Adam Pottle

We Can Find No Scar but Internal Difference, Where theഀ Meanings Are—October 24, 2009*

My vocal cords are beginning to slacken. My voice warbles sometimes.ഀ Like I’m reliving puberty.

Still haven’t talked to Maggie yet. She’s left at least four messages.ഀ Saying Randal misses me. Saying she’ll stop by sometime soon.

Had a dream last night; not a mantis dream. I was in my chairഀ sitting atop some building. Based on the view, I think it was the Bessboroughഀ Hotel downtown. It was night. My chair was on the edgeഀ of the roof. I was looking away; my back was to the river below me.ഀ Downtown Saskatoon glowed. Wind rose in spurts, ruffling my pants.ഀ I sat there for a moment and then without any prompting or pushingഀ tipped backward and fell off the roof. Only I fell in slow motion. Iഀ could move regularly, waving my hands and shouting and glancingഀ around. I just fell in slow motion. Like I was being lowered gently toഀ the ground. I saw the windows of the Bessborough on my way down,ഀ all of them darkly curtained. I stuck out my foot and let it brush theഀ brick and knock on the windowsills. It took over a minute for meഀ to reach the ground. I saw it six feet away. Then I landed. Smack.ഀ Unjustifiably hard. As though I’d fallen from the roof in real time.ഀ My head bounced on the concrete. I groaned and winced and whimpered.ഀ My legs pitched backward. My body unfolded from my chair.ഀ My arched feet jerked over my head and thudded on the cement. Myഀ chair came apart. I shut my eyes against the dark heave of head pain.ഀ I whimpered and coiled into a foetal position. The charged, intenseഀ darkness in my head collapsed into a flatter darkness. I heard anotherഀ spurt of wind. Then I woke up, my head dense.

McTavish has put me on probation and threatened me with suspension.ഀ He’ll visit my survey class at least once a week until he’sഀ sure I can treat the students civilly. Then he asked me if I was havingഀ problems. Said I’ve been more irritable than usual. Which is saying aഀ lot, he said, unable to resist the barb. I said I’m fine and that I’ll expectഀ him in my class soon.

Whenever she has a spare moment Gertrude packs my booksഀ for me. She’s filled two boxes so far, gingerly wrapping the first editionsഀ with white paper. I asked her why she’s doing this. I thought youഀ could use a hand, she said. That’s it? I said. Nothing else? No. Youഀ didn’t say anything to the board? I made a recommendation in yourഀ favour. That’s all? Yes. I studied her. She took my first edition of Ulyssesഀ and wrapped it up.

After I came back from the school yesterday, Esmeralda cameഀ to my room. She sat in her chair, filling my doorway. Looking at theഀ floor, the wall, the boxes of books. Entwining and untangling herഀ hands. She wore a ball cap. The rich burgundy had evaporated fromഀ her hair, which was now the colour of gophers. She sat there for aഀ long time. What is it? I said. She looked at me like she was withholdingഀ something. Are you angry with me? She shook her head. Are youഀ here to tell me that you’re glad I’m leaving? She shook her head again.ഀ What is it, then? She met eyes with me. I’m sorry for you, she said. Iഀ can’t imagine how bitter you are. Gah. The last thing in this world thatഀ I need is pity, I said. No, see, that’s it right there. Your manner. Howഀ you treat people. I hated you for a while after you told me your philosophyഀ or whatever it is that you call it. I still think it’s a load of shit.ഀ But I started thinking about why you would think that way. And I decidedഀ it’s simple. You’ve nothing much to live for. I blinked. Yeah, sheഀ said. People don’t come to places like this willingly. Nobody in theirഀ right mind. Your life can’t be enjoyable. I chuckled. You’re very presumptuous,ഀ I said. She straightened in her chair. You’re a hypocriticalഀ wag. You slit your wrists. You have no grounds to judge me. Her headഀ swayed to one side. Is your life enjoyable? she said. I’m doing veryഀ valuable work. I swept my hand across my desk. That’s not what Iഀ asked. I enjoy it. You do? Yes. Then why do you treat people the wayഀ you do? Part of the philosophy. Stop with the goddamn philosophy.ഀ It’s just misery. You don’t understand. No, I don’t understand. Whyഀ don’t you explain it to me? That’d take time. I’m not going anywhere.ഀ Some other time. Why not now? I’m busy. Doing what? Planningഀ lessons and finding a place to live. You’re stalling. You don’t haveഀ a philosophy. Yes I do. Then explain to me. I’ll be your student forഀ today. I’ve had enough students for today. I’ll be one more, then. Iഀ sighed. Glanced over the lesson plan I’d laid out on my desk. Lookedഀ at Esmeralda. A tremor scurried around my shoulders and flitted outഀ through my fingers. All right, I said. Let’s go to the dining room. Iഀ need some water first.

