Ben Mattlin's Blog

I’m sorry…

Memoirs are based on memories. They are not reportage of facts. They shouldn’t lie exactly, of course, but
part of the bargain between memoirist and reader includes an understanding that
this is just one person’s subjective version of true events. The story as told is true to the writer’s
memory.

Nevertheless, I feel I must apologize to my readers. In my memoir, miracle boy grows up, I quoted
from my college application essay. I
quoted from memory, which is to say I made it up. The gist was true, but the actual quotations
were manufactured. Since I was only
quoting myself, I figured there was no harm.
I also figured there was no choice.
I didn’t have an actual copy of the essay at hand and didn’t think I
could get one, since it was 30 years gone. But I was wrong.

I have now acquired a copy of the essay that helped me win
acceptance at Harvard back in 1980. (A
version of the same essay was sent to all the colleges to which I applied;
there was no comment at in those days.)
And boy, did I get it wrong!
Please note, however, that this was the first time I’d endeavored to
write about my disability, and it does pretty well reflect events depicted in
the memoir. It’s just that the actual
quotations couldn’t be farther from the truth.

For instance, in the book I wrote:

I focus on how TV- and
comic-book-fueled fantasies “suffused my relationships with the physical
world.” From the Mighty Thor to Captain Kirk and, perhaps especially, Chief
Ironside, I’ve spent much of my life “identifying with embattled overachievers.
Is it escapism because I can’t face my own reality? Perhaps. But there is more
to it,” I propose.

My larger-than-life heroes, trapped in alien and sometimes hostile
worlds “as our barrier-laden society often seems to me,” I write, “invariably
prove themselves to be smarter, braver, and stronger than people expect. They
give me hope and a model for patience and self-determination that I strive to
emulate.”

Lots of SAT words in there. I’m particularly proud of the line: “Then
adolescence struck, and I’ll never forgive it!”

So here, for historical accuracy, is the actual
essay—verbatim, with the most relevant parts highlighted—and submitted to
Harvard at the end of 1979. It was
accompanied by two supplemental essays (which I think were better), to
reinforce the point that, even then, I saw myself as a writer in training. I’ll post the supplemental writing samples
separately.

Here it is. And
please forgive me for my inadvertent deception:

Ben
Mattlin - 1

I am told that the first sign of my handicap was my inability to
sit up by myself at seven months. In
time, I was diagnosed as being mentally retarded, which my parents found
absurd. After years of examinations by a horde of doctors, I had a muscle
biopsy and was reported to have spinal muscular atrophy, a rare, inherited,
neuromuscular disease that, in my case, is stable rather than progressive.
Little is known of it, and nothing as yet can be done to cure it.

I attended a nursery school and kindergarten for
“normal” children, I have a sense that I was very serious and aloofly
observant of the otherg, though thie probably is not true. More likely, this
was an image of what

I wanted to be. I admired
the serious, the uninvolved, the nonconformist. This might have been a
subsconscious defense against any social discomforts I may have had. If I was insecure about being
physically different —— inferior —— what better way to reassure myself than to
disassociate myself from the majority on the basis of spiritual or mental superiority.
I

tend to deny this and say that I vas
inclined to be serious because my idols, television characters like Captain
Kirk and Mr. Spock, the rough— and—ready Cartwright family, and Ironside, were serious
and rather gruff.

Of all of my idols,
Ironside is the most significant. Not only was he tough, serious, and wise; he,
too, was confined to a wheelchair. I felt that I, like Ironside, could defend
myself if necessary. When my friends saw a James
Bond movie, they imagined themselves able to fight off physical threats. I, too, had such fantasies. I could not “kick back,” and I
accepted that, but I was confident that I could pay back any other child who
“assaulted” me - by thinking. My unusual circumstance had honed my mental preparedness. Logic, rather than brawn, would be my
retaliation.

This is not to say that my childhood was a succession of fights.
With my bent for dramatic tension, I may have preferred it that way, but
reality had something else in mind. Something gentler, After kindergarten, I
attended the Walden School, the only non-specialized private school that was
willing to accept a student in a wheelchair. I soon made many friends who
helped me reach things and pushed me wherever I wished — even around the bases
at top speed in our whiffle ball games.

I left Walden after eighth grade, because I wanted to go to a
more academic schocl. Walden’s philosophy of education deals more with developing
students’ personalities than exercising their brains. I say this scoffingly, not because I do not
believe in social education, but rather because that often beeomes a guise for
a lack of intellectual education. I transferred to the Rudolf Steiner School.
Although it had steps at the entrance and was equipped with only a one—man
elevator, it agreed to take on my disability. For the school, it was a new
frortier; for me, it was old hat.

Then adolescence set in, and I'11 nevor forgive it. Not only was I a stranger in a new school, I became a stranger
to myself. My admiration
of the aloof had developed into acute sarcasm and anti—sociability. I found that these qualities were not
appreciated at Steiner. (They had not been
popular at Walden, either, but Walden was bigger, and I was part of a group of
anti-“socialites.”) I had difficulty relating to my classmates at
Steiner – and they had difficulty relating to me, and my handicap. I soon found
it hard to distinguish between who really liked
me and who sympathized with me. I became insecure. I was unsure of every movement I made
and rarely spoke out in class. I felt doomed to inadequacy. If anyone ever offers
me the opportunity to relive my early teens, I will refuse immediately.

I had another problem in ninth grade: I was due to have a back
operation in the summer and didn’t expect to return to school until November. I
told no one in school for fear of eliciting more pity. Over the summer, I decided
it was time for a change. The solution to the problem of cloying solicitousness
was in me, in my attitude. If
I accepted my condition (and I always had before), my classmates could do no
less! Phase one of the program was candor about the operation, While in
the hospital, I wrote an article for the school news—magazine explaining my absence. It
summarizes my hospital experience; a copy is enclosed.

Next, I had to be more active and more friendly. I joined every extracurricular
group I could. Getting to know as many people as possible became my
all—important goal. I enjoyed school, or rather the people in school,
tremendously. My antisociality faded! Tenth grade was replete with
achievements: a broader circle of friends, closer friendships, and a starring
role in the class production of Kaufinan and Hart’s You Can’t Take It With You. I attended nearly every school dance (and
even a dance at another school), went out with friends, and attended the annual
farewell—seniors party. The year’s achievements were epitomized by a yearbook
full of flattering messages.

My growth did not stop there. I gained more confidence and
established closer friendships – with members of both sexes — in eleventh
grade. This year I feel even more confident and relaxed. Social amenities now come
naturally. I am glad I learned what I did about self—confidence and sociability,
for I believe that to be an important key to happiness. One cannot wait for friends and
blessings to come simply on their own. And I am happy too in other aspects of
my life. Even the divorce of my parents has not proved entirely detrimental: it
has left me free of many of the restrictions of family that plague so many of
my peers.

As for senior year: despite the increased workload, I am fully
enjoying this year, devoted to the idea of instilling more confidence in the
freshmen than I had — without losing my senior image, of course.

The End

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