Hi,
T.S. Carney here, suiting up to enter the chaos of urban public school education. I use humor as my vehicle—but today’s point is about literary editors who say they want real stories, then turn away from the real ones.
Switching hats—from my helmet to my memory cap.
Back in 2014, I was in special education teaching school (my second degree, already a teacher). There was a class where no matter what, I always got a “C.” The teacher hated me. (That matters.)
One lesson asked us to describe a time we were physically disabled. Perfect. I’ve got hospital stories—two spinal cord surgeries, long recoveries.
Mary Poppins mentioned her broken legs.
Charlie Shirtless came to class fresh from working out, showing off his nipples, talking about a muscle spasm. The teacher nodded, approved. These were “safe” stories. Approved trauma.
Then Regina Rigatoni spoke up: “I’ll admit it—I was scared of special ed kids. I cried when I saw them eating alone at lunch.” The teacher nodded harder. Regina faced trauma—by othering the “special ed kid,” making herself the saint.
I was sick of my classmates and sick of the teacher doubling down. I said, “I had spinal cord surgery. Fifteen hours. Had to relearn how to walk.”
The teacher paused, then said, “That’s disgusting,” and moved on.
(See? Told you her hating me was important.)
Originally, I was going to spin this into a triumph story. Me, the hero overcoming all odds.
But if you know me, that’s not me.
This memory didn’t cross my mind then, but it’s here now—and I wish it had.
I remember Alex, a girl from first grade. We had a stupid argument over a Clifford book. She said something mean, I stewed all night. The next day, I found out she was hit by a car riding her bike. She survived—but with a traumatic brain injury, permanently disabled.
I thought I caused it. Like my anger unleashed cosmic revenge. That guilt stayed with me.
When Alex came back, she was in a wheelchair, fed through tubes, with a robotic communication device. Seeing her like that in fourth grade—I laughed when I should have cried. Not because it was funny, but because it was unbearable.
Alex was held back, then advanced, but she never followed the usual grades. I don’t remember if I ever apologized for something I didn’t cause, but maybe I did. Back then, life hadn’t made me cynical.
I think again about Regina crying watching “the special ed kid” from a distance; and laughed then in my heroic moment of pride.
But the joke is on me.
Forget about my own personal story, but Alex’s story has no shot.
I stared trauma in the face, gave “the special kid” a name, a voice, a record of a human being who no one outside her family know she exists or existed…I described the emotions of guilty, sorrow, breaking that I feel now, felt in first grade, and echoed through the pain of my fourth grade self.
But Regina’s story will be the one published – it’s the one that’s approved.
Now, excuse me.
I need to put my helmet back on.
Today’s battle is underway.
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