We went to the dining room and we each got a glass of waterഀ and we rolled to a table in the corner. I spilled most of my water onഀ the way. She studied me. Her eyes had hardened and quickened sinceഀ she first came to the Residence but as we sat at the table that rigidityഀ was softened by earnest curiosity. She was a willing, if sceptical pupil.ഀ I took a drink and put down my glass and wiped my mouth and leanedഀ forward on the table. My philosophy centres around a different viewഀ of disability, I said. It basically states that disability is a means ofഀ dealing with the insignificance of human life. Now, all of our livesഀ are meaningless. That’s just a given. We try to act like we matter, butഀ we’re really nothing more than sophisticated insects. Now peopleഀ with disabilities, their lives are seen as even more worthless, or at leastഀ as having diminished value. As a result, they get a unique window intoഀ the meaninglessness of life. Most people don’t see how unimportantഀ their lives are, or they ignore it. Disability allows us to see it, and…it’sഀ like the Alcoholics Anonymous credo. You can’t fix your life until youഀ see you have a problem. You follow me? Esmeralda nodded. So becauseഀ we, as persons with disabilities, can see our insignificance, weഀ can confront it, and work to create meaning. That meaning is alwaysഀ individual, because every person’s disability is unique, and the Westernഀ world in general is founded on the concept and perception of theഀ individual. You know, iPods and all that. For me, I generate meaningഀ by employing disability as a philosophy. It’s my life’s work, and I hopeഀ that my individual meaning becomes communal through my writings.ഀ I hope that what works for me will work for others. And that’s how Iഀ wanna be remembered. I sighed. So, really, disability is a solution toഀ life’s absurdity. I chuckled. I secretly hope that someday, someone willഀ discover my writings and create a sort of cult where people have toഀ break their backs or have their legs chopped off to be initiated. Is thatഀ morbid? A little bit, Esmeralda said. She stared forward. You lookഀ despondent, I said. She raised her eyebrows. There are other aspectsഀ to it, too, I said. Disability gives us personal strength and a realisticഀ perspective of the world–how people treat each other, why peopleഀ are motivated to do what they do–and through that perspective weഀ can understand humanity. As a whole, this philosophy promotes theഀ development of identity and conscience. Esmeralda blinked. Look atഀ the world, I said. The Western world. Look at America and Canada.ഀ People are not as strong as they used to be. People no longer haveഀ common sense or consciences. Esmeralda smirked. Okay, I said, despiteഀ my own callousness and my habitual irreverence, I mourn theഀ decline of the human conscience. We’ve simply stopped admiringഀ good people. The people we look up to now are those who laugh atഀ and profit from the misfortune of others. Our inability to relate toഀ one another, to use our imaginations to genuinely plant ourselves inഀ another’s situation, has brought about a strain of immorality and generalഀ weakness. We live in a wholly individualistic world. Everybody’sഀ worried. We have to wash our hands ten times a day. We have to wearഀ bike helmets. We have to wear seat belts. We have to watch our calorieഀ intake. All of these things, all of this vigilance and overscrutinizing,ഀ amounts to weak people. Most people today are weak. Look at theഀ people here. Look at people at the mall. All those fatasses and spoiledഀ teenagers. You know why obesity is becoming epidemic? You knowഀ why we have STDs ഀ and alcoholics and drug abuse? Because we can’tഀ control ourselves anymore. We live in a culture of permissive addiction.ഀ And that lack of control, that lack of strength makes us weakഀ and selfish. Look at my sister. Since she was divorced she’s had at leastഀ two midlife crises. She’s been in therapy, she’s been on medication,ഀ she hardly knows what’s good for herself, let alone what’s good forഀ her son. Now, because we’re weak, we’re immoral, and we’re angry,ഀ and because there’s such a clamp on everything there’s no decent wayഀ to express that anger. We can’t get into a decent bar fight becauseഀ someone’s always carrying a knife or a gun. We can’t start a riot overഀ a proper cause. We just turn over vehicles because we lose a goddamnഀ hockey game. We can’t even do a proper protest anymore. It’s just aഀ bunch of old hippies and impressionable stragglers. So what happens?