Spiders are not my most favorite creatures.
In fact, the daddy long-legs--whose weight
almost matches that of a postage stamp--is
one such creature that I keep my distance
from. I can clearly remember a time when I
was younger, taking a shower with a daddy
long-legs walking up the wall next to me.
Oh, the agony! You would think the only
intention that bug had was to jump out onto
my face and bite me like a vampire. So, I
whacked it off the wall with a big towel,
sending it down the drain with ten minutes
of continuous hot, steamy water. Afterwards,
it dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, that
was a slight overreaction.
True challenges are those that are seemingly
insurmountable. They are big issues, whether
mental or physical. When you can face those
challenges without fear, that is the measure
of strength. When I was in 5th
grade, I faced a challenge that came in the
form of a classmate--a girl of all things.
She challenged me to an arm wrestling match,
but there was so much more to it than that.
This girl made me realize how small most of
our problems are, and how we don't even have
a clue about how to face the bigger ones.
Inspiration comes in many forms. This one
came in a lunchroom.
School cafeterias packed with 5th
graders are noisy, busy, bustling places, where
food is a frequent and effective projectile. On
one of those typically chaotic days, after
having successfully avoided a Twinkie missile,
out of the corner of my eye I spied Sherry
Nevius making her way toward my table. "Would
you like to arm wrestle?" she brazenly asked.
Since when do zebras come out of the brush and
ask lions if they wouldn't mind sharing some of
their warthog kill?
I
looked at Sherry in disbelief. "You must be
crazy."
Her
gaze didn't waver. "Don't think so," she replied
confidently.
Word
quickly spread throughout the lunchroom that the
match was on. The sound of wooden chairs could
be heard scraping over the floor as kids
abandoned their lunches and began crowding
around Sherry and me.
"Come on, Sherry, are you sure you want to go
through with this?"
"Are
you?"
To a
5th grade boy, there is nothing worse
than a girl with nerves of steel. This was a
challenge that was beyond any other I had faced
in my eleven years. On the outside, I showed
confidence and accepted the invitation. On the
inside, my stomach was turning ugly knots.
Still, I gritted my teeth--doing whatever I
could to muster bravery. My friends gathered
around me for support as I prepared to slay
Sherry with my iron fist. The lunchroom was
taking on the look of a "G" rated prison riot,
with a gang of harmless kids standing and
chanting on tables and chairs. In my eyes, this
was the match of the semester. The boys cheered
my name, the girls, hers.
*
* *
Two
schools shared this packed lunchroom: Metcalf
(grades K-8), and Fairchild, which was a school
solely devoted to the mentally and physically
handicapped. Since kindergarten I had grown up
with the Fairchild kids whose challenges came in
the forms of mental retardation, cystic
fibrosis, cerebral palsy, and multiple
sclerosis. There were also deaf and blind kids.
Wheelchairs, crutches, walkers, walking sticks,
protective helmets, and hearing aids were
commonplace. Some of the Fairchild students were
integrated into our classes at Metcalf. Sherry
Nevius was one.
Since birth, she had dealt with cerebral palsy.
She got around with the aid of some metal
crutches that were braced just above her elbows.
The upside to Sherry's disability: she had arms
as tough as climbing rope and a grip that was
fiercely alien.
Sherry raised her arm to ninety degrees on the
lunchroom table, and rolled her fingers in the
air, as if to say, "Game on."
In
my mind, this was more than a physical test of
strength-my pride was at stake. I planted my
elbow on the table, locked hands with hers, took
a deep breath and went for it.
We
were deadlocked for what seemed forever. Kids
were going nuts. Teachers and cafeteria workers
were placing bets. Her grip was unbelievable.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I felt my arm inch over
hers. My wrist got to the point of curling even
more, until I had her. Down to the table I laid
Sherry Nevius's hand.
The
challenge was behind me. I had slayed the
dragon.
When
you're in 5th grade and you win a
difficult arm wrestling match (and it doesn't
matter whom you wrestle), you will walk through
school for the rest of the week reliving that
moment, that victory.
Today, I still relive that moment, but with a
very different perspective. You see, 35 years
later, I have reconnected with Sherry. We're in
touch on a regular basis by phone and through
e-mails. In the years that have past, she has
not only acquired two college degrees, but has
led a very self-sufficient and fulfilling life.
She radiates the kind of positive energy that
everyone should own. With all of the challenges
that she has faced, she makes everyday living
seem a breeze.
Yes,
back in 5th grade I really never won
the match, for it was Sherry who was chalking up
victories right and left against all odds. It
was Sherry who high-fived
you
at the end of the competition. It was Sherry
who, at birth weighed half that of a five-pound
bag of sugar, and not only spent her first six
months in an incubator, but later narrowly
escaped being institutionalized.
And
it was Sherry who, no matter how far she had to
walk a crooked line in her cumbersome crutches,
no matter how great the obstacle, would
always--and I mean always--find a way to come
out a winner. To this day, Sherry is one of the
strongest people I have ever known. And if she
can persevere, maybe there's hope for the rest
of us.
Ros Hill is a writer and artist living in San
Marcos,
Texas. "A Helping Hand"
is from his collection of short stories, due to
be published in Fall 2008. For more information
on Ros, visit
www.hillustrations.com.
