheelchair and speaking labored words.
I want to share the guilt I felt after lying to him when he asked for my phone number and telling him I only had mine temporarily. I want you to know how I cried a little after I got off the bus because I had lied to him, because I had missed out on having a friend for life, one who in such a short time had stirred something in me that I’d forgotten existed. I want you to know that I regret letting my fear of the unknown and doubt of myself take over me.
I want you to know that I felt like a good person not because I talked to him or listened to him, but because he talked and listened to me. That somehow that made me special and blessed and that I’m glad he didn’t just let me pretend to stare out the window intently like I had planned to.
I want to tell you what I told him when he gave me the saddest look I’d ever seen when I told him that my stop was coming up. I want you to know that I said, “Don’t worry, Michael. We’ll see each other again.”
I want to tell you that I wanted him to believe it. And that he did because he smiled. I want to tell you that I think he knew what I meant, that I didn’t mean we’d see each other again because I’d get on the bus behind him again, but because he knew and I knew too that we really would see each other again, someday, in a way neither of us expected.
I want to tell you how Michael showed me a side of myself I’d forgotten existed. How looking him in the eye and speaking honestly and kindly without fear of judgment made me think, “Why don’t I look at everyone this way?” How Michael made me question my fear of being candid with other people.
I want to tell you how much meeting Michael meant to me. That he changed me in ways I can’t explain and don’t even know, but that I’m not the same. That maybe I’m stronger, or weaker—that maybe I know more or know even less. I want you to see Michael’s face and warm smile, to hear his sincere laughter, to feel his honest humility. I want you to be able to see what I saw in those eyes: the heart of a vivacious 23-year-old man trapped in a body that wouldn’t let him free. I want you to know how mad I was at life for keeping Michael from being who he wanted to be. But I want you to know that Michael doesn’t need my pity, doesn’t need anyone to feel sorry for him, and probably doesn’t feel sorry for himself. I want you to know that Michael doesn’t need a hero, that he is just like anyone of us who really only want to be loved as unconditionally in the way we love others.
I want to find the words to convey everything he made me feel, to convey how grateful I was—to whoever put me on that bus in that seat at that time, to whoever put him there, to whoever made him talk to me and to whoever made me listen.
I want to tell you about Michael…but I can't.
Only Michael can tell you about Michael.