#lewiselder

like the world’s foremost degenerative gambler once said, “i’m back.” but enough about michael jordan. holy shit. it’s been almost a year since my last post. the thing is, nothing arm-related has happened to me in that time. 

HAHAHAHA *laughing trails off* 

i’m playing. i’ve just been slacking. how have you guys been? i hope you’ve been good! or, well, i hope at least medium. 

man, a lot has happened in the in-between. i have a different job. i’m still in austin but moving in a couple weeks. i’ve bought shoes. i’ve sold shoes. i’ve started eating oranges. a lot has also stayed the same. i still don’t own a pair of jeans. i’m still not wearing no fucking button up shirts. still doing anxiety ridden push ups at 3am. still laying in bed every night googling pictures of doughnuts. such is life. 

there are a bunch of stories i still need/want to tell you. i keep a rolling tab in my phone and we’ve knocked out 4 of 19. today we’re going to ease back into things with 2 short stories with one overlapping theme: kids. did my title give it away?

kids! everybody fuckin loves kids. kids kids kids. so nice! so sweet! so pure! may god in his all knowing, arm designing wisdom bless the youths. 

i like kids. 

however. 

kids don’t have filters. this is one of the reasons you cornballs love them. this is one of the reasons i’m still a little more on the fence. obvious physical disfigurements and young, full of wonder children are a volatile mix.  we’re going to do 2 real quick stories, one from the past and one from the present, to demonstrate. let’s get weird.

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#1 - AHHHHHHH!

my junior year of college i pledged Phi Beta Sigma. part of the, uh, joining process (Phi Beta Sigma is a non-hazing organization) was volunteering at the local Boys and Girls club where an older Sigma brother worked as a director (shout out Josh!). face value, this is a pretty sweet deal. volunteering is good, kids are cool, and this was certainly a welcomed reprieve from the rest of the joining process.  

however. (this the same however from before ^ good dude, but moves around a lot)

like i may have mentioned, i have a disfigured left arm. me and my disfigured left arm (and my 4 line brothers) took the bus out to the Boys and Girls club for our first session. mind you, this is wisconsin in like, february, so we’re all in multiple layers of coats and hoodies and all that shit. 

so, we get there, meet up with Josh, get shown around, meet some kids, yadda yadda. now, at this point we’re starting to step into a very nuanced part of my life. one of the reasons i don’t like wearing layers of clothing, or jackets, or button ups, is because i’m not a goofy cornball, but also because long sleeves often mean my left arm is covered and more or less camouflaged. this means i enter some place and the other humans in that place see me and process my existence as one thing. then, i have to go through the fucking shit awful experience of removing the camouflage and re-presenting myself as far from that original thing. people’s responses vary from really shocked to really fucking shocked (they don’t vary). this sucks 1000% of the time. actually one of my biggest arm stories is about this exactly. we’ll get there another day. 

ANYWAY, we start hanging out with some of the kids to get to know them. eventually i get hot (shout out all my fellow thicc n sweaty folx). i make the decision to remove my camouflage. i take my jacket off and almost immediately this young boy, probably around like idk 10?, we were playing ping pong with let’s out a shout.

AHHHHHHH!

him: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR ARM? 

me: ahhhhh yeahhhhh it’s a birth defect man. i was born with it

him: (again) AHHHHHHH! 

me: hmmmmm

him: AHHHHHHH! YO PUT IT AWAY

me: this is fun

him: OH MY GOD YO PUT IT AWAY PLEEEEEASE PUT IT AWAY PUTITAWAYPLEASEPUTITAWAY

me: well shit

i tried to talk with dude but he was pretty out of pocket and was not listening. i eventually just put my jacket back on. i did not go back for the next volunteering session lol. 

