The Lucky One

A coworker said to me the other day, “do you think retarded people are happier?”

Well, let's see... Are you happier?

My coworker continued. “Do you think retarded people know that they’re retarded? I don’t think they do. I have a fear that I’m actually retarded, and nobody tells me, they just let me go around thinking I’m smart.”

Ugh. Do you see what I have to work with?

There is no way that my coworker could have known this, but my stepbrother is mentally disabled. It’s not super severe-- he can walk, talk, dress himself-- but he’ll never be able to hold down any kind of job, or even live on his own without some kind of help.

Ever see the movie I Am Sam, with Sean Penn? That’s about the level of my stepbrother, Lucky. He was named after my stepmother’s father, and by utter coincidence, my father is also named Lucky. I kept the tradition alive, and BK’s middle name is also Lucky.

I first met Lucky when I was 18 and he was 8. My parents had just split up, and I wasn’t all that happy about being introduced to what would soon be my new family. But my heart began to thaw a bit when I saw Lucky. He was a cutie. He was having trouble walking (I learned later that his hips weren’t strong enough to support his weight), but he could carry on a conversation well enough. He invited me to play the latest Madden game on his Nintendo or Sony or whatever was cool to have in 1993. He could tell me each player on the team, their position, their number, and if they were good or bad.

And yet, he couldn’t write his name or tell time.

I totally dug on Lucky. Yes, he was simple, but he was kind. He had a huge heart. He didn’t think evil of anyone.

And yes he was happier than I was. I was worried about college and my rent and paying for groceries, he had none of those worries. But he also enjoyed more, hurt more, lived more. Everything he felt, he felt…. More.

All through school, he had a special friend, a girl named Layla who was also mentally disabled. Lucky always said he was going to marry Layla someday. She was small and frail and looked like she needed protecting, but her spirit was as strong as Lucky’s. She was struck and killed by a car when she crossing the street when she was 17. The driver fled the scene and was never found.

That was 10 years ago. He still talks about her.

So, when my ignorant coworker thought he was being witty when he asked if retarded people were happier,  I could only give one answer:

“Yes, they are. Because unlike other people, they can still see the joy in every day things. But they also hurt more, because they don’t understand how evil people can exist in the world.”