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這個大約六歲的小女孩穿著白色的洋裝，臉上戴著淡淡的微笑。她的洋裝就是那種會讓你因此想要有一個女兒的那種可愛洋裝。她的笑容是那樣的甜美。當我兒子正從教堂推著輪椅出來，她走向我的兒子，站定在她的輪椅前面。兩個孩子互看了彼此，我的兒子向這女孩說了一聲HI。

女孩眼神完全沒離開我兒子，她看著他的臉說”我覺得他好可憐”

聽了這句話，我深受震撼。我可以感覺到自己的胃、自己的胸骨。在我一直以來深埋我的恐懼與悲傷的地方，彷彿被人狠踹了一下。

小孩子一直以來對我的兒子會有各式各樣的問題。

為什麼他坐輪椅?為什麼他不行走路?他有病嗎?他一輩子都需要坐輪椅嗎?

但其實問題是簡單的。對小孩子而言，有問題也就代表有個回答。

然而“我覺得他好可憐”這一句話並不是個問題，而是一個認知、一個表態。這是公開的表態一個我早就知道的事實。雖然說我努力要讓自己相信我的兒子並不可憐，但我知道很多人其實就是這樣看待我的兒子。許多人看著我的兒子，儘管他們對他微笑、陪他玩樂，他們的確覺得他很可憐。成人也許知道隱藏，他們知道什麼該說、什麼不該說。但這小女孩，她不懂。

社會告訴她，我兒子坐在輪椅上=很悲傷。

社會告訴她，我兒子=可憐的傢伙

社會告訴她，世界上存在著受苦、侷限、限制的事實

社會告訴她，人們應該要把我的兒子視為一個受害者、一個需要別人協助的可憐人、一個比較不幸的人。人們不應該以平常心例如看待一個鄰居、一個同事、一個教師、或一個朋友來看待我的兒子。

社會告訴她，我的兒子”依然堅強的”微笑，而不是因為他存粹是個孩子，不是因為我兒子與這女孩一樣正在探索這個世界。正在探索、了解煙火、蠟燭、或有一天探索一個白色洋裝的女孩。

也因為這樣，我站在原地不知道該說些什麼好。我有多希望可以改變這社會，讓這社會能夠用更單純的眼光看我的兒子、接受我的兒子。

但我講不出什麼話，我試圖說出”不用為我兒子感到可憐”，之後就在沉重的失敗感中走開。就像那小女孩代表了這整個世界，而我卻錯失了為我兒子說明他並不可憐的機會。

我感覺到多麼的渺小。我只有一個人。

直到上星期，我跟老公與我正在玩水的兒子坐在游泳池旁邊，我再度聽到了”可憐的孩子”這一句話。這次說這句話的人是個大概19歲的青少年。我有遇過他幾次，不過這次他是跟者一個他喜歡的女生在一起。我看得出他喜歡這女生，因為他還幫我們指示方向。

青少年小聲的對這女生說“這個小男孩有病，你有看到他的背嗎?太可憐了，他不行走路…”

我再度感到不知所措，我將我的頭低下，想聽聽看這女生會怎麼回話，會怎麼認同這男生的話。我等待這女孩認同的說，是呀，這可憐的小男孩。

但這女生看者我的兒子說”這並不可憐呀，我弟弟也有參加肢障者奧林匹克賽。我一點都不覺得有什麼可憐的。這小男孩真可愛”

我的心融化了、我閉上眼睛免得自己哭出來。

我有多想抱住這女生，告訴她她有多麼的特別、多麼的令人喜歡。我多麼希望她就曾經是那個穿白色洋裝、為我兒子感到可憐的小女孩。

最重要的是，我想要謝謝這女生提醒了我，我並不是唯一一個會看到我兒子本質的人。我那不是在受苦、不是受許多限制、只是個普通人的兒子。

我只是一個人。

但我並不孤單。

JL碎念:

非常感人的文章。讓我是真心的邊翻譯邊流淚。

在我們用"悲憫"的眼神看者別人的時候，請適量的收起你氾濫的同情心。

原文在這裡: http://goo.gl/0jm3Ul

She was maybe six-years-old, smiling and ladylike in a gauzy white dress. The kind of dress that makes me want a daughter. The kind of smile that’s heavy on sugar and light on spice. She walked up to my son, as he wheeled in circles outside the sanctuary after church, and planted herself squarely in front of his wheelchair. They studied each other closely. He waved hello.

And then, without taking her eyes from his face, she said  “I feel sorry for him.”

I felt it more than I heard it. Deep in my stomach, in that place right below my breastbone. The place where I keep all my fears and my sadness. I felt it like a kick in the ribs.

Children ask all sorts of question about my son.

Why is he in that? Why can’t he walk? What’s wrong with him? Will he need that thing forever?

But questions are easy. For children, questions have answers.

“I feel sorry for him” is not a question. It is a statement of fact. A revelation. A public disclosure of something I know to be true. Although I fight against it and try to believe otherwise, I know there are many many people who feel the same. Many people who see my son, smiling and spinning and exploring his world, and they feel sorry. They feel sadness. But adults know how to filter. We know what not to say. We know to bottle up. This little girl was a leak in the system.

A system that tells her my son’s wheelchair is “very sad.”

A system that tells her he is a “poor thing.” 

A system that uses words like confined to, suffers from, and bound.

A system that prefers to see people like my son as victims, as recipients of charity, as less-fortunates waiting to be healed, rather than seeing them as neighbors, colleagues, teachers, and friends.

A system that tells her my son smiles “in spite of” rather than simply because he too is a child and has access to all the same earthly wonders that she does.

So I stood there shocked out of my comfort and fumbling around for words to make this right. I wanted so desperately to undo the damage done by a system that is still learning to accept my son. But I was tongue tied and clumsy as I mumbled something about “not needing to feel sorry…” And I walked away feeling like a failure. As if this little girl represented the whole world and I had missed my chance to set the record straight.

I realized I am very small. I am only one person.

Then last week, sitting by the pool with my husband and my splishy-splashy little boy, I heard it again. This time from a teen, maybe 19-years-old. He had seen us there a few times. Today he had a girl with him. A girl he liked. I could tell. He gestured in our direction.

“Something’s wrong with that kid” he whispered to her. “Did you see his back? He can’t walk. So sad…”

I felt it more than I heard it. And I put my head down waiting for her reply. Her agreement. Her inevitable recognition that yes, my child’s life is very very sad.

“It’s not sad” she said, looking at my son with so much kindness. “My brother was in the Special Olympics. Nothing sad about it. That kid is cute.”

And then my heart turned to mush and I closed my eyes to keep from crying.

I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her how rare she is. And how lovely. I wanted to believe she was once a little girl in a gauzy white dress.

More than anything, I wanted to thank her for reminding me that I am not the only one who sees my son for who he is. Unconfined, unbound, human.

I am only one person.

But I am not alone.