#2 - Shhhh, Katy STOP

this one’s from a few weeks ago. it’s a lot less outrageous than the previous story, but it will bring up an interesting point.  

i was at a coffee shop near my crib on a saturday afternoon. this is april in austin, tx (the kissing dogs in the mouth capital of america) so no jacket camouflage for lewis. 

i’m sitting next to a mom and her daughter. the daughter quickly notices that i’m wearing very rare raging bull 5s. she asks me how much i got them for. i tell her $260 shipped in vnds condition! she says no fucking way dude great pick up. we do a mid-air high five while throw some d’s blasts in the background, shout out rich boy. always shout out rich boy.

the end!

ok. maybe that’s not exactly what happened. 

maybe she noticed my arm and backed away. maybe she started whispering to her mom. maybe i heard her say, 

“what’s wrong with his arm??? does it hurt??? do you think he’s mad???” 

i remember the mad one made me lol. i’m more mad that every day people choose to wear birkenstocks but yeah, 6 of one, half dozen of the other. 

her mom, more conscious of the fact they were 30 inches from the man they were talking about than the daughter was, was beginning to hit a state of suppressed panic. i couldn’t hear all of what they were saying, but the mom was desperately trying to get her to be quiet. eventually culminating with a louder than intended, 

“Shhhh, Katy STOP.”

Katy did indeed stop. the mom took a big sigh of relief and a big gulp of coffee. I stared straight ahead thinking about how $260 shipped for raging bull 5s is a fucking lick. a. fucking. lick.

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And that’s it. Important to note that I wasn’t mad at the kids in either story. They’re kids. My arm looks a lot different than theirs do. I get that. I wasn’t thrilled with the first dude, but ah, what are you gonna do. I’ve spent most of my life coping (whether through jokes, fighting, writing, whatever) with the othering that comes with being disfigured/disabled. 

I think what I want to end this post on is the question of how do you teach your kids to treat people with disfigurements or disabilities. Seriously, how the fuck. I’m actually asking because I’m really not sure. I’ve seen parents encourage their kids to come right up to me and ask. That’s like, ok, but also pretty presumptuous and kind of bogus. What if I don’t want to talk to you or your sticky handed kid. I (or anyone) should have the right to not be bothered just because you’re curious. I’ve seen parents tell their kids to shut all the way the fuck up. This is fine too. Tbh, I kind of appreciate those parents. Tho, is that just shutting down what could be a developmental moment? I don’t know. 

I will tell you that I don’t miss being a kid. I’ll never connect with people who long for the days of their childhood. Being disfigured as a kid is fucking hard. Like, really fucking hard. I have the marks on my hands (and probably the deep-seeded emotional trauma) to prove it. Like an ex-gf’s mom once said to me when meeting her for the first time (she was a physical therapist and somehow noticed this upon shaking hands), “oh you’ve broken a few of your knuckles before, huh?” Life is much better as an adult. 

I don’t plan on having kids, but if I did, how would I teach them to treat disabled people? And at what point would they realize their father is different? Will it be when some kids at school start giving them shit about their father with the little arm? Then my burden has become theirs through no fault of their own. 

Idk. I don’t have the answers, Sway (2014 was fun, wasn’t it?). Just tell your kids, your little cousins, your friends and family, not to be dicks. I know that’s reductive, but yeah idk man just don’t fucking suck. And try your best to make others around you suck less, too. 

Life is weird and stressful but it has doughnuts and cool grey 11s so i think it mostly evens out. Talk to ya’ll soon. Shout out Rich Boy.

my first post about the trainer happened around October. i wrote that entry on Wednesday, February 22nd. this particular event happened the next day. 

the next day. Thursday, February 23rd. 

I texted a couple people about it - Ian, Dana, Jake. i wasn’t sure what to do with it. i was legitimately worried if i posted about it right away that it might seem like i’m bullshitting. instead i’m taking it as a sign. from, uh, (god?) that making this, uh, (blog?) was a good idea. so thanks, guy who i’m about to roast in detail. 

SO, it was Thursday of last week. i had gotten off work a little early and went to the gym.

yeah...the same fucking gym lol

maybe there’s something to be said about Lifetime Fitnesseses. fitnesseses? fitnesseses. or maybe there’s something to be said about the kind of people who can afford a gym that is at least $70/month. probably the latter. 

but i dye grass. so i’m at the gym, in the beginning sets of squatting. from the corner of my eye i notice a dude near me who looks like he’s trying to get my attention. i do every gym go-ers favorite move - stop what i’m doing, take my sweaty headphones off, and turn to dr distracto. 

doctor distracto MD says to me in a syrupy voice, “Are you using this?” - referencing a bench near my squat rack. 

i say no. 

distracto, DDS then says, “hey man we met in the locker room yesterday.”

one armed handsome hero, “oh yeah, i remember...how’s it going?”

***FLASHBACK***

the night before i was getting my shit out of the locker before going home. a dad and his teenage son were using a locker next to me. i had seen them at the gym a few times before. i mostly recognized them because the teenage son always wore these old adidas crazy quick joints that Tim Duncan and John Wall wore in like 2013. 