ഀ All that weakness builds and builds and builds, and then peopleഀ explode. This is why Columbine happened. This is why that boy shotഀ all those women at the Polytechnique school in Montreal. They’reഀ reacting against their own weakness. They’re looking for something toഀ react against and they’re not finding anything because the world, especiallyഀ Canada, is too clean, too sacred, too weak, so they cast theirഀ problems onto others. Look at me, I said. I used to be angry, too. Iഀ used to be weak. I lolled about and didn’t care much. And then I wasഀ diagnosed with Charcot-Marie-Tooth. Years later, look at me now. Myഀ back is bent. My muscles are slowly wasting away. I have tremors. Iഀ have pain. I have feet that look like insect claws. But I’m strong. Andഀ it’s because I’ve found something to react against, and react with.ഀ With this disease, I don’t feel like I’m being melted into a steamingഀ puddle of bone and mush. I feel like I’m being distilled into my purestഀ essence, like I’m being broken down to my most basic self. My twistedഀ spine is a moral compass. Are you following me? Esmeraldaഀ frowned. People in wheelchairs do drugs, she said, and deaf people,ഀ and people with palsy. They get fat, they lose control. That’s becauseഀ they want to live in spite of their disability, instead of with it, I said.ഀ That’s not it. It’s just humans being humans. It’s got nothing to doഀ with disability. I cleared my throat. Let me ask you something, I said.ഀ How did you feel when your family brought you here? Were youഀ angry? Of course I was angry. I screamed and shouted at them. Whenഀ my brother came to hug me I shoved him away. And did you maybeഀ learn something about them that you didn’t know before? Esmeraldaഀ looked at the table and pulled her teeth over her lip. I don’t know, sheഀ said. She dragged one finger over the table. Her fingernail made a softഀ hiss on the varnished wood. I think I learned something about them.ഀ I didn’t expect them to just cast me off like that. I thought they wereഀ more loyal than that. I nodded. They said that they’d visit me each dayഀ but I haven’t seen them in almost a week, she said. See? I said. You seeഀ what disability does? It allows you a perspective you might not otherwiseഀ have. It makes you a better judge of character, and it makes youഀ a stronger person, because you have to deal with that abandonment.ഀ Esmeralda made a face and scratched beside her mouth. All it did wasഀ allow me to see that my dad and brother are neglectful. Is that somethingഀ worth learning? You wouldn’t have known that otherwise. Iഀ didn’t want to know that, she said. I wouldn’t have known if I didn’tഀ have A.L.S. She sighed. I’m sorry, but this isn’t a philosophy. It’s inconsistent,ഀ and there’s nothing virtuous or good about it. You’re notഀ understanding. Yes, I am. All I see is a desperate man trying to justifyഀ himself. Aren’t all philosophers desperate? If they don’t know how toഀ live properly. Albert Camus wrote that the only serious philosophicalഀ problem is suicide. Well, I disagree. Disability is another. We will allഀ experience disability. All of us. Everyone could use this perspective.ഀ Even people with Alzheimer’s and Down syndrome and such. Disabilityഀ allows us to see our humanity, and inhumanity. In the process,ഀ it becomes a redemptive quality. She chortled. That’s another problemഀ with it. What? You. Me? How can you promote something so positiveഀ when you yourself are such an asshole? I don’t think I’ve ever metഀ someone as callous as you. I have to be callous. Why? Because nobodyഀ will take me seriously if I’m not. We associate antagonism withഀ judgement, and negativity with realism. If I’m positive all the time, inഀ this wheelchair, I’ll just be a poster cripple–one of those inspirationalഀ deals that always gives me diabetes. And I won’t be taken seriously.ഀ That’s a really narrow view. And it obviously doesn’t help you.ഀ Yes it does. Then why are you getting kicked out? Because I wasഀ drunk. Her brows arched. She shook her head. You’re a hypocrite. Iഀ shrugged. We all are.

She shook her head again and pushed away from the table andഀ rolled off and out of the dining room. The tremors came on hard inഀ those last few minutes. I got another drink of water, which I spilledഀ again, and then came back to my room and sat in the middle of myഀ boxes of books, feeling drained and dull. At that moment I didn’tഀ know if I believed myself. I looked up at Edward Scissorhands. Tremorsഀ stuttered through my muscles. My bones jarred and sharpened.ഀ Today I’m a little surer. But that’s not enough.

* This chapter from Adam Pottle’s novelഀ Mantis Dreams is printed with the permission ofഀ Caitlin Press.