ROLLER SKATES by CHANA SHOFNOS

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While my friends skipped along the sidewalks holding their jump ropes, I faithfully clutched my forearm crutches for support and mobility. These allowed me to keep up with other kids in most situations. It was just a matter of working out the details. For example, in playing tag, I couldn't run as fast as they could, so I was allowed to use my crutch as an extension of my arm, and tag others with it.

Yes, it was very important to me to be like everyone else. Polio makes you different. And at age ten, being different is not the "in" thing to be.

Though I was bussed to a "special" school for handicapped children, ironically there I was really quite "normal" for everyone else brought their "specialness" with them.

However, the normalcy of attending a special school ended when I returned home to my friends in the neighbourhood, where I then became "special". My able-bodied friends were more significant to me, because even in the mind of a ten-year-old this neighbourhood was a microcosm of the real world. Here, one had to face the challenges and unexpected events of life, without the protection of unconditional acceptance. For the most part, I met the challenge head-on. I was an integral part of "the gang", socially well-adjusted and a loyal friend. Yes, I was different, but the difference didn't alienate me from my friends - until that fateful summer.

School was over and the long-awaited three-month vacation had begun. Summer was the time when every kid on the block got new sneakers for running, jumping, climbing, or swinging. Except for the new sneakers, I was no different. I loved being outdoors.

Kids often go through periods of doing a favorite activity on a regular basis. That summer it happened to the gang too.

I had just finished lunch and scrambled down the stairs of the back porch, slamming the screen door behind me as usual. Upon reaching the front yard I saw them. They were all there, and they were all ROLLER SKATING! They each had a pair - you know the kind - the silver metal ones that attached to your shoes and could be adjusted and tightened with a turn of the special "skate key". The only thing I wanted to do more than run barefoot through the grass, ice skate, ride a two-wheeler, and canter on a horse, was to ROLLER SKATE!

I watched the gang with mixed emotions: vicarious joy - they were having so much fun - and stabbing pangs of envy: if only I could roller-skate too. I watched them for a week, maybe more. Of course we did other things together, but they were "into" roller-skating, at least once a day.

I never told them how left out I felt. They never noticed my pain at being different. I wouldn't let them.

When I told my mother I wanted to roller-skate, she understood. When I asked her to buy me a pair of roller-skates, she got concerned, this was getting a bit out of hand. You have to know my mother. She was always the first one to encourage me in whatever I wanted to do. Independence was the goal. There was no such word as "can't" in our house. It was always, "It's hard, but keep trying". So why wouldn't she buy me a pair of roller-skates? It just wasn't fair. I mean, it was bad enough that I was already ten years old. Those kids had all been skating since age five or six.

She never said "no" outright - it must have been hard for her to give a definite refusal. Still, it was a conflict. I really don't know how it happened, but once day, she finally agreed. I was ecstatic.

We walked into Jack's Hardware Store together, and Mom told Jack we wanted to buy a pair of ball-bearing roller-skates. You should have seen the look on Jack's face. He pulled out a red, white, and blue box of "Speed-King" skates, hoisted me onto the counter, and put on my braced feet the shiniest silver metal ball-bearing skates I'd ever seen.

I had the plan all figured out. Down to the cellar I went - to practice! Now our cellar was not a renovated basement playroom like most people had, with wooden paneling and linoleum floors. Ours was a real cellar with a rough cement floor, cracks, and natural inclines. It was the closest thing to an outdoor sidewalk that I could imagine. I decided this was the perfect place to learn to roller-skate. I wouldn't dare go outside and be seen by others until I was able to skate like everyone else. It would be too embarrassing - a ten year old who couldn't skate. Besides, if I really couldn't learn ( and I had to admit there was a slight chance I wouldn't succeed, God forbid!) then no one would ever know I failed. They would just think I couldn't skate; after all, I was different.

I started to practice with one skate, just to get the feel of it. Boy, was it slippery! Right foot forward, crutches together, push, slide. Not bad, I could sense the rhythm. After a few steps around the cellar with one skate, it was time to try two. Every once in a while, Mom would call downstairs and ask how it was going. She knew not to come down until I was ready.

Two skates, now this was tricky. Not so simple! Many crashes later I began to worry, and the pain from my scraped elbows kept reminding me I was different. Getting up from a fall with my stiff leg braces attached to rolling wheels was an amazing feat in itself, not to mention exhausting. I couldn't maintain my balance on either leg alone, even with the crutch support. Sliding on two legs together was better, but still something was wrong. Even my back was tired and my arms were getting sore. And then it hit me. When you wear skates, you're at least four inches taller. My crutches were too short!

In a minute I had both crutches adjusted to the new beight. Wow! what a difference! The longer crutch leg gave me better leverage for balance and push-off.

"I've got it!"

It was a week later. The crashes decreased, and I called Mom down for a sneak preview. She agreed, smiling with tears in her eyes, that I was ready for my outdoor debut.

I knew the gang would be surprised and delighted - and they were! I'll never forget that summer: the kid on crutches was roller-skating. Boy, was I different.

This article (which I have abbreviated) appeared in the book More of Our Lives edited by Sarah Shapiro, Targum Press Publishers.