Hate, is a disability; a social disability. It is a disability where the sufferer is unable to engage with an individual or section/s of society with the universal human qualities of trust, compassion, love and mutual respect. Where this disability is triggered by a person’s race or colour, it becomes racism. Similarly, different triggers, would lead to different “-isms”. Sexism, Ageism, etc. Whatever the particular “-ism” may happen to be, people who hate based on social categories, suffer from a social disability, which prevents them from experiencing and enjoying the full gamut of social experiences enjoyed by normal people: Just like those who suffer from physical or intellectual disabilities cannot experience or enjoy a particular form of physical or intellectual activity normally accessible to others.
If one accepts the above premise, i.e. that those who hate, categorically, suffer from a social disability, then perhaps, we (i.e. the rest of society who don’t suffer from this particular form of disability) should engage these people more with compassion, rather than contempt or anger - for the simple reason that the latter would only serve to aggravate their condition, whilst the former is the only pathway which would have a chance of alleviating it. Just like we, nowadays, strive to make the physical world “accessible” to those with physical disability, perhaps we should consider making society, in all its myriad diversity, “accessible” to those suffering the crippling social disability of “hate”.
A couple of years ago, I used to volunteer my time a couple of days a week as a Community Transport bus driver. I would drive around the Northern suburbs of Melbourne in a Minibus equipped with a wheelchair hoist, driving frail aged people and people with “a disability” from their homes to various social and recreational destinations and back – children with “intellectual disabilities” to special schools and respite care, children and young adults with “physical disabilities” to special programs and therapy, older people to shops and social clubs, etc. I found this work tremendously rewarding in many ways.
First, as a newcomer to Melbourne, I very quickly became familiar with most of its Northern suburbs and the cross section of people and society reflected through them. At a slightly deeper level, each time I helped a lonely, elderly woman who had been waiting eagerly for my arrival, sometimes getting ready a good hour before the appointed time in her eagerness to be ready for her only social outing of the week, I would pray a silent prayer as I helped her into the bus and secured her belongings and seatbelt, that someone, somehow might be doing a similar kindness for my aged and disabled mother, thousands of miles away. Each time I stooped to lower the step of the bus to enable a disabled child to get in or out of the bus, the words “Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren….” would rustle like a breeze through my head and I would breathe a silent prayer of thanksgiving, for the privilege that I was being given, to be of use to these “least of His brethren” in however small a way. Finally, at the end of each day, I would return home and be thankful that my wife, kids and myself could all see, that we could walk, talk, and run, that we were healthy and “able” in every sense of the word. This last was the most rewarding part of what I did.
Most of my passengers – at least those who could physically express themselves – often thanked me for my time and showed their appreciation in many different ways according to their abilities: Those who had gardens would often have a bagful of lemons, or other fruit or veggies for me to take home. Those who baked would have a baked treat of some sort, discreetly wrapped in foil and paper, "to have with your tea, when you stop for a break". One particular woman, who I transported in the afternoons, would have a chilled bottle of beer,"for when you go home and put your feet up". My particular favourite was a young man, with severe intellectual and physical disabilities, who I would transport towards the end of my shift. He walked with a lurching, rolling, gait – rather like a seaman on the slippery deck of a ship pitching in heavy seas. He would drool incessantly and could communicate only through a variety of harsh guttural grunts. He had to be restrained in his seat as he constantly bucked and rocked back and forth while the bus was in motion. I soon found that light pop music on the radio had a calming effect on him and I would tune in to “Gold FM” to keep him calm during the forty five minute drive across town to his destination. One day, much to my surprise, when the “Everly Brothers” were singing on the radio, I heard someone humming in accompaniment in a high, falsetto voice. Surprised, I turned around in my seat to find the young man, his head leaning against the window, with his eyes closed and a rapt smile on his face, singing – no words just the sound – but ever so sweetly! His usually troubled countenance, looked peaceful – angelic even – with a halo of golden curly hair forming a tousled frame around it. When I mentioned this to his mom as I dropped him off that day, she looked at me slightly puzzled, and said that he had never sung in his life and that she didn’t believe he could – maybe I was mistaken in some way. I didn’t argue with her. But he sang to me many times since that first day, and as far as I know, no one else has ever heard him sing, (I suspect, no one else quite believed me either!). I could now empathize with the little girl who claimed that the animals and birds spoke to her and when ridiculed by everyone else about it, retorted “How can you say they don’t just because they’ve never spoken to you?”