^^^these ones. notice how i capitalize Tim Duncan and John Wall but not doctor distracto phd. also notice The Big Fundamental’s face here - not entirely dissimilar to mine whilst conversing with professor distractathon. 

any who. this dad ass dad (aka distracto - keep up) and his son ass son are next to me in the locker room. dad ass dad just kinda slides in my ear DMs with a quick, “i see you here a lot.” 

“yeah, i’m here too much” - my standard response to that comment, which gets a laugh like 65% of the time. 

dad ass dad goes on to introduce himself as will (i think). nice name there, will. he made a couple random comments about idk, the fucking gym or whatever, pretty small talk-y. then we part ways. 

***FLASH FORWARD***

so i’m at the squat rack in the middle of asking will (maybe it was bill?) how it was going after he mentioned we had met last night. then bill (phil?) hits me with what, in my life, is the conversational equivalent of an off ball screen you never see coming (but i kinda always see it coming)

phil (gill?) - gill goes: “so how long have you been dealin’ with that?” - sort of gesturing with his chin at my arm. 

me: “uh kinda a while lol i was born with it.” 

willbillphilgill aka distracto aka dad ass dad, in his slow, southern, lawn chair with a bud light voice goes: “Would you mind if i prayed with you?”

lol uh

i said something like - uh, well i don’t really pray...

dad ass dad kinda cuts me off there and goes: “i’ll lead it”

“okay” i say, interested as to what was about to happen. dad ass dad then clasps my right hand in a kind of like, white guy dap stance. 

so i’m standing there. hand in hand with some middle aged texan. in the middle of a lifetime fitness. at 4pm on a thursday. while his teenage son stands next to us. 

then this motherfucker really begins a prayer. it went something like this. 

Dear God. We ask that you heal Lewis here. May he be healed with all of your grace, mercy, and love. All this we ask of you, Lord. Thank you. Amen. 

qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm

i quickly felt the holy spirit wash over my poor, withered husk of an arm. yes lord!

nah but i did get to smell his fucking meat breath. 

now mind you this is the day after i’ve started a blog to chronicle, oh i don’t know, THIS EXACT SHIT lol. so him and i release our caucasian clasp. i kinda laugh and say thanks. i don’t remember what he said but it wasn’t much. him and his son wander off, presumably to go reconvene with the other missionaries scouring the gym floor for lepers in need. 

ps - i wonder if this guy and the trainer would have a spirited argument about science vs religion? ROBOT ARM! NO - GOD ARM! NO, ROBOT ARM! NO...

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so i stand there. shocked? angry? happy? i was definitely well aware that this was fucking perfect for the project i had just undertaken. so, if nothing else, this blog has already turned what would have been an otherwise unpleasant experience into a (prettygoddamnoffensive) silver lining. big ups to the six, three of which are me in different states of mania, of ya’ll that will read this. srsly. ty. 

so. yuh. the day after i write about that fucking god damn trainer, this happens lol. 

honestly, i was a lot less mad at this guy than i was at the trainer. i really don’t know why. maybe because this dude wasn’t as ready to slice me up, or maybe i was just in a better mood. obv not great that he sees my arm as a disease to an otherwise healthy young man, but.... 

ALSO - gotta address the handicapped elephant in the room which has to be - what exactly did this dude mean/think would happen when he said “heal.” like, is god boutta catch me asleep one day and i just wake up with like 2 regular arms lol??? 2 elbows and 10 fingers and all that bougie shit??? 

man then i’d be just like ya’ll. 

yuck. 

jk - i’ll take one order of elbow pls. 

but anyway. so another instance of austinites being boooooold as fuck. i’m starting to miss the “that ain’t my fucking problem” attitude of St. Louis *swoons* i think a lot of this shit is just more evidence of how dehumanized people with disabilities are. like, son, you wouldn’t go up to some dude with glasses and pray to god for his sight to be restored, would you? but for some reason, every fuckin texan with eyes and a pulse seems to think they have the moral obligation to put their fuckin brisket scoops (hands) on me and offer me their help, advice, and now prayer. 

also, if this is what dads are like, i’m really not missing out on shit. 

so. idk. i guess ball’s in your court @God 

ps if u read this far, i’ll buy you a taco