Down Syndrome Etiquette

After a grueling Saturday of impromptu coffee dates and Street Fighter 4, I made my way out to Claire’s house for pre-drinks. It was a belated birthday celebration with a bunch of her friends, and we were going to head into Black Widows, a goth/industrial club in Melbourne’s CBD.

I boarded at Parliament and quickly left the city loop. Arriving at Richmond, I see a bunch of people in Rugby jackets waiting to get on as we roll in. I’m sitting in a priority seat facing forward staring at the wall, but I do my usual peripheral glance at the door in-case any attractive people of the feminine genre were to board (the future Mrs. Townsend could come from anywhere, after all.)

A bunch of people get on. Two of them are in Melbourne Storm jackets, one appears to be the father of the other, who has down syndrome.

The father is standing next to my seat, and I never saw his face. His son stood infront of my seat, then looked down at me. I smile at him with the best “purely innocent” and “friendly” smile I can muster. It’s my most welcoming facial expression, that covers the gamut of “hey, I think you’re cute” to “sorry to see you lost 2 of your limbs there, bud!”

I remember I’m sitting in a priority seat, and with all of the other seats taken, I find myself unsure of what to do.

He seems fine standing. He’s dressed more appropriately than me, and is probably fitter than I am due to the regular caloric abuse I put my body through. The train has been moving for 5 minutes and I’m working through a fierce internal debate. “What if I offended him by offering him my seat?” I ask myself. He’s no invalid, he obviously doesn’t need my pity. He’s fine standing and in no visible discomfort, so maybe I should just stay put.

Had it been an old or pregnant lady, there wouldn’t have been so many question marks.

Then he made a noise.

To me it was indeterminable other than somehow being about the game he just went to.

“What about those fireworks?” his father asked.

“Yeah!” he exclaimed, with such a joyous, pure and innocent expression of happiness. The second the sound died out, I immediately felt a deep need to break down crying. My eyes began misting up, but I quickly regained my composure.

Why?

He seems happy. Active. He will be blissfully ignorant to what he is missing out on (in my opinion) and truth be told, with my fully functioning brain and level of intelligence, I can’t remember the last time I sounded that happy. Ever.

I usually get like this around the disabled. It is a part of some weird thing inside me where if I see a disabled person, I suddenly a feel pressure on my core self. A question is asked inside me that goes along the lines of “Look at them, and look at you. What are you doing? Why aren’t you better? Why havent you cured cancer yet, saved more lives?”

You only have to be moderately rational to realize the idiocy of those questions, but they come up every time.

I think if I had to spend 10 minutes in a room full of people with mental disabilities, I’d hit the floor in the foetal position and be reduced to a crying mess.

The worst thing about that is it is as deeply rooted in compassion and empathy as it is in narcissism.

I get the same stab at my core when I see a beautiful woman. But the question, as well as the reaction, are much different.. and another discussion entirely.

It’s been 15 minutes and I haven’t moved.. immobilized by my own neurotic thoughts. The priority seat opposite me is vacated, and he sits in it.

I look at him. He seems lost, looking into the distance. It was then I realized I should have just offered him my seat. I doubt he has my egocentric needs, so why would he have taken it personally if I offered him a place to sit? I’d bet blowjobs to donuts he doesn’t have a tenth of my insecurities, so why would he immediately perceive me to be taking pity on him, and consequently take offense? He’s probably more of a human being than I am.. one that would beget courtesy with more courtesy, rather than try to instigate a dick measuring contest.

To be free of those macho pressures, and whatever other societal bullshit would surely be bliss.

But I guess, given the choice, I’d still choose the life with the burden of knowledge and intelligence, even though it’d sentence me to a life of living up to arbitrary ideals to achieve even half of the life I want.

But that’s another story.