No, You Can't

"No, you can't."

I heard that phrase from my father. He was a kind and gentle man who loved me very much. My desire of wanting a train set or building blocks even a Golden Retriever was never denied. As to the aspect of reaching physical goals, he would always say, “No you can’t.”

 I was born with Cerebral Palsy. I learned to walk at the age of five. My knees were deformed which made my balance awkward that occasionally made me plop to the ground. I held back the tears, not to the pain of falling, but the embarrassment of others watching me fall.

With my affliction came another obstacle, I had a speech impediment. Through my childhood and adolescence, I received speech therapy, but still, I would speak at though I had a mouthful of hamburger.

 When I was ten-years-old my friend, Ricky, and I were at the park. We were playing on the monkey bars. A few boys were staring at me like I was a creature from another planet. They began snickering, whispering in each other’s ear, and laughing loudly. I ignored them even though my nerves coiled up like a snake. I started talking to Ricky, pretending they were not around.

“Hey kid!” one of the boys yelled out. He had a pudgy nose sprinkled with freckles. “You talk like Donald Duck.” He and his friends guffawed.

Another boy with flaming red hair giggled. “And, you walk like a drunk.’’

They laughed louder.

“Shut-up!” Ricky hollered.

“Who’s going to make us?” a chubby kid said. He had puffy cheeks with a waist that was the sized of Texas.

I knew Ricky was a great friend and my only friend in the neighborhood, but those guys would make sawdust out both of us.

I knew Ricky wanted to defend me but he was tall and thin as a pencil. As far as muscles, Ricky had trouble opening a pickle jar.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.

Ricky remained silent, watching the five boys walk toward us.

“I think that’s a good idea,” said Ricky.

We took off like two horses out of the gate of the Kentucky Derby.

Unfortunately, a short distance away, I lost my footing and my body began tumbling. I straightened my arm, opened my hands, and let my palms hit the sidewalk before the bridge of my nose.

The pudgy nose kid shouted, “Did you trip over an ant?”

Ricky helped me up, and we scurried our way home.

I could still hear the roaring laughter inside my head, but those bellows turned into tiny swords that began piercing my heart as the tears glistened my eyes.

“Do you want to play checkers at my house?” Ricky asked, trying to ease my pain.

“I ‘m going home.”

I went to my room, wishing I never been born.

A few hours later, my mother came into my room. I avoided discussing the incident by conversing on the ballgame dad was taking me that night. Mom, however, must have some built-in radar and sensed my day was rotten. She asked questions about the park like she was Nancy Drew. Finally, I let loose with the details along with my emotions that my sobbing cleaned out a whole box of Kleenex.

After our conversation, my mother told me about a woman named, Helen Keller, who wrote, ‘Never bend your head. Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the eye.’ Miss. Keller was blind and deaf and received a Bachelor of Arts degree. Despite her handicapped, she became an author, lecturer, and political activist. My mother said, “The only person that can stop you from achieving your goals is you.”

With those words of inspiration and a big hug from my mother, I took heed of Keller’s words. At times, they were a challenging task, especially with my father.

I was twelve-years-old and wanted to learn to ride a two-wheeler. My dad said, "No, you can't. You'll fall."

“I’ll get up.” I laughed.

I continued to plead but to no avail. I was frustrated and lost hope until my mother decided to help.

“We better go buy plenty of Band-Aids,” she joked.

There were a lot of bruises and scratches during our daily practice, but I never bend my head. Within a few weeks, I pedaled around the neighborhood in my new Schwinn bike. I became so confident in my bike riding that I got an afternoon paper route. Of course, dad was reluctant to give me any praise and just told me to be careful. I thought by my accomplishment that dad would retreat from his negativism towards my future goals, but a few years later I learned my dad continued to see what I couldn’t do rather than what I could.

At seventeen, I wanted to get my driver’s license. I worked the past few years in a grocery store as a stock boy and saved enough money to purchase a used car. I also saved enough money for my first year’s car insurance. The only thing that was missing was my father’s consent.

 It happened to be one evening after supper that I finally built enough confidence to ask him.

“No, you can’t,” he said while adding a teaspoon of sugar to his coffee.

“But dad,” I felt another blow to my self-esteem, “I saved enough money for a car and insurance.”

“I said no.” He stirred the coffee, laid the spoon on the table then slurped a portion of the steamy liquid.

“Why?” I refused to lose this argument.

“Because you shake when you hold a glass of water. How do you expect to hold a steering wheel steady?” His cheeks flamed with anger.

“I could hold the steering wheel steady just give me a chance.”

“The answer is no.” He pushed his chair away from the table, stood up, picked up his cup, and walked into the living room. Forlornly, I ambled to my room where I stayed for the remainder of the night.

A bridge of silence stayed between us for several days. My mother came to my rescue. She attempted to be the mediator, but dad remained adamant until she offered a suggestion. She told my dad that she would give me lessons, take me down to the Motor Vehicle Department and take the test. If I fail, the subject will be closed. On the day of my driver’s exam, the insides of my stomach were doing spin wheels, I passed the test and took my father for a ride. He remained neutral for any compliments, but I did see a sparkle in his eye when I showed him my license.

As the years progressed, my father remained adverse towards my aims of advancing to independency especially when I told him that I wanted to be a doctor.

“A doctor! That’s absurd!” He cocked his eye. “You can’t give shots, or do surgery. People will see you shake. They will have a difficult time understanding you. No. I think you better stay at the grocery store, and perhaps someday you may be promoted to manager.”

His statements hit me like a brick. Of all my accomplishments, he remained doubtful upon my future achievements. I omitted rejection from my vocabulary and continued my pursuit, remembering the words of Miss. Keller.

I went to college and graduated fourth in a class of three hundred. Again, my physical affliction put up a barrier from acceptance to eight medical schools before one opened its doors for me.  

After graduating from medical school and completing my residency, I began my career as a pediatric pulmonologist, a dream that I had since the age of ten. I never told anybody for fear of being ridiculed. I chose that specialization because of Dr. Nardi, the kind man who treated me when I was a boy. His gentleness inspired me to one day take care of children as he did. 

 One day, I decided to visit my father. I walked along the grassy hills of St. Rita’s Cemetery. Dad had a heart attack while I was a senior in high school.

I knelt at his tombstone. My hands were clasped as I whispered a prayer, said I loved and missed him. I reflected upon the past. His famous phrase, “No, you can’t,” but today I said, “Yes, I can.”