People who have been diagnosed as developmentally disabled – especially those with mental retardation, get a bum rap from the get-go, and here’s why: everything they do is sort of suspect, demonstrating they’re not up to speed with the rest of us.

I have a friend named Sylvia, whose mother sent her to our state institution when she was seven years old because she had a hard time learning to read and boys in school bullied her. Since Sylvia’s mom had no idea who Sylvia’s father was, and so many other boyfriends were on the horizon, it seemed to her a good idea to send Sylvia away. The social worker probably thought that at least Sylvia would be protected from her mother’s life. So Sylvia was diagnosed and labeled mentally retarded (this was what they called it back then, so back off, you p.c. Nazis.)

Sylvia grew up in the institution. Because she was so bright, they gave her extra work to do. She worked in the laundry and the cafeteria, and did her jobs well. No one thought to teach Sylvia to read and write, but through valiant effort, she taught herself, enough to print out words and read most signs and advertisements. By the time she was eighteen, her younger sister Vicky came to visit her, saw how ridiculous it was that Sylvia had been sentenced to this life, and sprung her.

The night Vicky brought Sylvia home, her mother, always the loving and caring sort, threw Sylvia out into the street after a bitter argument. It was snowing. Sylvia knew one other person in her neighborhood, who had also been in the state institution but was home now. He was ten years older, his name was Dan, and Sylvia trudged through the snow to his door. He let her in and impregnated her that very night.

She never considered an abortion. She didn’t know for sure what one was. When she delivered her baby boy in the hospital, the nurse came in, clipboard in hand, looking at Sylvia’s record of institutionalization. “How are you doing?” said the nurse. “Any questions?”

“Yes!” said Sylvia. “How will I know when he’s hungry?”

Now see, this was the very question I asked after delivering my baby girl. And for me the nurse smiled, patted my shoulder, and said, “Don’t you worry, honey. She’ll let you know, I promise.”

But when Sylvia asked the very same question, the nurse said, “I’ll be right back,” then called a social worker immediately, and told the social worker this baby was in jeopardy because the mother was mentally retarded, and proceedings began to take Sylvia’s baby away. She succeeded in fighting them at the hospital and winning. But a later episode, involving the dreaded father of the baby, who proceeded to hit Sylvia, resulted in Sylvia’s calling for police protection, and then they did indeed take her baby away.

For a short while. Because Sylvia got away from the father with a court injunction to leave her alone, then marched herself to Legal Services, who represented her at the Supreme Court of Utah, and got her ruling overturned. Sylvia got her baby back, and found a fine man to marry, and they are living quite happily ever after. I see her every now and then, and she calls me to check in and report how thrilled she is with her life in the community.

Sylvia’s story is just the tip of the iceberg. My sister Irene, who had a brain injury at birth, and has the same diagnosis as Sylvia’s, hoards candy when she can. She hides it in purses at the back of her closet, under her underwear in her drawer, behind her sweaters on a shelf. Her staff goes after it, because she really can’t have candy because of her diabetes, but what she’s doing is perfectly normal. I know a really chubby Stanford graduate who does exactly the same thing. But Irene is told it’s not normal to hide your candy.

Irene loves dolls. She is 63 years old and she loves dolls, especially baby dolls. She likes to dress them and talk to them, and she loves to watch movies with babies in them. Her staff director keeps insisting we don’t indulge this babyish whim of hers, and says she can’t have any more dolls, because it’s not normal. My cousin Jenny, age 60, heard about this and invited Irene and me over to her house. It is simply filled with dolls. She belongs to the state and national doll collecting societies, and has one of the more outstanding collections in the country. (Her husband became alcoholic and they divorced, but let us not speculate here.) My point is, lots of normal people do fairly odd things and get away with it just fine.

I believe in the younger generation when it comes to understanding these things. After all, they push the envelope with everything from bright purple hair to tattoos. I have seen the toughest looking young people, complete with the black leather boots and chains dangling everywhere a la Hell’s Angels, and they are hired staff at group homes. When you hear them speak to the residents of the group homes, the kindest compassion and understanding spring forth from their souls. I am always dumfounded, because on first glance, I have labeled them, too, and were scared as hell of them.

My sister has two magnetic signs on her refrigerator door. One says, “Normal people worry me.” The other says, “The only normal people are the ones you don’t know too well.” Well, amen.

(Originally published at GoArticles and reprinted with permission from the author, Terrell Harris Dougan).