Christmas Mass

CHAPTER 1:

            I was at Christmas Eve Mass when I saw the woman with cerebral palsy.

            My first semester as a Junior in college had just ended and recently I had rediscovered religion again due to legal issues involving a traffic violation. The church is in Orange, which is thirty minutes from Warren, where we actually live. Dad grew up here and most of the people in Warren are snobs according to my parents and  personal experience, so that is why we drive the thirty minutes to Orange to go to church on Sundays.

            The church is a religious oasis among houses and apartments decorated with graffiti, steel gates that are either temporary or permanent, and homeless people who carry cardboard signs asking for charity. We are one of the few cars who come up from the highway to this neighborhood and pull into the tiny parking lot of the church almost every Sunday.

            The Christmas Eve Mass was at 11 p.m., so the normally pinkish or light brown church was dark brown without the sun to shine upon it and the black asphalt of the parking lot look like a large pool of ink. The statue of John the Baptist was almost invisible in the shadows, his stone eyes watching a man whose eyes were closed walk by.

            "He's high," my older sister Amber said.

            "He could just be tired," I said, wanting to give the guy the benefit of a doubt.

            "No, he's high," Dad said. "You girls ready to head in?"

            We each gulped down the last of our drinks, they drinking coffee while I drank hot chocolate. It's rude to bring drinks or food into the church, a fact I lightheartedly banter with Amber or Mom about quite often. We entered the church through the side door like we always do, since it is closer to the parking lot, where I dropped my empty cup into the trash can, then headed into the warmth of the church.

            Although I had been there just a few days ago, I was still in awe of the transformation of the church. Red poinsettias in gold-wrapped pots decorated the altar along with little baskets holding plastic infants swaddled in blankets that parishioners left. Off to the right side a Nativity set had been set up, with brown construction paper making up the barn and stones to hold the little statues of Jesus, other key characters, and farm animals. Lights had been strung up on it along with a bunch of white strands of lights shaped into an angel.

            We took our usual seats in the very back. I was in a dress the color of wine with a dark brown belt, making me one of the few people to actually get all dressed up. Chrystal wore a nice black top with leggings while Dad wore an olive green sweater with jeans, which is the nicest he will ever look outside of a wedding or ball. We chatted with some parishioners as usual, Dad beaming like the lights from doing the Christian thing by coming here. I was probably beaming as well, swelling with pride to attend a Christmas Eve Mass for the first time since elementary school.

            I was staring up at the six round chandeliers on the beamed ceiling like I always do in church when three women took seats in the pew in front of us. One of them was a child who clung to the backs of one of the women until she was gently set down upon the pew. With her bright blue jacket and braids, she seemed like an ordinary child until she turned around.

            At that moment I wasn't sure if she was a child or a woman. Her eyes bulged out of a head that was as narrow as a football. Her limbs were no bigger than twigs and neither was her body. Those humongous eyes, as round as the moon but blacker than coal, captured my attention. They seemed to lock on me, on anyone they landed on, unwilling to let go.

            Of course Amber was comfortable with her. She smiled, talked, joked, like she did with every child, every disabled person she ever came across. It was from her skills as a speech pathologist as well as taking care of me and my twin brother Andrew due to the ten-year age difference between us. Of course I smiled but I was otherwise uncomfortable. The woman took a real liking to Dad, who laughed, smiled, pretended to give me and Amber puzzled looks. The two women were very touched by how friendly we were to their disabled companion. It made me wonder if most people steered clear or ignored her.

            I've encountered severely disabled people before. Everyone does at some point because nowadays they are everywhere. Ironically they are the norm despite being the opposite of normal. However, unlike most people, I can actually relate to some disabled people because of my own past struggles. That is the key reason I sometimes feel uncomfortable, not because of them but because I see myself in them. I saw myself in the woman/girl, which brought some shame of my own past as well as guilt for faring way, way better than she probably ever will.

            We left after about an hour and half because none of us really like staying up late, especially Dad, who always gets up at 4:30 for work as a postal contractor. Mom and Andrew stayed home because she cannot be left home alone because she is still weak from her pulmonary embolism. Before we left, I lit a votive candle, praying for the things I always pray for with votives: a good future, good health, and happiness for the family. This time, though, I prayed for the disabled woman.

            After Mass, I asked Amber, "What was her...issue?" Even to this day I have trouble finding the right phrasing for such questions. Political correctness can be so difficult.

            "Probably cerebral palsy," she said as we hopped back into Dad's black pickup truck, which blended with the darkness. The sound of the engine was the only thing that broke the silence of the neighborhood at midnight. Although it was extremely late, the sky was dark blue, not black, complemented by warm air. This was by far the warmest Christmas ever, although thinking about the woman with cerebral palsy made me shiver. Not from disgust but from guilt about any complaints I had about my own life as well as how lucky I was to end up mostly normal.

            Mostly.

            "It should make you more appreciative of your own life. It should put things in perspective," Amber said to both me and Dad.

            "That it should," Dad agreed.

            I couldn't help being annoyed. I knew remarks like those were usually directed toward me. But I let it go because A) it was Christmas Eve and B) one knows better than to argue with Amber.

            I thought about it on the half-hour drive home on the highway, which was mostly empty despite it being Christmas Eve. The lights from cars were not that different from Christmas lights, the cop cars being the brightest of them all.

            Seeing the girl with cerebral palsy definitely put things in perspective. She might never have the things I have: a college career, an actual career in the future, the ability to walk or talk, a normal-looking body. I may complain about having an average appearance of light brown eyes with matching brown hair but at least people won't stare at me like I admittedly stared at the girl. There is no doubt my struggles don't hold a candle to this girl's existence, which makes me more grateful, more guilty.

            I looked at my reflection in the window of the car, thinking I may not have bug eyes or a tiny, fragile body but my flaws are all on the inside. It was one of the many times I looked at myself to see whether people could tell if I have problems like autism or social anxiety. I know that my face sometimes looks blank, which sometimes lead people to think I am confused about something. A lot of times I wear a screw-off face or sad face when I am not sad or angry, which can intimidate people, just because I am so focused on something or lost in my imagination.

            My face can never reveal to people that I was ever deaf at the age of three and struggled with speech and socialization for a few years after. They would just take me for a shy college girl who is below average height with a major sugar addiction. They don't know what is behind the pendant scarves, Michael Kors bags, the sorority letters from Delta Phi Epsilon. They would never guess that a girl who occasionally visits a bar or party is autistic.

            Mom always says I should be proud of all my accomplishments, that I'm an inspiration...the usual. She'll always say stuff like that whenever my past comes up in a conversation. I wish I could be proud of it. I wish I could say I had no regrets. I wish more than anything that I could say I wouldn't change a thing.

            All of it would be a lie.

            Does that make me a bad person?

            Probably. But it also makes me honest.

            If the woman with cerebral palsy could talk or comprehend anything, I'll bet she would agree with me. My legs works and I am of normal height but I have needed to ride on the backs of my family my entire life.