The Tree
The Tree
written by elyse gobbi
art by hailey kroll
“Do you dream in color?” My occupational therapist, Brad, once asked.
“Of course,” I said, “Doesn’t everyone?”
No, not everyone does. Brad dreamed in black and white. But, he told me he once dreamed of a massive, colorful oak tree. It was one of the most vivid things he had ever imagined: a thousand shades of red, orange, and yellow. I love dreaming in color, but from the way he described it, I would take black and white if it meant I got to see the tree just once.
I have Cerebral Palsy, so I spent a lot of time in occupational and physical therapy as a kid. Two mornings a week I’d have 45 minute sessions of each. I had a lot of therapists, but Brad was one of my favorites. He was a balding man in his mid-40s with a goofy laugh and a goofier smile. I’ll never forget the things he taught me. If you freeze a Charleston Chew it tastes immaculate, or that my favorite beach had an amusement park nearby when he was young. And yes, how to write my name, how to button things, and other dexterity skills most kids don’t need a therapist to learn. Twice a week when my classmates were piling onto the rug for a morning meeting or yelling out the answers during a math lesson, I was hanging out with Brad. He told a lot of dad jokes even though he was not a dad, and by the time we stopped working together, the kids in my class weren’t telling me I scribbled.
It was around the year Brad left I saw a bit less color in those therapy mornings. Occupational therapy (OT) could be fun when it involved putty or bracelet-making, but physical therapy (PT) was lots of stretching. Each session my PT and I ran through the same monotonous routine: lunges, wall sits, squats, on and on. And, unlike OT, PT came with homework. I was expected to stretch four times a week—and they knew if I skipped.
“Hamstrings are a little tight this week,” Jodie, Darla, or whoever the therapist was that year would say.
“I know, I’ve been busy with school/band/Girl Scouts.” I defended.
The excuses didn’t matter though, stretching was important. I knew that, but by age ten, I was over it. My sisters didn't have to stretch, and no one ever asked them why they ‘walked so funny.’ My friends didn't have to stretch, and they could kick a ball in gym class just fine. It didn't seem fair, and frankly, it wasn’t fair. Disability was often a black and white experience for me, and I resented that I had to wait for nightfall to see anything in color. I wanted to play outside instead of going to an appointment where a doctor warned me, at 11-years-old, not to gain weight or I’d end up in a wheelchair. I yearned to be in English class and not to be getting frequent Botox injections to loosen my hamstrings. And I should have been the kid shouting answers in math, not the one who knew the rough texture of a blue PT mat better than the hard back of a classroom chair.
I needed to find a way to see color when the sun was up. At ten, I turned to writing. I had loved books for as long as I could remember, and when I learned that I could spend my life writing stories, it felt like everything in my life made sense. I couldn't change the things that made me different—the stretches, the doctors, the missed classroom time—but my words were in my control. I could create worlds more idyllic than my own, write characters who found strength in their disabilities, and societies where disability was respected. I could describe the aspects of my disability that make navigating the world difficult—show a new perspective to those who can’t relate. At the very least, I could write a sentence that shows someone the tree.
As I portrayed my experiences on the page, both good and bad, my perspective of my disability shifted. I finally saw the colors that were hiding in plain sight. I realized that not many kids got to know Brad. I was lucky to know him for so many years. Sometimes when I was done with all of the stretching, the PT let me go on the tire swing—in the middle of school mornings, I was flying through the air. Not to mention, Botox surgery was not all bad: my parents let me pick dinner after surgery, and one time the hospital gave me a teddy bear.
My physical therapists were also great people. My favorite PT Margie went to Catholic school as a kid, like me, and we used to complain about how annoying it could be to wear a uniform every day. She once said “Don’t forget about me when you run a marathon some day.” While I doubt I’ll ever be a runner, I’ll use her name in a book one day. I’ll always be grateful she believed in me and all I could become.
I no longer resent any aspect of my disability. All of the difficult and beautiful moments of growing up disabled have shaped me into the writer I am today. I am excited to write stories that embrace disability, stories that show other disabled people the same empathy and empowerment I learned from my therapists. I hope someday I can show the world all the radiant colors of disability.
I had a lot of moments where I saw my disability in black and white, but I know now all of those black and white days are worth it for even a glimpse at the technicolor tree.