What intergenerational disability solidarity looks like for my PDA child.
It started with sheer joy.
"Mama!" my 8-year-old son 'Kiddo' said. "Let's go to the Lantern Parade!"
Of course he was excited. So was I.
This annual Boston event is magical: families in Halloween costumes carry handmade lanterns around Jamaica Pond at night. The moving lights reflect off the dark water like fairies.
But I was also nervous, because the Lantern Parade is a big, loud crowd, with hundreds of people milling around and community bands playing by the shore.
That kind of stimulation is not in my safe circle... or in Kiddo's. I knew our bodies would be stressed, even if it sounded fun.
But it's rare that Kiddo wants to leave the house, and he was in an expansion phase of his safe circle cycles. I decided the risk was worth it for the adventure. So, we grabbed our things and got in the car.
Sure enough, as soon as we arrived, Kiddo's body tightened. He criticized everything from the costumes to the music ("They're playing the Star Wars theme SO BADLY!" and fixated on finding someone—anyone—we knew in the crowd.
I took deep breaths and tapped on my chest to regulate my own nervous system.
We picked out a lantern, found our neighbors, and quickly agreed we needed to get the heck out of there.
As we crossed the street to head back home, we came upon a man with no lower legs making painfully slow progress in his wheelchair. I asked if he'd like a push.
He gratefully said yes, and Kiddo stepped in.
Immediately, my child's body relaxed. His face lit up. And for the twenty-five minutes it took him to roll our new friend (I'll call him Bob) four blocks, the three of us chatted happily.
"I have a hidden disability," Kiddo explained. "But I've never met anyone in a wheelchair before!"
We learned that Bob had lost both legs to infection and lost his housing when it was sold out from under him. He was hopeful about finding new housing soon and planned to get himself a cell phone. He loved science, current events, and meditation.
We shared about our work at The PDA Safe Circle. Kiddo and Bob talked about astronomy and physics, and Bob marveled at how much Kiddo knew.
We wheeled Bob to the ice cream shop and sat down together for a treat. Bob was wondering who had discovered some of the rare elements in the periodic table—and wouldn't you know it, Kiddo had just watched a YouTube video about that exact subject!
Before we left, I gave Bob my number and told him I hoped he'd call when he got his new phone. We'd genuinely love to keep in touch.
What made this night special wasn't that my child pushed a man in a wheelchair three blocks.
It was that everyone was genuinely served by the encounter.
Kiddo had a meaningful job that engaged his body in heavy, regulating work after sensory overstimulation. He met a disabled elder, learned his story, and connected over shared interests.
I got help from another adult who was delighted to engage my overwhelmed, tired child.
And Bob got an easier ride to the ice cream shop, some surprising company, and maybe even some new friends.
I love that my child has a strong, positive identity as disabled. I love how that identity helped him connect easily with an elder in a wheelchair who needed a push.
I don't glorify Bob's suffering, or the terrible inequities that leave disabled elders sleeping on the streets in major American cities.
But I do celebrate the ways genuine human connection can form around moments of need. The ways our strengths can fill each other's cups. How darn good it feels to be of service to one another—and to be both a helper and a receiver.
That's also what we're building inside The PDA Safe Circle: a community where we can share our gifts when we have capacity, and receive support when we're in need.
If you're ready for a meaningful community of PDAers and the people who love us, The PDA Safe Circle is here for you.
Disability is a fact of human life.
Isolation and overwhelm do not have to be.
Towards thriving for all,
Rabbi Shoshana
