I can do it too. Look at me! - Laura Popa

It’s an autumn day, 13 years ago, and we’re taking Corina to school together.

She no longer negotiates for a few more minutes of sleep when the alarm goes off - she even wakes up before everyone else. Her white shirt with blue dots is placed on the back of the chair so it doesn’t “get ugly.” The pants look like they’ve already been worn by someone else.

She falls asleep every night looking at her clothes, afraid they’ll disappear if she closes her eyes.

She doesn’t want to eat at home, but she makes sure not to forget the sandwich her mother prepared and left on the kitchen table. She grabs it with both hands and puts it in the red backpack that I also had in ninth grade. She had her eye on it ever since I bought it.

She struggles to put on her shoes and asks me to help her. Her left foot turns inward, as it always does.

We climb the stairs to the exit of the building where we live in the basement. She stumbles on the last few steps. The noise of cars and people rushing to work distracts her from her path.

“What are you going to do today?” I ask her.
She squeezes my hand tighter as we reach a crosswalk. She looks at me. Behind her thick glasses, her eyes seem even larger, but she doesn’t say anything.

Once we reach the other side, she lets go of my hand, adjusts her backpack, and we continue on our way to school. She still has her left foot turned inward.

“Are you coming after me?” she asks as she prepares to climb the stairs to her classroom. It’s on the second floor, so with each step she clings to the thin black railing with both hands.

Her face lights up when she finds out that I’ll be picking her up from school. She kisses me and says, “Bye, I’ll go on my own from here.”

With my hand empty, I watch my 7-year-old sister walk alone through the door of the preparatory class. She smiles and waves at me. The last thing I see is her red backpack.

Corina didn’t know it then, but in a few weeks she would be going to another school. She wasn’t wanted at the one I took her to.

You may wonder why.
Because she wasn’t used to sitting at a desk.
Or to the discipline imposed by someone who didn’t understand why Corina would stare out the window for minutes on end.
Or why she needed to go to the bathroom more often than other children.

So my parents had to find her another school.
And then another.
And then another.

In total, Corina went through four schools. Without a support teacher - because the state considered that she could manage on her own. This despite the fact that she only learned to write her name in third grade. And when reading, the last letter becomes the first, which still confuses her.

The only support system for Corina?
Two parents who didn’t accept that their child was not like the first one
- and a sister she still tries to imitate in everything.

It’s half past three and I’m rushing to pick her up from school. My classes were extended, so I’m running late. I know she’s safe at after-school care, but I don’t want her to be the last one there - like I used to be. So I run to school.

She’s not the last one. In fact, her teacher is there too, not just the after-school lady. “Great,” I think to myself as I look for Corina.

“We need to talk,” the teacher tells me.
I notice she’s upset. Maybe I was too late, so I apologize.

“No, that’s not what this is about,” she replies, already turning toward Corina.
“Gather your things while I talk to your sister,” she says coldly, almost like an order.

Corina doesn’t look at me at all.

I follow the teacher down the hallway. It is empty and smells strongly of a sports locker room. She looks me straight in the eyes.

“Have your mother or father bring her tomorrow. I need to talk to them about Corina’s behavior,” she tells me.

I try to find out what happened, but the teacher seems determined to keep it a secret.
Only Mom and Dad can understand - that seems to be her explanation.

“But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to think carefully about whether Corina’s place is among quiet… normal children,” she adds after a pause. She’s no longer looking at me.

The classroom door opens and Corina comes out. She walks straight to me. She takes my hand and waits.

“So tomorrow with your mom or dad, we’re agreed, Corina?” the teacher says instead of goodbye.

Corina says nothing.
She leans against the railing again, this time with only one hand. With the other, she holds me tightly.

I want to ask her what happened, but I’m afraid. It wouldn’t be the first time someone complained about her - that she’s not paying attention, that she doesn’t understand, that she moves too slowly, that she gets upset when she can’t use glue, that she wants to hug her classmates too often.
That she’s not like the others.

“How was school?” I ask her anyway as we leave.

“The teacher made me eat alone in the hallway,” she replies.
I ask her why.

“Because that’s where the crazy kids go,” she tells me as she adjusts her red backpack.

Over the next 13 years, I lived the same day with Corina countless times.
At one of the four schools, at social services, at the playground, or at our aunt’s house - who says that the reason the child turned out this way is because we live in a basement apartment.

Today, Corina is 20 years old.
For the state, she is one of the nearly one million people with “disabilities” in the country. She receives 80 lei per month for this. Only if her condition worsens will she receive more.

She still can’t tie her shoelaces herself - but she doesn’t need to. She wears Velcro shoes.

She only goes out by herself to the corner shop, but she knows how to choose the best tomatoes there.

She still makes mistakes when writing messages on WhatsApp, but often sends voice messages instead.

She doesn’t have a large group of friends, but Mara came to her birthday party - the girl she does sports with on Fridays.

As a family, we did what we thought was best for Corina. We haven’t been able to help her go very far, just like many families with disabled children in Romania.

So next time you pass someone on the street whose feet turn inward, and it annoys you that they walk slowly, maybe you can find a little more patience in yourself.

It might even be Corina - who ventured farther than the corner shop today.
And today she ventured all the way here, into this hall, to see what her story means to others.