If at Birth You Don't Succeed (29 page)

Before we actually took the drive to Anaheim, we'd had a few days in Southern California to bond over a lot more than Mickey Mouse. Things went so well that we were sleeping in the same bed the first night. The only problem was that the bed folded into a couch by day and was located in my apartment's living room, while Brad slept in the sole bedroom. If I'd known that I'd be having a girl come stay with me for two weeks, I probably wouldn't have agreed to set up my bed in a space with zero privacy, and Brad probably would have gotten some better noise-canceling headphones. So the night before our amusement park adventure, Gillian was as excited to see Disneyland as I was to check into a hotel room at Disneyland with a girl I adored, knowing that the most fun we'd have would be after we left the park.

We giddily sorted through all of Disneyland's attractions, prioritizing them in order of Most Fun all the way down to Haunted Mansion. Gillian naturally gravitated toward the iconic and nostalgic experience that no Disneyland guest can leave the park without doing at least once—hugging a pigmy goat. That's why you see so many people walking around with goat ears, if you've ever wondered. Also, albeit lower on her list, was Splash Mountain, Tower of Terror, the Matterhorn, California Screamin', and the Ferris wheel.

With our itinerary set, we headed out early on a brisk and sunny February morning, fully prepped with contraband snacks stuffed into the back of my wheelchair. It was only a forty-five-minute drive, but it was a special one because, for the first time in twenty-nine years, the person sitting next to me in the driver's seat was my date, holding my hand and wearing my shirt. It wasn't long before we drove my refrigerator masquerading as a minivan to the entrance of the park.

Our first stop was guest services to get our Disability Fast Pass
1
where we were greeted by the least enthusiastic Disney Cast Member in the history of the Magic Kingdom. He seemed less like an ambassador to the most magical place on Earth and more like a window treatment salesman who had just lost his job. In a downtrodden monotone, he Eeyored his way through the epic list of wondrous Disney attractions that were currently closed.

“We wanna ride Splash Mountain first!” we enthused.

“Splash Mountain is down for maintenance. Are you still gonna be here on the ninth of March? You could always come back.”

“Aww … that's okay, we'll just ride Soarin' first,” we said, determined not be heartbroken.

“Soarin' is also down for repair.”

“What about Thunder Mountain?” I asked, exasperated.

“That's closed too.”

I looked at Gillian apologetically, embarrassed that this was her first Disney experience, and said, “Well, at least there's A Small World—that's a classic!”

“… which is also closed,” he said, as if deliberately deflating a small child's last birthday balloon.

“You sonofabitch!” I burst out, only half joking. “Well, what is open?”

He shrugged and then handed us a map and showed us several routes that wouldn't ultimately lead to disappointment.

Even though Splash Mountain was closed, there was still one water attraction that caught Gillian's eye—the Grizzly River Run, a flume meant to simulate white-water rafting in one of those big, round, tire things. I was wearing my red Gillian Grassie merch shirt and as we got settled into our raft, we were surprised to see eight people all wearing red T-shirts ushered in behind us. It was a group of adults with learning disabilities and their caretakers on a field trip. We were all ready to get a little wet and have a great time. But the ride wasn't the light misting I'd anticipated. That raft had it out for Gillian and me. Every dip and turn drenched us, and every man-made waterfall poured buckets of freezing cold, chlorinated water directly on our heads, and only
our
heads. I was soaked from my scalp all the way down to my regrettably suede shoes, while the rest of our bone-dry raft mates giggled and screamed with glee.

As the raft finally slowed and we made our way to the disembarking area, I was laughing but very much ready to end this frigid onslaught and change into the warm, dry clothes I'd neglected to bring. My teeth were chattering, my skin was covered in goose bumps, my T-shirt clung to my skin like body paint, and my nipples were in fight-or-flight mode, ready to jump off my chest. To my horror, the Disney Cast Member on dry land asked, “Do you guys want to go again?” Eight-tenths of our raft shouted, “Yes!”

I was just sitting there shivering like Jack Dawson at the end of
Titanic
, so Gillian asked on my behalf if we could exit the raft before the next round.

“Sorry, the whole group has to either ride or get out.”

I looked around at the eager, happy faces awaiting my decision and I couldn't do anything but say yes, I would like to be cold, wet, and miserable for another ten minutes please. So we endured the entire monsoon again, and again no one else on the raft got wet. When the perky Disney employee proposed a third ride, I staunchly caved, ensuring that both Gillian and I would spend the rest of our romantic day at Disneyland as waterlogged human sponges. But borderline hypothermia was no match for the happiness I felt. We made it to Space Mountain, the Tower of Terror, the Matterhorn, and California Screamin'.

The entire day felt like a romantic comedy with the typical gender roles reversed. When I struggled to lift myself into a roller-coaster seat, Gillian was the one to hoist me up and ensure that I didn't ride it backward with my legs in the air. And as she helped me into the passenger seat of the go-cart in Autopia, I tripped her and then fell on top of her in a manner befitting a Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks movie, except my Tom Hanks was way cuter. Even the person who operated the ride couldn't resist giggling with us.

But the best ride of the day was not one I was on, but the one I was giving. In an effort to take advantage of both our Fast Pass and our body heat (since we were both still sopping wet from the Grizzly River Run), Gillian sat on my lap as we zoomed from site to site. In all my years, I'd never had a better companion to an amusement park.

At the end of the day we headed back to the hotel, and because we were still soaking wet, the first thing we did was strip off our clothes, more out of survival than any sexy impulse. This simple disrobing would have sent me into a spiral of self-doubt if I had been with anyone else. But there I was, in my birthday suit, in front of a woman, and it felt like no big deal. We didn't automatically come together in some passionate embrace; instead we just hung out naked and ordered in Thai food, with Gillian only putting on a robe so she could tip the deliveryman. Stretched out on the floor, we had dinner together and just talked about what we were going to do in the park the next day. We had to see those goats! But that night, there were other things we had to do.

