My Brother’s A Retard

My Brother’s A Retard

I always wonder when I hear about someone or some organization talk about curing some disease, or identifying the gene that causes some “defect” in the human race, if we as a society actually understand the long term effects of what we’re doing.

My brother is retarded. “Mentally handicapped” is the politically correct way to say it. “Mentally challenged”, whatever. When I was growing up the people that made fun of him just called him “retard” or “tard”. He’s ten years older than I am.

I can’t begin to tell you how much of what I am today is a direct result of growing up with him in my life. I could talk for hours about so many experiences I’ve had with him, many horrible but just as many good. The horrible experiences were always the result of outsiders inflicting their hate or just plain ignorance upon my brother and our family. The good experiences were always the result of pure and innocent joy and love that always sprang spontaneously from my brother’s heart and soul.

One example of how he molded me is my love for music. He loves music and has an encyclopedic knowledge of so many different styles and composers it would make your jaw drop in amazement. When I was little more than a toddler I sat in his room as he rocked out to everything from Beethoven to Led Zeppelin. And he told me what I was listening to. “Now Johnny, this is ‘The Beatles’” or “this is ‘Tchaikovsky’”. We spent hours just rocking back and forth to the music until it got in my blood. When I was in second grade I brought in “I Am the Walrus” by the Beatles for show and tell. The nuns thought I was very disturbed and the kids thought it was crap, all except one. His name was Steven Kindler and we both just rocked back and forth to the rhythm. I always wondered what happened to him. Anyway, my brother did that to me.

Another thing about my brother is his inability to stay sad for any prolonged period. Just like a child that gets a boo-boo and screams for a minute then is all giggles the next.

When my parents first discovered my brother’s handicap they were told by specialists not to speak their native language around him, only English because having more than one language in the house would confuse and frustrate him. So English became the official language of the house. My other brothers and sisters never learned Polish but the ”retard” picked it up listening to my parents discuss things in private. Now he’s bilingual and the rest of us are not!

My father is a very religious man and one day I asked him if it were in his power to cure my brother, would he?

“Of course, “ he said, “wouldn’t you?”

I said that I didn’t know. Being the way he is, is a sure-fire ticket to heaven in my book. If he were “normal” he’d be just like us. I was a kid at the time but I still don’t know to this day. I realized a long time ago that my brother’s purpose in this world is to bring out the humanity in people.

He and people like him are that line in the sand that you either cross or you don’t. They make us choose between good and bad, right and wrong. There is no in-between. I would just like to know if the great thinkers of this world realize what they’re doing?

Do they realize that while trying to fix the human race they might be destroying the humane race?