Thursday, April 18, 2019

MY LIFE WITH BRITTLE BONES-110

A few things helped to bring me out of my shell. One was C.B. Radio, which was the craze back in the 70s. On the radio I could be a normal kid, make friends and explore the world around me- without ever leaving home.

It was fun and I made friends, which was the point. There was always someone to talk to, even in the middle of the night. I started going to radio-related parties and picnics. A whole new world was opening up for me.

A group of truck drivers found out about my situation, took up a collection, and bought my first radio. They hooked it up and installed the antenna on the roof. It was the truckers way of spreading good cheer , helping me reach out to the world.

My first handle was "China Boy," because of my fragile bones. CB'ers generally would pick a handle (or nickname)that would make light of themselves, so China Boy was mine. My second handle was "Smitty," taken from my last name. Every male in my family was called "Smitty." Plus the handle was a mini-tribute to my Dad, who was the one and only 'Smitty."

My home channel was channel 10. I hung out with people of all ages. Names like Catman, Wanderer, Skateman would become familiar friends. For the first time in my life I was part of "normal' guys. On the  radio it didn't matter if you couldn't walk. Everyone was the same. Race, religion, disability didn't matter.

There were occasional disagreements, especially with neighboring channels, and we broke a few FCC rules (like playing music on the air or talking until the wee hours of the night without a break). But generally our group kept it light-hearted and fun and I became popular. I didn't like my high voice, but often I would just listen to others or while falling asleep on channel 19, listening to the truckers converse.

I learned that I had  a good sense of humor which others saw and encouraged. I could be myself on the air.

I even had a few girls talk to me on a regular basis. I vividly remember three: Marnie, a local cheerleader; Irene, a tall, blond Polish beautyi n high school; and Kathy, a bubbly and funny  chick who was a para-medic. She was special to me because she was one of the few people on the radio who knew about my disability yet didn't care. She always made me smile with her positive attitude and cheer. Her handle was "Micro-Medic.'

Kathy and I talked every night on her way home from work. I had a crush on her, but knew she was dating a guy who was in medical school. They eventually got married and I attended their wedding. Micro-Medic was one good friend who didn't fade away.

That's how it was on the radio- people came on the air and some stayed or some faded away after testing the latest fad.

I also used the radio as a tool for doing some good. I soon got involved in Phoenixville's Town Watch program, and every other  Saturday night would spend a few hours as a base unit, keeping in touch with mobile units as they patrolled the streets and  alerting police if they found anything suspicious. It made me feel like I was part of the community, doing this volunteer work and I was happy to finally be the one giving back to others.

It was always an interesting experience, meeting someone from the airwaves, putting a face to a voice and a name. Some were noticeably shocked when they met me, like "Wow, dude, you really are in a wheelchair!". Girls were generally disappointed, knowing that smooth-talking guy on the radio was actually a little, brittle guy. I did feel better when I met someone from the radio, knowing even my C.B. friends came in all shapes and sizes.

I missed not cruising, a popular but pointless  endeavor on weekends, driving up and down the main street of a town, showing off your car, radio or both. More or less, my friends on the radio treated me well. I didn't come out and announce it, but, through word of mouth, most knew I couldn't walk but no one mentioned it. Why should they?

The radio was my first taste of discrimination. My story made the local papers about the truckers helping out this disabled kid, so I could no longer hide. I only hoped my radio-friends did'nt care and wanted to still talk to me. Maybe a few felt uneasy talking to me now, like they were afraid to say the wrong thing, I was happy that most choose to look into my heart and soul.Yes, there were a few CB'ers on the air who were just plain nasty and cruel ( and probably crazy). They called me names like  "crippled', especially in front of the girls, maybe they were jealous. They threatened to find me ( which wouldn't be hard to do) and dump me out of my chair, just for kicks.

Their idea of fun would be to park at the head of my street and key up their powerful mics, covering my conversations. Most of the time it was trash talk and no action .One never knew who was bluffing and who was a serious, card-carrying nut.I never picked a fight or even battled back. It is what the bullies wanted.

Luckily I had more friends on my side, but at times I allowed the rude comments get to me..I would stay   off the air for a few days and retreat  back into my shell.

I didn't know how to deal with the ignorance, taking the comments from a few punks to heart. If only these creeps were in my shoes. Disablity is the largest minority group there is.  Anyone could suddenly have an accident  at any time. Sadly, the world didn't see it that way. I felt trapped in my body sometimes , like I was  a normal person inside a very abnormal body.

It  took me a while to ignore the rudeness. I learned how to laugh it off and find humor in the ignorance. The terms "crippled", "disabled" or "handicapped"..it didn't matter. Back then nothing was off-limits or  inappropriate or politically incorrect.  E ven on the radio, I was " different" to some.  It seemed as if I could never escape it.

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