What Makes a Human Human
By Mary Keating
My classmates scribble
down our law professor’s words
as if he’s the second coming
Not me. I close my eyes,
relax in my wheelchair
Listen as he expands our minds to grasp
what makes a table a table
Is it the number of legs? What about a dog?
What if the dog only has three legs?
My body tenses
as it senses
where he’s heading
Eyes wide open when he asks:
“What makes the handicapped dog different
than the real dog?”
His words slam
into my solar plexus
leaving me cold
cocked, breathless, shocked
The scribbling scribes don’t stop
Don't pause. Don't see
how these words diminish me
I can’t hear outside my head anymore
I don’t know if anyone answers. The bell
must have rung like it’s rung at the end
of every class. The students pack their packs,
drift away just like any other day
while I stay alone with my professor
I want to cry out
Call him out
But my lips are shut
My lungs deflated
Familiar choruses repeat inside my head:
You are not worthy
You are not our equal
I remember:
My high school principal telling me
it was impossible for me to return after my accident
And when I figured out how, I endured being
stuffed into the stink of the cafeteria elevator,
its decomposing slop attaching daily to my wheels
Living on college campus—I had to go
home to take a shower because the bathrooms
weren’t designed with me in mind
Not one law school dorm room is accessible
I live segregated across the street
Relegated to back door entries
Barred from buses, boats, subways,
automobiles, trains, airplanes,
bathrooms, banks, bars, stores,
office buildings, restaurants,
hospitals, doctor’s offices, dentists
Every curb, every step, every design
that doesn’t acknowledge
my humanity keeps trying to erase me
They all stem from a thoughtless thought
The hollow inside my body
becomes the bowl of a bell
My professor’s words that strike
me, the mallet
expounding astounding wrongs
that keep resounding until I crack
No matter the pain,
the sheer weariness,
my voice must be heard
I turn sorrow
into a liberty song
Swelling with each breath
rising from my depths, soaring
past my lips, I ring out clear and strong:
I am here
I am real
I belong
Mary Keating (she/her), a graduate of Manhattanville College and Yale Law School, works at her own law firm in Darien, CT. When she’s not practicing law, she’s usually writing. Recently, her poetry has appeared in New Mobility magazine, Scribes*Micro*Fiction, Wordgathering, and in various publications on Medium.com. An advocate for disability rights, she loves to share her experiences as a disabled person and wheelchair user. Mary lives in Connecticut with the love of her life, her husband Dan.