To Be In That Body

I am looking down on G Street from the 4th floor of the MLK Library and watching a man cross the street who must have Parkinson's or some other condition that makes his head jerk violently to the left every few seconds. He reaches the sidewalk on the other side and I see that his arms also have a life of their own, every so often they dance up and down. It is as if he is moving to a jazz trumpet nobody else can hear. He is well dressed. He is moving with purpose. He may be leaving an office or going to meet someone. 

What must it be like to be in that body?

Earlier today, I sat with a teacher as she cried as she told me the story of the last 12 months. She and her wife found themselves the custodians of a black trans teen because there was not a single person in the DC, Maryland, or Virginia foster system that would take her in. They cared for her, changed their lives for her, are ushering her into adulthood. And because they are a same sex couple, caring for a trans teen, in this particular moment in time - their story has hit the media, her wife has to wear a bulletproof vest and police now patrol their block - to keep them safe. 

What must it be like to be in those bodies?

Yesterday I met a 4-year-old autistic child whose particular form of stimulation involves feeling the world with his mouth. He must put everything in there. He sucked up water that he found pooled on a playground swing. He stuck plastic wrappers, stones, straws, sequins, shoe charms, erasers, and bottle caps in his mouth in the 10 minutes I spent with him. And his teacher, calmly, took each item out but let the child run around tasting the world - because there is no stopping him. 

What must it be like to be in that body?

I bemoan my weight, the spots on my face and arms, my wrinkles. 

Tonight I am embarrassed by these complaints. 

To be in this body, right now, is easy. 

It is a gift I did not ask for.

It is a treasure I too often take for granted.