Stairs

I was teaching elementary school physical education, and like all teachers, had hall duty. Every
day I watched a beautiful little girl (I’ll call her Lilly) with cerebral palsy being carried up the
stairs by a big-for-his age, heavy-set boy (I’ll call him Henry). Her tone of voice was piercing,
commanding, strident—as if she were a spoiled princess talking to a servant. He meekly obeyed.

I couldn’t stand it, but everyone—teachers and staff—knew about her and said and did nothing. I don’t know what snapped inside me, but one day, as she barked commands, I walked over to them and told the boy, “You are not to carry her up the stairs until she says ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’” 

I ignored his obvious distress. I listened to her yell at me that I had no business interfering. Her parents made the arrangement. It was her tone that got me. Yes, she had a serious physical disability but she had control of her voice and her attitude. I knew interfering could cost me my job but I was a teacher and she was a beautiful child who needed help.

I told her that if she wanted him to carry her up the stairs to the wheelchair on the second floor, she had to ask nicely and thank him afterward. “You can’t tell me what to do,” she snarled. She was probably right but I repeated what I said anyway. “He’s supposed to carry me up,” she told me. “Carry me,” she said to the boy.

“No,” I told him. “You are not to carry her up until she says ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ It’s time for you to go to class. I’ll take care of this.” He didn’t move. She kept telling him to carry her. Teachers have power over students. I used mine. “Go to class. Now!” He went, looking troubled.

“How am I supposed to get upstairs to my class?” she said, in an imperious tone of voice.”

I guess you’re going to have to figure that out,” I said with no sympathy and not much kindness. “You can sit. Sit up the stairs, one step at a time.”

I ignored her “I cant’s.” I told her I had a free period and would stay with her until she got to the top. And, if she asked politely, I would help her into her wheelchair. I ignored her words, her piteous looks, her defensive remarks. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t graceful. It took a long time. She managed to get to the top. “My dress is dirty,” she said when she got to the top. I congratulated her on her effort, helped her into the wheelchair, and told her teacher to excuse her lateness.

When class was over I met her at the top of the stairs. “Where’s Henry? He’s supposed to meet me and carry me down.” 

“Until you learn to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ you can get yourself up and down the stairs but I’ll stay with you until you’re down and I’ll help you into your wheelchair.”

“I hate you,” she snarled. “I’ll tell my parents and Miss Greene (the principal) how you’re treating me. She’ll fire you.”

“You could be right,” I said. “I’ll help you out of your chair.”

“I don’t need your help,” she grumbled. It was painful to watch but she managed to get off the chair and on to the steps. Painful to watch her make her way down. Painful to watch her struggle to get into her chair. Without a word she wheeled herself to her class.

I was not surprised when I signed in the next morning to be told to go to the principal’s office immediately. A substitute was teaching my classes. I was not surprised when her parents berated me for treating their daughter so badly. I was not surprised when they told me they’d have me fired, with the principal nodding in agreement.

I had nothing to lose. The child had everything to gain. “Lilly is a beautiful child who will grow up to be a beautiful woman who demands rather than asks. What’s acceptable in a child with her difficulties is not so acceptable in an adult. She needs to learn to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.”’ I ignored their interruptions and kept speaking. “Lilly can do more than she thinks, more than you know. You can fire me but I ask for one week to help her.” After an unpleasant accusatory conversation laced with threats, they agreed.

When it was time for Henry to carry Lilly up the stairs I intervened. “If you want help, Lilly, you need to ask politely.” She looked like she’d swallowed vinegar but with me telling Henry not to help until she asked, she finally muttered, “Please help me up the stairs.” He looked at me, I nodded. He carried her up the stairs. When it was time for her to be carried down, I said to Lilly, “You did really well getting yourself up and down the stairs yesterday. Let’s see how you do if Henry and I help you walk down the stairs. I promise I won’t let you fall.” She was angry. Henry was upset. I was cheerful. 

We held on to her, giving the support she needed. She walked, sort of, down the stairs. It was the first time I saw the kid in her. “I did it!” she yelled. Both Henry and I grinned.

The next morning, when she saw me, she muttered, “Please help me up the stairs, Henry.” As he was about to carry her, I suggested she let us help her up. I told her she could do a lot more than she thought and I was prepared to help her. With Henry and me taking most of her weight, she slowly made it up the stairs, a big grin on her face as we helped her into the chair.

It wasn’t easy. It didn’t happen quickly. When I next met her parents in the principal’s office, they admitted Lilly seemed happier, hadn’t had any tantrums lately, and could I please keep doing whatever it was I was doing.

By the end of the school year, with Henry’s support and a cane, Lilly was walking up and down the stairs and to her class. No second-floor wheelchair needed. Please and thank you triumphed.

When did you discover strength you didn’t know you had?