When Staring Hurts

By Rosalie Ferrer Kramer

Be curious, not judgmental.

~Walt Whitman

Once upon a time, whenever I was out with my children — Iris, Marc and Danny — strangers stared at them and told me how attractive they were. But that was before my Marc and Danny became wheelchair bound due to muscular dystrophy. Then, going anywhere with the boys led to a different kind of staring.

It's sad that even in these times, when people are supposed to know better, my boys still get stared at. A quick glance would be one thing, but the veiled look, the pointing, or the unabashed, open-mouthed gawking is difficult to bear.

Watching us enter a restaurant is quite a sight and we get lots of stares. We charge in with our electric wheelchairs, we make adjustments to the table, we cut the boys' food, and they wear splints on their wrists so they can hold their forks. The boys like to go out to eat so we decided to do something about the staring. Here's what we do — we stare back.

However, just getting into a restaurant can be a problem. One time Marc wanted to go to the new Big Boy restaurant for his birthday. The eateries were being furiously advertised on television with the big Elias Brother's chubby Big Boy, in the red and white checkered outfit, going around and around on a thirty-foot pole beckoning to one and all. Watching that commercial caused Marc to think that he was being personally invited. So I wasn't surprised when he said that he wanted to go there for his birthday.

First I called the Big Boy to make sure our group of seven, including grandma and our aide could be seated there. I explained the situation to the manager but he said, "We don't take reservations."

I was dumbfounded so I explained, "Well I just didn't want to cause a sensation, and I thought you could put us in that quiet corner in the back where you have the super big booth. There will be seven people, two in wheelchairs."

"I told you lady..."

Mister, this is a special situation." He hung up.

I put the phone down and called the corporate offices of Elias Brothers who owned the Big Boy franchise. As an advocate for the disabled, one must be prepared to ask for help. Mr. Elias listened to me without interrupting. When I paused for a breath he said, "Mrs. Kramer, you just call me anytime you want to go to any Big Boy, and a table will be reserved for you and your party whether is it seven people or twenty-five."

We went, as quietly as possible, to the Big Boy near our home. The manager greeted us at the door bowing and walking backwards, like a maitre d' in a fancy restaurant. Every eye in the place was on us, but our son was very happy. He said with a grin, "Let's do our thing, Mom."

"Okay Marc, who seems like the prime culprit to you?"

"I see a kid in a red hat. Even his mom is staring; they're being very rude. And that busboy is standing stone cold still just looking and looking."

We stared away and it worked, as always. Sometimes everyone laughs — the starers and the starees. It breaks the ice and shows people around us that we are just a regular family with a few problems.

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