12/05/2024
John lived in the group home where I worked. He was a man with Down syndrome who had a way of making himself understood, although he only spoke two words: "alright," which meant yes, and "no," which always meant no. He had a gravelly voice that was low and rough. He also knew the hand signs for "I need the toilet" and "cookie"—just enough to navigate life in a group home.
John and I got along well. I liked his company, and I think he liked mine. We had an understanding between us that didn’t need many words. He introduced me to the joy of ABBA’s Gold album, and I taught him how to use the rotary polisher on the home's floors—something that ruffled feathers among staff and residents alike. They underestimated John, seeing him as "one of the most disabled" in the home.
On John’s birthday, as was tradition, the chef (it was almost 30 years ago) made a cake. The lounge filled with staff and residents, and John stood at the center of it all, waiting as the candle was lit, the song was sung, and the cheers filled the room. But then, as John leaned in to blow out his candle, a staff member reached over, scooped some icing with a finger, and smeared it across John’s face.
It was an act of power over someone who had less. He said it was supposed to be funny. But anyone who knew John would’ve known otherwise. He didn’t like messes, didn’t like anything sticky or messy on his skin. He immediately shouted, “NO!”—clear, loud, with the hand sign for emphasis—and left, with help, to clean himself up.
The room was tense. I looked at the cake. I looked at the staff member. I wanted him to understand what John felt at that moment. John wasn’t in a position to stand up to this staff person; he might need him for support, for personal care.
I was filled with anger and anxiety. This staff member was a dominant and intimidating character. He was always provided with a cautious respect by the staff and without doubt made a fearful impression on the residents. That said, he knew me well enough to know what I was thinking and curtly stated "Don't even think about doing that to me."
After John came back, and his suspicions eased, I took my chance. I reached out, swiped a finger through the icing, and smeared it across the staff member’s face.
The reaction was instant. He looked shocked—then furious. He raised his fist, another staff member screamed, and for a split second, I prepared for him to hit me. But he stopped himself, turned, and stormed out of the room.
I glanced at John. His face held the very smallest smile.
The home manager followed the staff member out of the room. As she passed me, she said, “You really shouldn’t have done that.” But her eyes told a different story and she gave me a look that could not hide her approval.
Later, the staff member came to me and quickly apologized—directed by the manager, no doubt.
As I reflect now, I can’t recall if he ever apologized to John.
It’s funny how things stick with you. I don’t know if John ever thought about that day again, but I do.
I didn’t stand up for John—I stood beside him.
Ben
ID: Image shows a picture of a man who has Down syndrome. The title reads John's Birthday.
