The Short Bus: A Journey Beyond Normal
by Jonathan Mooney
(An excerpt from Jonathan’s latest book, which chronicles the journey across America of a young man once labeled “severely learning disabled” as he find others who have used humor, imagination, and resiliency to create satisfying lives beyond “normal.”)
Prologue
I have to admit, in the spirit of full disclosure, that I once harbored aspirations of becoming an after-school special. On June 2, 2003, I was waiting in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in Manhattan for Ernest, an independent movie producer interested in optioning the story of my life. We were to have breakfast that morning with a producer from Merv Griffin Entertainment, during which I was to "pitch" myself as the subject for an after-school special.
Shifting my weight back and forth, I turned over the situation in my mind. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be leaving New York to fly to Los Angeles, where I had grown up, to pick up an old short school bus (the kind used to take some kids with disabilities to special ed programs). My plan was to transform this vehicle into a makeshift RV and depart from California on a two-month journey around the United States.
On the road I'd interview and spend time with people, like myself, who had once been labeled "abnormal" or "disabled." I wanted to see how they overcame - or didn't - being labeled different. I wanted to see the lives they fashioned for themselves. Waiting for Ernest, watching old ladies with plastic faces and big diamonds pass by, I suddenly realized that my trip really wasn't after-school-special material. I wanted to empower people, but I also wanted to be real, completely honest, and unsentimental.
A short-bus rider myself, I had grown up in special education, having been labeled learning disabled with attention problems at the end of third grade. I was one of those kids who grew up chilling out with janitors in the hallways; one of those kids who were always on a first-name basis with Shirley, the receptionist in the principal's office; one of those kids who grew up hiding in the bathroom to escape reading out loud. I dropped out of school for a while in sixth grade and had a plan for suicide by the time I was twelve. A high school guidance counselor confided that people like me ended up flipping burgers. That prediction did not come true; I eventually graduated from Brown University with an honors degree in literature and published a book, in part about my experiences. I had believed, when I arranged to meet the producer, that all this could be the subject of a movie. Now I was realizing I had to tell it my way.
Ernest, who had a handlebar mustache and wore a blue western vest, tapped me on the shoulder and escorted me to the restaurant, where we were to wait for the producer whom I thought of as the Man. Kind and quiet, Ernest looked like a fusion of accountant and, given the mustache, retired porn star. As we sat and drank coffee, he told me about his work. He had read my first book, Learning Outside the Lines, and thought my story was pretty inspiring stuff. "You are an American success story," Ernest said. I mulled that over as I ate my fancy eggs. Is that what I wanted, to be what television considered "inspiring"? After about fifteen minutes, the producer arrived, and Ernest rose to stand at attention. It was clear the Man made all the decisions.
I was used to selling myself, selling my story. So after the pleasantries, I leaned forward to deliver my well-rehearsed pitch, but something strange happened: when I opened my mouth nothing came out. My old song and dance about overcoming my "disability" seemed like a fraud. I had wanted this meeting but just couldn't do it. I couldn't speak about my resilient mom, or my determination to be successful, or even the injustice I faced in school. "Did I tell you all that I'm about to leave for a trip around the country in a special ed school bus?" I asked. Ernest looked downcast. After a little explanation of what a short bus was and who rode it, the conversation stopped. The Man adjusted his belt and said, "Why the hell would you do that?"
I did and did not have an exact answer to this question. My reasons for this trip shifted around like the sides of a Rubik's cube; the moment I thought I had something pinned down, the other side was screwed up, jumbled, and needed to be rearranged again. Why would I go back to my experiences of disability when I had transcended all that? What did I hope to find out there back in the bus? Sitting at that table, I was at a loss. What emerged, however, was as close to an answer as I could muster: "I'm going because of two kids, named Bobby and Clay."
From the Book The Short Bus: A Journey Beyond Normal by Jonathan Mooney.
Copyright © 2007 by Jonathan Mooney. Reprinted by arrangement with Henry Holt & Company, LLC.
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