To say that I'd been anxious about my inexperience would have been an understatement. For most of my life, my body felt like something that was disguising my true identity, but with Gillian, I was able to accept it as an extension of myself. Gillian knew I was a novice, and a virgin, and she was the first girl I'd felt comfortable enough to speak candidly with about that. She had to teach me everything, but her advice came with kindness, warmth, and a bit of good-natured humor. There wasn't even the slightest hint of judgment. When we kissed, she gently corrected my technique, whispering, “Just close your mouth a little,” which I did, and then we carried on. She didn't laugh at me or storm out of the room, we just worked through it step by step, kiss by kiss.

The first time we had sex presented unexplored territory for both of us. My body did things I never expected it to do and couldn't explain, and, despite making a living as a communicator, all I said for feedback at first was the word “okay,” meaning both “slow down, I'm not sure about this” AND “keep going,” depending on the context. Gillian encouraged me to employ less ambiguous words like “stop” or “that feels good.” I was still nervous about doing almost everything wrong, but somehow, as I tried not to make out with her like a velociraptor eating its prey, I still felt safe enough to be bold.

When it was over, I didn't, as I had always imagined, call Andrew and text all my friends. This wasn't something to brag about or check off a list. It was a first step.

Since I've come into the public eye, the most discouraging sentiment I hear echoed from people with disabilities is that they have given up hope on finding love or a partner. As somebody who has stared into that lonely future and, against all evidence, refused to accept it as inevitable, I can tell you that it doesn't have to be that way.

On that night with Gillian, I realized that the years I'd wasted being too afraid to try things and fail were my only true failing. My mistake had been to label my body a burden rather than a tool. I'd accepted long ago that what I brought to the table was unacceptable. But being with Gillian on that unassuming bed at the Extended Stay America showed me what physical intimacy is really about. It's not about “getting it right” or “doing it well” but rather listening and learning.

I'd operated under the preposterous assumption that since I didn't know anything, I wasn't ready to learn anything. All that had done was ensure that I'd missed out on a sexual education and was consequently figuring out how my own body worked at the same time that my partner was. We had a lot of fun learning together, but my experience that night made me wish that I'd had a whole lot more fun to draw on. I wished I'd taken more chances so that when this beautiful person came into my life, our time together would have been less about navigating through all the emotions and trials of my first relationship and more about growing congruently as a couple. I was extremely grateful that my first time was spent with such an amazing individual, but also thought to myself,
God, I wasted a lot of time being scared of this
.

All the mistakes that I was terrified of making, I made with Gillian, and to my surprise, it felt fine. I always thought that once I had sex, there would be this great change, some sort of enlightenment, but the only thing that became clearer to me afterward was what a fool I'd been for not thinking myself worthy of love before I had it. Rather than describe the evening in some lurid
Fifty Shades of Gimp
detail, I'll just say that it was everything I'd hoped for and nothing I expected. The rest I'll keep for just Gillian and me.

By no grand design, the times when my life has crossed paths with Disney have been less about staying young and more about growing up. Sometimes life surprises us and a trip to Disney World will fall from the sky. But more often, we have to make our own magic, and to get there, we have to be willing to make mistakes. The key to moving forward is not pretending that you've got it all figured out but rather admitting that, like everyone else, you're a work in progress. There are so many things worth leaving Neverland for. Real things. Seeing the world beyond your hometown, taking your first job in which people actually depend on you, and going outside of your comfort zone just to let someone else in, and getting close enough to hear them say, “I love you.”

 

CHAPTER 15

Game Changer

I was a born athlete. It was obvious just by looking at me that I was headed for Olympic gold. Compared to me Tiger Woods was merely a mini-golf master, Michael Jordan would have had better luck if he'd stayed in baseball, and Michael Phelps was like a Labrador retrieving tennis balls in a swamp. Or at least that was the gist of how my adaptive PE teacher, Colleen Fatta, must have felt about me.

In fourth grade the list of things I couldn't do was about a thousand times longer than the list of things I could. If I were just to name a few of my encyclopedic inabilities, they would include such impossible feats as making a sandwich, eating a sandwich without wearing a sandwich, and tying my shoes. Without a doubt, the most embarrassing of my ineptitudes could be summed up by the phrase, “Behind every great man there is a great woman.” In my case that great woman was a personal aide holding me up at the urinal, making sure I didn't pee on myself.

Occasionally other boys would come into the bathroom ready to let loose and instead found themselves being quizzed by a forty-five-year-old woman on whether or not they had completed their math homework. I, however, always played it cool and said something like “Hey man, what's up?” as I pulled down my sweatpants, exposing my bare ass to the breeze.

This daily ritual seemed like a better reason than any diagnosed medical ailment to excuse me from participating in athletic activities. Wouldn't it have made sense for a doctor to just write that on a note?
Zach is excused from gym class because he can only urinate with his pants down and a middle-aged lady behind him. P.S. He's also in a wheelchair.

My other teachers seemed to understand this. In art class, if we were supposed to draw trees, I would inevitably wind up with something that looked like Oscar the Grouch if he'd stepped on a land mine. I'd struggle to draw the branches and the roots until the masterpiece was finished, which was usually when I dropped my crayons. Instead of alerting the teacher, I simply took it as a sign that art had a life of its own. With five minutes left in class, my art teacher, Mr. Pufpaff, would come around to my desk, see the blobs of colors I called trees, and say something like “Here, let me help you.” Without exception, by the end of the period, I'd have a beautiful drawing of a tree that was done by the teacher, but
inspired
, and signed, by me.