by Maya Roseman
Swarms of students were entering the tall brick building that blustery morning. They traveled in packs through the glass double doors in the front of the six-story structure. That morning, there were clouds of mist floating through the sky like little puffs of warm breath as we stood on the dimly lit sidewalk on Howard Street.
I leaned over and gave a huge bright smile, bearing my pearly whites, next to my cousin, whose smile was bright enough to bring out the morning sun as we posed for the picture my mother was taking. “You guys be careful!” she called as my cousin and I locked arms and entered the Holley Mason Building.
That particular school day was different for me because I had a guest with me, my cousin Leah Williamson. She was overexcited, holding onto me every step of the way with one arm, her cane in the other. Leah had come into town from Denver for my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary, and because we rarely get to see each other, she came to school with me. Leah had a cane and held onto me tightly for a specific reason: she was blind.
At the age of eight, Leah fell during a soccer game and was taken to Denver’s Army Hospital. Upon examination, the doctors found a tumor in her brain that had apparently been there since birth. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that she would have to undergo surgery. I couldn’t be there, but I remember my grandmother calling with a report almost every afternoon. It saddened me because I could hear the tears welling up in her throat, but I don’t think she ever cried. Maybe it was because she felt she had to stay strong for the family. She told us of how the entire family stood around the bed that was embedded in a bright white light and prayed. Leah was shedding tears as she was laid upon the stretcher and wheeled down the long empty corridor toward the operating room.
As a result of the surgery, her sight was gone. I remember my grandmother had told me that Leah had said she was happy. Grandma asked why, and Leah replied, “Because I’m still alive!” Even though I wasn’t there, I could tell that there were bright smiles on everybody’s faces.
After that event, a new window of opportunities opened for Leah. Her adaptation to being blind and having a disability was absolutely amazing. I do not believe I know too many people who would have been able to change that dramatically. She had to learn to read and use her sense of hearing more often. Leah attends a regular public school in the Denver area and walks through the teenage halls of criticism and turmoil every day. It amazes me that she has held on for so long, so well. But then again it doesn’t, because the ability to move on is in the Williamson blood! I think her family was more worried than she was; that is, if she was even worried at all.
The day she came to school with me, I introduced her to everybody. “Hey Jackie,” I called out and gave a limp-wristed high-five to a friend of mine. "Hey girl!" she answered, her eyes fixed on Leah. A few more people walked up. “People, this is my cousin Leah, she’s from Denver. Leah, that’s Jackie, LaToya, Desmond, Brian, Taral, Katie, Tia, Carol, and Stephanie. Also known as Stefelanoy!!” “Maya, you better quit!” Stephanie yelled. “Hey Leah!” they all cried in unison. I thought Leah would be shy, but to my surprise she hollered, “What’s happenin’?” Then, being nosy black folks, they started asking questions. It was like that pretty much the whole day.
I remember at lunch everybody was talking about Leah. “Girl, your cousin is so pretty.” “She is nice, how is she related to you?” “Her hair is so pretty, is it real?” I just had to laugh. Leah thought it was pretty funny herself and chuckled out loud as everybody gawked all over her. Later she leaned over and asked me, “Do you have these black people here in check or something? It seems to me like you’re running them left and right.” I simply replied, “I’m just keeping up with the Williamson family tradition.” “Oh yeah? What’s that?” “Girl, I thought you knew! Williamsons run the show because we’re sittin’ on top of the world!”
Fourth period was especially funny, because that’s when Leah met Ajulu. “Here we go,” I thought to myself. Always a question in Ajulu’s mind, no doubt about it. She’s from Africa and she can question you until the sun comes up! People tend to make fun of her because she’s dark; her friends do it only because we know that she won’t be offended. “So what exactly do you see?” she asked. Julius, Collin, Taylor and Chris all asked the same question. Being Ajulu’s friend, I told Leah, “Hold on, cuz. Let me answer this one.”
I replied, “Lemme put it to you this way, Ajulu, what she sees right now,” I paused for suspense; the whole class turned around, even Mr. Penrod. “What she sees right now is basically you!!!” The entire class started laughing; half of them were falling out of their chairs. Cheeks were turning red, smiles were showing up, and there was a wild ruckus in room 513.
Mr. Penrod calls out, “That was a good one, Maya. Two points for you! Show this group of idiots how you make fun of people!” Ajulu wasn’t mad for too long; it usually never lasts. I remember looking over at Leah, and her mouth was stuck open in a wide “O.”
Later on that day, in sixth period, we passed Mr. Brown. I introduced him to Leah, and he asked her in a very serious yet confused tone, “Why are your eyes like that?” In a cool and calm voice, Leah replied, “Force of habit, I guess,” and whipped out her cane. It was hilarious. Mr. Brown’s mouth just dropped down and fell off its hinges. He apologized and just about hit Leah with a million and one questions about how she got that way and what she does for fun. Leah told him that she skied and he almost fell out of his chair. “No way! How? Do you ...” She told him about her instructor and her tandem bike hobby. When she said “tandem bike,” all you heard was, “No way!! I tandem bike!” Mr. Brown must have forgotten that he had to teach a class, because he spent the entire period drilling Leah about her leisure time activities.
At the end of the day we stepped out to the curb to meet the family’s gold Toyota Camry. We took one last picture with me, Leah, Kat, Tiana and Michelle, said our good-byes, hopped in the car and headed home. When we got to my house, a long white Cadillac pulled up beside the rocky curb to pick up Leah as we said our good-byes and “thanks for coming.” When the car pulled off down the sun-lit street, my mom pulled me close and said, “You know, you taught Lewis & Clark High School something. You taught them that just because someone has a disability does not mean that they cannot get around.” And as always, Momma was right!