Slow Adults

When I was but 19, I lived briefly in Englewood, Colorado, a suburb of Denver. If I missed the first bus to work, I caught the second bus, which numerous retarded people also caught on their way to their work. It was a loopy good time, singing songs and sharing stories with these civil folk.

One weekend in downtown Denver, quite by accident, I ran into several of my retarded friends, who were busy talking to a businessman. My friends immediately pulled me into the conversation. The businessman assumed that if I already knew these folks, then I must be retarded too. None of my carefully-worded thoughts shook his considered judgment - he simply responded, in a slow sing-song voice: "So, do you go to a workshop every day too?"

It's fun trying to shake the settled opinion of someone who knows you are retarded. There is a certain contentment that comes from being misunderstood, despite one's best efforts. No need to pose: you can be exactly who you are, without apologies.

(After all is said and done, it's too bad Howard Dean didn't win the 2004 Democratic nomination.)