What the hell am I supposed to call my uncle? No, really. I have no idea what kind of title he is supposed to have. When talking to people who are not familiar about my family it is necessary to explain some basic things that will make the conversation go much more smoothly. Things like I am an only child (this explains a lot) and my uncle is retarded. Then of course, I get the look. The look that says “oh, now that isn’t very nice. I am quite sure your uncle would not appreciate you saying that about him.” Then I have to clarify: “No, I mean he really is mentally retarded.” This statement will sometimes still meet resistance. You can see the lack of understanding in their eyes as they look to me longing for more information so they can be in the know. Because, as it stands now, they think they are looking at an incredibly rude and insensitive person.
You see, Pharris is profoundly mentally retarded. He didn’t mature much past the age of about four years old. He is a perpetual child: a real life Peter Pan. He never has to grow up. His whole life he has loved Elvis, Johnny Cash, The Beatles, Matchbox cars, tools and a doll named Kinney. There has also been a steady stream of black and white rat terriers named either Midget or Sparky. These names don’t really ever change. Pharris loves any type of hat but has a particular soft spot for baseball hats. He loves to show you his wallet, ask you what time it is and tell you “pretty shirt” while he pokes himself in the chest. All the while he has your hand in a death grip while he is pumping it up and down in a very enthusiastic hand shake. He loves people. He loves being around people who make lots of noise. The origin of the noise doesn’t matter so much. It could be his brother’s airplane, my son’s ear drum piercing screams, my other son's sounds of playing, a barking dog or loud music. He just loves being where there is life. Part of me believes he wants the noise because his mother was an incredibly loud person and he needs something to fill the void that was created when she died. Another part of me believes that he just loves the energy that is intrinsic where there is a circumstance that involves noise. When there are moments of silence he seems to turn off. As though he is reserving his energy for the moments that he can capture someone’s attention and monopolize their time. When I say turn off, it is more like standby on a computer. The machine is running but there is very little being processed. Then as soon as someone comes into the room he flickers to life immediately.
So, if “retarded” is a word that is not widely accepted as a term to describe people like Pharris, what is? I am not quite sure but I think the term that is in fashion is mentally challenged. There have been so many different terms that I get them confused: retarded, mentally handicapped, mentally challenged, differently-abled. They just seem to get more and more obscure. All my life I have called Pharris retarded. His mental development was retarded. It makes sense to me. It doesn’t seem at all offensive. He doesn’t seem to mind to be called retarded. But, he does hate being stared at. As I mentioned, he has the abilities of about a four or five year old. But I always say he has fifty years experience. His intelligence is not based on what he knows so much, but how much he understands. He knows when people are judging him. He understands what their looks mean. Generally, he will look back at the people until they look away. It is amazing watching these people. If I am with Pharris I will stare back at he people. They seem to have no regard for Pharris as a person until they realize that I am there, too. Then they snap to attention when their eyes pan to me. I am fiercely protective of Pharris. I don’t want anyone looking at him as though he were not a person. It makes me incredibly angry that people can be so insensitive. Years ago I was friends with someone that was very uncomfortable being around Pharris. I understand that. Not everyone is comfortable being around someone like him. That’s cool, I get it. One particular reaction to his was unconscionable. Jennifer and I were at a local burger joint one afternoon after we had spent the morning with my family. I am not sure how we even got on the topic. I think I may have made a mention about her obvious discomfort at being about Pharris. She returned with a comment referring to him as “it.” I was so shocked that she would even refer to a human as “it” that I didn’t know what to say. I know my blood boiled and I demanded an apology from her. He is my family. How dare she even have the nerve to reduce him to an object? She did apologize but I have always doubted her sincerity. He has always been in my life so I don’t have any of that uneasiness. I have defensiveness, not discomfort. These are two entirely different things. I know that sometimes I will over-react to people. That is where that fierce protection comes in.
Pharris continues to be the best teacher I have ever had. I have had a wonderful education scholastically. But he has been my life teacher. He has taught me that there is always time for the little things. That unconditional love is plausible on this earth. That I am a person worth loving. That he is the most amazing person I have ever met. Pharris has been my litmus test for all kinds of friendships and relationships. If you can't handle him, you certainly can't handle me. Nor do I want anyone in my life like that. My children now love him. He is the greatest playmate. It is confusing to him that I am no longer the baby. But he loves my boys with an intensity that is nothing short of the most beautiful thing I have seen. Pharris loves with every fiber of his being. I only hope that I can experience that liberation. We could all take page out of Pharris' book. So, if you see me sitting on the corner accosting people for the time while wearing a cowboy hat on my head, a radio blaring music by my side and a huge smile on my face don't stare.
Instead, come shake my hand.
So, after all that I am still confused about what his title should be. Any ideas?
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