Life Stories and Experiences

I watched my father, encloaked not in a red cape but in a weathered, white tallit, a joyful Chassidic melody on his lips.

Chaim has a neurological condition and developmental disability. Tamar has Down syndrome. What a wonderful match!

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a young boy hobbling through the door. He’s about nine or ten. His legs are barely able to carry his own body.

I’m falling, paralyzed by fear. Next thing I know, I wake up but I’m still falling—falling without a parachute.

You know what to say, your listener is waiting patiently, but you simply cannot … Get. The. Words. Out.

The girl sitting in the back of the room stared at the bottom of her desktop. She bent her head down. Her stomach lurched; her mouth was dry. She prayed that her teacher wouldn’t see her. She wanted to be invisible so she wouldn’t be called upon to read.

I have a disability, but you would not know it by just looking at me or by having a brief conversation with me.

Our beautiful princess was changing in front of us, and there was nothing we could do about it.

Imagine that a family celebrates their daughter’s birthday at home, and doesn’t even know that three of her child’s classmates will show up to the party in wheelchairs. The issue never once came up in discussions with her child! That’s what happens when a school holds inclusive classes, where children with and without disabilities learn side by side. It is both ordinary and remarkable.

Kingsbrook Hospital is where Lenny has lived since childhood. It’s his hospital-home. “You know, Chani, I’m here for always,” he says, neither sad nor mad about it. I intuit that his family chose Kingsbrook on his behalf when he was a young child.

Have you ever met a paranoid mother? I mean really paranoid, certifiably paranoid, meshuge paranoid?

Our friend Liron joins us at shul and chats with my daughter. With sincere interest, she asks her about her week. With strained speech—often misunderstood by unfamiliar listeners—my daughter responds enthusiastically to Liron as she enjoys the conversation.

What accident of fate made me part of the Ruderman Chabad Inclusion Initiative, a group committed to inclusion for people with disabilities at every level of Chabad life?

In my teenage mind, there were only two categories of people: the “cool” ones and the “quiet” ones.

I have experienced the awesomeness of language, only through the brilliance of my son who is nonverbal.

After more than 60 years, I still have a strong image of the phantom classroom in the basement of my Boro Park public school. I don’t recall how I knew that this classroom existed. I never really saw the students. I just knew that they were there.

For decades, the status of Jews with disabilities was not discussed. The reasons are complex.

The night we met with the cantor, my almost-13-year-old son announced: “I’m a scientist, and also I’m an atheist.”