It was a narrow, wooden bridge, just broad enough for one vehicle to cross the Zambezi River between Zambia and Rhodesia.
Ralph gingerly placed each foot and each crutch on one plank at a time, trying to avoid the one-inch gaps between them. In the oppressive humidity of the rainforest, the rubber handle grips on his crutches became greasy under his wet palms.
Ralph stopped to catch his breath in the thick air and look over the bridge's railing. About 30 feet below, the water churned as it hit the first rocks which lead to Victoria Falls on his right. But, to his disappointment, he couldn't see the falls. All he could see – and feel – was a heavy mist that blocked out the western horizon and the hot afternoon sun.
Ralph continued to inch toward the center of the bridge with the other members of his People-to-People delegation, and then he saw it – just as Lila, the group's guide had described it earlier that day. A red stripe, two planks wide, ran across the full width of the bridge.
"This is where we have to stop," Lila, in a tan cotton dress, reminded the group in her British accent. "Zambia and Rhodesia are officially at war with each other, and we can't take any chances. For the last six months, we periodically have had raids back and forth across the border."
The thick jungle on the opposite side of the river was hazy, mysterious but peaceful. Below the bridge, a small excursion boat for tourists blew a warning whistle as it passed two men in a fishing boat.
"We'll next take a boat ride on the river," said Lila, a tall, thin woman who had crowned her head of long blonde hair with a blue cap, a masculine accessory which seemed odd for a woman to wear in 1973. "Then, we'll go down below the falls. You may be able to see some hippos in the water up here, but it's hard. Their backs look like smooth rocks in the water. They'll be much easier to see from the boat."
Numbed by the oppressive humidity, many of the 25 Wisconsinites in Ralph's group, dressed in sticky polyester casuals, hung to the railings and searched the waters anyway for a hippo.
A speech writer for a Wisconsin congressman, Ralph was more interested in the red line. He took a couple of steps back from the group and quietly placed the tip of his left crutch over the red line and then pulled it back. No gun fire. No screaming warriors hit the bridge from Zambia's side. No military men showed up. But Lila caught him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.
"It's time to go," she suggested to Ralph, hinting he should get a head start on the others in the retreat from the bridge. Ralph appreciated the special attention he received from Lila because he walked more slowly with crutches due to his cerebral palsy, but he also wanted the freedom to explore bits of Africa on his own without Lila breathing down his back.
At least his crutch had been on Zambia's side of the bridge. He imagined the possibilities of an ambush that he would encounter by walking through the rain forest across the river.
Before retracing his steps back to the bus, Ralph again looked at the red line, amused that people throughout the world recognize it as a command to stop and proceed no further.
It reminded Ralph of the day, 21 years before, when he first encountered this universal mark for dividing people. For the first time during his fourth year at Washington Orthopedic School in Madison, WI, Ralph had gotten to the gym before Mr. Quinn, his gym teacher, and the other sixth, seventh and eighth graders.
The far wall looked different as his feet hit the polished, hard-wood floor. Someone had inadvertently left open the door between the "orthopedic" gym and the "regular" gym. Ralph skated his stiff feet across the salmon-colored floor. He stopped amid the red and green stripes of the basketball court, fighting for balance and gasping for air in his excitement.
Ralph looked back. No one was coming from the orthopedic wing of the school. But, through the doorway, he heard a gym teacher's whistle blow. So, he continued to shuffle across the floor. As he reached the open door, he quickly peeked in and saw two students sallying up thick ropes which hung from the ceiling. The instructor and his class of older boys, all in gym clothes, formed a circle around the two classmates climbing the ropes.
He again looked back. No one. Ralph instinctively knew the thick red line on the gym floor between the two door jams meant the much larger, unfamiliar gym beyond the doorway was forbidden territory for anyone with a brace, crutch, wheelchair or (in his case) spastic condition.
But, he stepped across it to get a better view of the action on the ropes.
Just then, someone grabbed his shoulder. Ralph jumped. It was Mr. Quinn.
"This is not our gym, Ralph," he said calmly. "It's time for our class."
He followed Mr. Quinn across the red line as he stepped back through the doorway. But Ralph caught one last glimpse of the guys on the ropes before Mr. Quinn closed the door with a thud.
The thud echoed off the walls of yellow concrete block above the racket of bouncing basketballs, squeaking wheelchair tires, clanking leg braces and delighted squeals. Ralph remembered being a part of that ragtag group, dressed in stiff corduroy and flannel shirt.
Even as an 11-year-old, Ralph knew firsthand about polio, cerebral palsy, spinal bifida, cognitive disorders, seizures and muscular dystrophy.
And he knew a little about school integration based on race before the issue reached the newspaper headlines – before the first major confrontation between states' rights and the Supreme Court's school integration decision occurred in Little Rock, Arkansas, in the summer of 1957. Eighteen African American students were chosen to integrate Little Rock's Central High School to comply with the Supreme Court's Brown versus Board of Education decision in 1954.
Ralph saw it all on the TV in his classroom and in his weekly reader – and had a taste of it in real time. After all, Carla and Sam, both black students with polio, had joined his segregated classroom of 14 students with various disabilities during the last two years.
Ralph remembers his teacher, Miss Schweppe, nervously trying to prepare her brood for the addition of Carla and Sam to the classroom. What she didn't realize is that race didn't matter to the group. After all, every kid in that setting was different, due to a wide variety of disabilities. And all had one thing in common: the need for daily therapy.
But Ralph didn't know about rope climbing and what it was like to be a sixth grader without a noticeable disability. After all, climbing a rope was not in the same league as bouncing a basketball.
Mr. Quinn grabbed a basketball after shutting the door. As the group formed a circle to bounce the basketball between partners within the group, Ralph looked up at the ceiling and imagined how frightening it would be to climb a rope to even the lowest girder.
Now, more than 65 years later, Ralph no longer cares about rope climbing but likes to recall the times when he dared to step across the red lines of this world and expand his horizons – jumping between abled and disabled, between young and not-so-young, between educated and not-so educated, between rural and urban, between developed and developing, between stability and turmoil.
Ralph's takeaway tip from his story: Value variety and inclusion in everyday living.
Here’s to elderhood and vulnerability!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “Opening Up” newsletter
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As Ralph, I have personally lived through the two events in this short story and find this quote from Randy Pausch to be meaningful:
"If you can find your footing between two cultures, sometimes you can have the best of both worlds."
At 79, my wife, Pam, and I find this is especially true once more as we find ourselves spanning the somewhat different horizons of child care, independent living, assisted living and memory care residents in a graduated-care facility.
We may be living in a “bubble,” but, since each of us in our sheltered environment is navigating our later years with various forms of limitation, I sense a new-found freedom among our fellow travelers, perhaps for the first time, to just be who “we really are” – warts and all.
It’s what I felt in grade school – yes, sheltered and maybe limited yet having the freedom to choose when to step over red lines and grow at my own pace.
* When have you dared to cross a red line and expand your horizons?