It was a dark and stormy night when I sprained my ankle.
OK, fine. It was actually a bright and sunny morning. I walked down the D hall staircase, on my way from fifth to sixth period. I miss a step, and — boom! — I’m sitting on the landing, keeling over in pain.
After a brief stint in the emergency room, I am presented with tools of terror that I must use for the next two weeks: crutches. The thwack, thwack, thwack of their movement is still stuck in my head, like a nightmare of times long past.
Admittedly, this story does not sound very thankful yet.
I am not going to sugarcoat the experience of being on crutches. It sucks. Thoroughly. I was lucky to only need them for two weeks. I am thankful for the actions of others, directly and indirectly, who made my experience so much easier.
The noticeable part is the flexibility provided. You get two minutes extra during passing period, but that is not nearly enough time to hobble across the building. No worries, because my teachers were understanding and allowed me longer.
But the less obvious things affected me more. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) dictates that public infrastructure, including schools, have to accommodate those with mobility disabilities. Coppell High School is no different: two elevators let you access the upper hallways.
However, they are not rickety, old contraptions built to meet a law. No, they are safe, comfortable and fast.
Ramps outside the school aren’t pockmarked like other facilities: they’re smooth and stable, even though a minority of the population actually needs it. Even the front doors of CHS have buttons to open the doors, meaning the disabled do not need to lean awkwardly against a heavy door just to get inside.
Behind all these facilities is kindness, and I noticed that most in people’s actions. It is the small interactions, the ones they probably forget minutes later. The teacher who let me complete a station activity at my seat. The administrator who helped adjust my crutches to be more comfortable. The countless students and teachers holding the door for me. Even Principal Laura Springer, who helped me find a place to sit during a pep rally without being trampled on.
I think we live in a world that often forgets empathy. A world that often forgets to extend a hand to those lagging behind us, figuratively and literally. I am thankful that my campus does not forget the disabled.
While I still hear the thwack of crutches in my imaginary trauma, the thoughtfulness of others left a permanent mark on me during a time I needed it most.
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