This poem was written in 1984, when I was told I could not continue my education. That is, I could not attend college.

I was destroyed. Heartbroken. I felt like I had nothing left of my life—nothing else to give myself or to others.

I had worked hard to break through every barrier. Yet, no one wanted to guide me or acknowledge what I had done or what I could accomplish. They didn’t recognize who I really was or the good I could offer. Nor did they want to listen to my words and the importance of what I said. They would not give me the opportunity, much less the support I needed to fulfill my very achievable dreams.

What would happen to me? Was I going to rot my life away? Was I going to end up in an institution because the IQ test could not measure my intelligence correctly? Sadly, this test can’t measure the IQ of a person like me, someone with dyslexia.

How would I care of myself? How would I live on my own and pay for food, rent, and utilities? How would I survive after my mother died?

I was a grown woman by then, thirty-four years old. It took me five years. Even after I won my suit against the State of California to get my Associate of Arts degree, and I got it with honors, but most people at that age already have degrees. By then, they probably have two or more and hold positions in the field of their choice. and I had five more years to go.

All the so-called experts looked at me as if I were inferior, a box of produce damaged in shipment, but I had to make something of myself. When the California State Department of Rehabilitation deemed me mentally retarded for the third time, I knew they would not help me.

I had worked my whole life for what? Nothing, not even to give to others like I desired. The experts kept shattering my dreams. One counselor, who was deaf, mute, and without compassion, told me I had scattered thoughts. That was how he interpreted my variety of interests, but they were all normal interests, such as dancing, listening to music, reading poetry, and wanting a career in fitness.

At that moment, I felt destroyed. I felt like the ruins of the Parthenon. How was I going to rebuild my life? How was I going to become that person I so desperately wanted to be?

I was nothing more than a shell. I had nothing to look forward to. I had no reason to live, no purpose to wake up for. So I made a reason each day.

Another counselor asked me how I could teach dance with CP and only one functioning arm. One counselor believed in me, but after working with me for three years, he accepted a promotion and left me behind. No one else worked with me or gave me a chance to prove myself. I was hung out to rot with a Social Security check and told I would earn more on SSI than by working. I had no tools at hand to reach my goals and no hope of making my life happen.

In those days, there were no agencies to lend support with compassion to people with disabilities. I day-dreamed of becoming a recreation director and dance teacher. When I told them, the experts all looked dazed with disbelief. Like I could never amount to anything.

But, even though I felt helpless, and no one helped me, I had a fire in my belly. Deep in my inner spirit, I found strength and began rebuilding my life. I found my voice and self. I moved heaven and earth and won a lawsuit that opened the doors to higher education for all disabled people in California, thus changing my life forever. The process of claiming my own right to an education became a way for me to help others, not just myself.

The image of these ruins gave me strength and an inner power that none of those experts in the field could find it in their souls to give. I gave it to myself. I couldn’t give up on myself.

With all my will and power, I searched and found a flicker of light. I kept going and found reasons to keep going. You can, too.

GREEK PARTHENON

My life
Is like the Greek Parthenon
Standing in its own
Ruins
Empty
Never to be built again!