There was yet another young woman, who had some sort of severe intellectual disability who I transported regularly. She lived alone with her mother in one of the more affluent northern suburbs. The first time I called to pick her up and rang the front doorbell, the mother opened the door a crack and rather curtly asked me “Why have they sent you? Don’t they have any one else to send?” Somewhat taken aback, I nevertheless replied politely that I wasn’t sure, but all I know is that I’ve been assigned this particular run. At this she said, again with a distinct note of affronted dignity in her voice, “Well then don’t ring the front doorbell, come around the back to the back door!” Somewhat puzzled, I complied, and the mother called out through the kitchen window, “She’s not quite ready as yet, you’ll have to wait!”, but made no move to open the back door or invite me to have a seat in the kitchen. Not thinking too much about this, I stood in the backyard, admiring her herb garden. While I waited, the mother would call out odd questions to me, such as “You look like an able bodied man, why don’t you go and find some real work?” Finally, when her daughter emerged and I took her to the vehicle, to help her get in, the mother followed me out, insisting that the daughter should travel in the back and not the front seat, and generally finding fault with nearly everything I did. She seemed to get increasingly agitated as I got into the drivers seat and prepared to drive off. She questioned me closely as to what route I planned to take, how long I would take to get there, whether I was sure I had a current driver’s license, etc., etc. It quickly dawned on me that what was distressing her so much was my colour and that she was practically beside herself at the thought that her daughter was being driven by a black man! She kept referring to the fact that the standards of the organization seemed to be dropping alarmingly of late. I have personally encountered racism in many forms in many countries around the world, but this was the first time for me in Australia. I felt genuinely sorry for the woman as she was distressed in the extreme - in her mind it was as if she were sending her disabled daughter with a known rapist or child-molester. She even debated as to whether she should come with me, but then, the thought of travelling in the same vehicle with me seemed to distress her even more! I then realized that this woman suffered a disability more severe and crippling than her daughter's. Hers was a social disability; the disability to relate to people of other races and colour as her own - the disability to trust, respect and tolerate diversity. With this realization I felt even more sorry for her situation: Alone with a disabled, young adult daughter and not able, herself, to engage with more than forty percent of people in her own country!
That evening when dropping off the bus at the end of the day, I casually mentioned what had happened to a staff member of the organization. She was appalled and apologized profusely and said that she would see to it that I would never be put in that situation again. But I insisted that she not do anything. I explained that I volunteered to help people with disabilities and the fact that this woman had a social disability of this nature was all the more reason that I should continue to help her. And so I continued, every week, for many months. Each time, she managed in some way or another to express, her distaste and contempt for me in particular, and her dissatisfaction with the situation in general. I smiled at each thinly veiled barb and insult and behaved as if they were compliments, complimenting her in turn on anything and everything I could – her looks, hair, dress, garden, etc.
Then one day, when I arrived to pick up her daughter, I told her that this would be the last day for me; that I was quitting. Taken aback at this, she wanted to know why. I explained that I was taking up a job where I would no longer have time to volunteer. She fell silent and somewhat thoughtful after that. The usual barrage of fault-finding and acerbic comments were distinctly lacking that day. In the afternoon, when I returned with her daughter, It was my turn to be surprised. She brusquely shoved a gift wrapped package into my hands, saying “Here, this is for you, from the two of us. Good luck in your job!” I drove off stunned and speechless. This was the first time she had ever said a kind word to me, let alone give me a gift. That particular bottle of wine and box of chocolates were some of the sweetest I’ve ever tasted!
Harin Corea
Melbourne, Australia
January 26th, 2013.
January 26th, 2013.
