Anita's Reliance on Re-imagination (revisited)

Opening New Possibilities

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The metal racks of her grocery cart bounced annoyingly every time it ran over a seam in the sidewalk as she pushed it to Old Main from her dorm that first morning of classes.

Anita had strategically placed her books in all four corners of the cart's basket, thinking that would cut down on the clatter. But, the fall air, quiet and heavy with dew, carried the clanking up and down the street.

Already that morning, Anita had walked farther and faster down a street than she had ever gone unaided – without someone else beside her providing balance and protection against pedestrian and auto traffic. That was exhilarating for someone with lifelong cerebral palsy.

Yet Anita could feel the quick glances of curiosity from those walking to and from class on both sides of the street. The grocery cart, which included a metal baby seat, was so noisy on that crisp morning. It was drawing attention to her disability instead of helping her melt into campus life unnoticed, as she had unrealistically hoped.

Anita cringed as she rolled the cart over another crack in the sidewalk. Her feet hopped uncontrollably as she leaned on the cart's handle bar and tried to keep up with the easy roll of the cart's hard, black wheels. She wanted to disappear into the bushes along the sidewalk.

But, at the same time, pushing a grocery cart on a relatively flat campus in the prairie land of southwestern Wisconsin was natural for her. It provided Anita with balance and a convenient way to carry books. That was not readily apparent, though, to those she met and those who passed her on the sidewalk that morning.

Anita slowed the pace of her walk as she maneuvered the cart to the right side of the sidewalk. An unusually long string of students, a few sporting sweatshirts with "Platteville Pioneers" on the front of them, strutted toward her and passed by. Some smiled. Some didn't. Anita mentally collected the variety of surprised looks on their faces.

To prove that she was indeed mentally competent and emotionally stable, Anita greeted the next wave of students with what turned out to be an insecure, "... Morning."

Some returned the greeting. Most ignored her.

She then tried the detachment of a visionary, ignoring the faces that were walking by her. A few caught her eye, looked at her coldly and reflected her vagueness. A noisy grocery cart with hard wheels and a first-year student with cerebral palsy are not as real, after all, as what is to become.

More than 60 years later, Anita now realizes the future was pulling her down the street that morning. She submerged her fear, her shyness, her insecurity and her embarrassment because she knew her survival was at stake. Anita knew she had to get through college with good grades to get a good job and break away from farming, the way of life her family had known for three generations – a tradition she could not carry on as the oldest of three daughters.

She also wanted the non-farm life she had come to know while attending an orthopedic grade school in Madison and living with four different families – people ranging from factory workers and janitors to school teachers and business managers.

The past also pushed Anita in other ways. Images of that past summer's family vacation fluttered through her mind. She had just finished living life in the West for seven days as one of a family of five crammed into a 1958 black and white Chevy, tracing the wagon trail of the pioneers across the plains into the Rockies.

As the family headed east to return home and the Rockies faded in the back seat window, Anita remembers coming upon an old prairie schooner, worn and weathered, resting in tall grass along the highway.

Anita's dad stopped the car, and the whole family circled the shell of the wagon. Its ribs, long stripped of its covering, reminded Anita of bones bleached to a dirty gray in the dry sun.

"Pretty crude," Anita recalls her dad saying, almost to himself, as he checked the springs on the wagon. "Not much cushion there, but it got the job done."

Anita pressed her hand against the steel plate on the front of the schooner. It was brown and rough with rust and read, "Robinson family, Lexington, Kentucky." It stung her palm, reflecting the midday heat.

Anita imagined the clatter each wheel of the schooner made as it found its way through the flatland. The Robinsons were vulnerable, alone and defenseless – disconnected from the mainstream of life but self-sufficient and prepared in their quest for a better life.

Anita finally made it to Old Main, a little breathless – partly because she had walked two blocks in the cool, dewy morning air but mostly from the tension of doing something she had done before. The walk took 15 minutes, but Anita had given herself plenty of time to spare in her push into new territory.

Anita parked her cart along the stone wall of Old Main. It had done its job. The sun glanced off the metal tray from a tea set her sister, Bev, had long outgrown. Her mother had attached it to the front of the cart. In black magic marker, it read:

"This belongs to ANITA ANDERSON, student WITH A DISABILITY. Please do not move."

Anita grabbed her books and held them tight against her chest – using them as counterweights to maintain her balance as she inched herself up the steps to the double doors.

She opened the door and stumbled into the wide hallway. The echoes of students going to and from class and the musty smell of lockers and newly polished marble floors reminded her of high school back home.

With more than 80 years of thriving with a disability under her belt, Anita is now dedicated to further using re-imagination to help her fellow seniors accept the challenge of living with age-related vulnerability.

Re-imagination, Anita maintains, has helped her sidestep the tougher times in her life. As an elder, re-imagination now gives her a reason to get up each morning with new anticipation because each day has new possibilities.

Anita's takeaway tip from her story: Use re-imagination to deal effectively with enhanced vulnerability that often comes with aging.