"Como Sufre!" ("Oh how she/he suffers")
It was one of the most frustrating things about my beloved grandmother, Bertha—each time she would spend a few moments with my son, she would inevitably say, "Aye pobrecito, mi creatura, como sufre."  Each and every time I would say to her, "Does it really look like Zachary is suffering? He is healthy, he is happy, he is funny. So he needs a little bit of help. What part of his life seems like he is suffering?"  Her reply, "Oh mija, you don't know how much it hurts me to see him struggle." I would pose the question again. She would dismiss me and eventually drop the suffering bit.

On some days, she would literally cry when she saw him exerting great effort to get up on the sofa, or make a grunting sound when he wanted her to play with him on the floor. She would do the sign of the cross and make it a point to tell me to pray for his healing. I never understood her inability to look beyond my son's disability. Zachary may have cerebral palsy, but cerebral palsy certainly doesn't have him.

I wonder how much of an impact our culture and our religious beliefs affect those with disabilities.

The Healing of a Healthy Child
This past Christmas, my family took a trip to Santa Fe, N.M. Just on the outskirts, is a special chapel in a town called Chimayo. The santuario, the location of a miracle, contains a dirt pit known for its healing powers. When we were younger my brother was diagnosed with rheumatic fever and a heart murmur. My mother is convinced that his health was restored the day she rubbed dirt over his heart and legs. With excitement, she made sure we stopped at this sacred place to have my son blessed. I humored her, until the day we arrived. As I pushed my son up the hill in his wheelchair, the conversation she had with him angered me, "We're here to make you all better, Zachary. I want to hear you talk. I want to see you all better."

I did not participate in his "healing", instead I waited outside the small room where my parents rubbed dirt all over my son's healthy body, praying for the mending of his brokenness. While I waited outside, I was taken aback by the row of crutches that lined the wall and the tiny hip cast that read, "Gracias Santito, para la salud de mi hija."  I knew my little one had not been the first, nor would he be the last to be "healed" by the dirt of Chimayo.

This "healing" wasn't the first time my family had invoked the power of God for my son. We weren't raised in a strong Catholic home, so I was a bit surprised by my mother's persistence the day she wanted to take Zachary, who was then three years old, to see a priest known for his healing powers. The priest, the newspaper claimed, had special healing hands and he would only be in El Paso for one night. There was no charge but donations were welcomed.

I was shocked at the amount of people waiting outside. When they saw my little one, they moved to one side and allowed him to go to the front. As they did, people shouted ahead, "Un bebe, muevanse." That night we would wait for over three hours, in the perilously hot Catholic Church. Among those needing to be healed were elderly who could barely walk, children with Down's syndrome, and a handful of children in wheelchairs or walkers. Zachary was so patient. Although he stared at the priest with a look of concern when the healing hands were placed upon him, he never flinched and never cried. There was no miracle that night—Zachary never did walk or talk. But it was the first time I asked myself how far I would go to have a "perfect" child.

The hurtful search for blame
When we believe that a person with a disability is less than, is suffering, or needs to be healed-- what impact do these beliefs have on a person's self-worth?  As a culture, do Latinos place more emphasis on inability rather than ability? Do we quietly place blame on parents who have children with disabilities?  Do we place blame on the person with a disability?  One of the most hurtful things someone ever said to me was that I must have been very bad for God to curse me with such a burdensome life and such a sick child.

I love being Hispanic. My culture, my heritage is part of who I am. But I also fear this culture that tells me that my child's disability is the work of the devil. I fear those who pray incessantly for the healing of their loved ones, all the while missing out on the perfection that is truly before them.

Realizing the blessings before us
How far are we willing to go for perceived perfection?  Although it took a few healing rituals, a few unanswered prayers, and a lot of self-doubt, I finally realized the blessing I have before me. Although my little one does not walk, God has blessed him with the ability to figure out how to get where he needs to be. Although my little one cannot talk, God has blessed him with the creativity to fashion his own sign language with the one arm that moves, so that he can tell people he wants his Magna Doodle.

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