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Whitney Sherman |
at least once a month, I backed my 1965 Chevy Caprice out of Escondido
Village. I took U.S. 101 south, then turned east through
Pacheco Pass. The curvaceous, golden hills and spinning
silver windmills filled my windshield: nature framed
like a Salvador Dali painting. At Highway 99, I turned
south.
About four hours later, I arrived in Porterville, a
destination I’d been visiting since I was 8. In
the 1960s, my parents had placed Carlos, my younger
brother, in Porterville State Hospital. In doing so,
my mother had fought every maternal instinct she had.
My father had felt as if he were abandoning his son.
Born a few months premature, Carlos left the hospital
blind and deaf. Later he would be diagnosed as mentally
retarded. An operation at 3 restored his sight. His
deafness impaired his balance, so he walked with a stiff,
halting gait. Slight indentations above both eyes were
just one indication of how many times he had tumbled.
His slow development and spasticity made it difficult
to take care of him. Ours was a military family often
on the move, and Carlos, who was 6, needed more stability.
A social worker recommended the hospital in Porterville.
We made the difficult journey from Salinas, where we
were living at the time. The l-shaped building we checked
Carlos into housed developmentally disabled children
and adults. High-pitched voices and heavy footsteps
echoed off the gray walls; the din reminded me of a
crowded school cafeteria. I watched Carlos lumber to
his room, grinning at everyone who passed. After unpacking
his things, we embraced him and forced ourselves to
leave. The noise hadn’t abated, but I felt enveloped
by a soundless void as we walked out.
We visited Carlos once or twice a month. We took him
to shop for new clothes, to parks, out to eat. He loved
ice cream. Haste and spasticity sometimes led him to
shove big scoops of ice cream into his mouth all at
once. He would slap his forehead and shake from the
burst of cold in his head. His smile, displaying a rowboat
of teeth, remains etched in my mind.
Over the years, care for the developmentally disabled
began to change in California. My parents received a
letter informing them that the state wanted to move
away from institutional settings and toward group homes.
Eventually Carlos would move in with five or six other
young adults like him. They learned how to be as independent
as they could be, while still receiving training and
care. The first homes he lived in were in Porterville.
Now he lives in Visalia. Some of the residents have
been together for a decade or more.
While Carlos lived in the state hospital, the rest of
our family moved on: to Nebraska, Puerto Rico, Panama,
California again, Colorado, Puerto Rico again and Florida.
Amid those transfers, in the fall of 1974, I moved into
Blackwelder Hall to attend graduate school.
At Stanford, I continued the family tradition of visiting
Carlos. I thought I was doing him a favor. Actually,
I was doing myself one. That became evident on one particular
visit. At the time I felt depressed. I enjoyed the University.
I studied with first-rate professors and stimulating
classmates. But I felt empty. My studies were to end
in a few months, and my job prospects seemed slim. The
gray skies and rain that dogged me on the drive to Porterville
didn’t help.
At the hospital, someone brought Carlos to a waiting
room that held a few chairs and a box of used toys.
Carlos, then 21, still looked like a teenager. When
he saw me, Carlos beamed and hugged me. His long arms
squeezed me so tightly I could barely breathe.
When I didn’t respond with my usual enthusiasm,
he cradled my head with his hands and drew my face close
to his. Then he gently bumped our noses and foreheads
together a few times, one of his ways of showing affection.
His huge smile seemed ready to swallow my face whole.
I started laughing. So did he. And I remembered a scripture:
whatever you do for the least of these brothers of mine,
you do for me.
I had long thought I was doing that when I came to see
Carlos. In fact, he had been doing it for me. When I
was feeling at my “least,” my brother lifted
me up. His love reminds me not that I am my brother’s
keeper, but that he is mine.
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