'LL NEVER FORGET THE DAY MY TEENAGE sister tried to recite the alphabet-and failed.

It wasn't that I didn't know she had a learning disability. We had all known for a long time. But until that moment I had always believed it was a disability she would outgrow.

My whole family believed this. After all, my uncle had a speech impediment as a child, yet he'd gone on to earn a master's degree. But Tammy had much more than a speech impediment.

As Tammy grew older my parents realized that the problem was more permanent than they had hoped. They tried to explain this to me, telling me the counselors had said she would never have anything higher than a third-grade IQ.

"They're lying!" I retaliated. "Tammy's smart. She's just a little slow."

"No," my mother shook her head and sat down. My father stood behind her as if to support what she was telling me. "They say she'll never be able to live on her own."

"That's ridiculous!" I said, standing up to leave the room. "I don't believe it at all!"

"They know what they're talking about," Dad said, crossing the room and taking a seat.

"Yeah, well, did you tell them about your brother?" I asked, throwing myself back on the couch. "Did you tell them how he outgrew his learning disability?"

"She has a different learning disability than he did," my mother responded, her soft yet sad voice contrasting with my sharp, angry tone. "They say she can't even say her alphabet."

"That's just because she was nervous," I said, hoping I was correct.

"Tammy!" Mother called. My sister came slowly down the stairs. By the look on her face, I could see that my parents had already tried to explain to her the situation. She flopped into her favorite chair and threw one leg to the side, arms crossed, resentment carved onto her face. "Tammy, can you say your alphabet?"

She shifted her weight and grumbled. "Please, Tammy," I begged. "Mom and Dad are saying you can't, but I told them you can."

More grumbling.

"Come on, Tammy," Dad encouraged. "If you can say it, we'll be able to show those people they're wrong."

"A, B, C," she began quickly as if saying the alphabet were like taking some horrible-tasting medicine and needed to be gotten over with in a hurry, "D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, . . ."

I was just about to say "I told you so" when she began to slow down.

"R, . . . S, . . . T, . . ." Tammy shifted in her seat. Then picking up a magazine, she tried to change the subject. "Mama, this is a hairstyle that I like."

"Are you going to finish, Tammy?" My father asked with encouragement in his voice.

Throwing down the magazine, she burst into tears. "I too stupid," she cried. "I no good!"

As Mom and Dad went over to comfort her, I quietly left the room. My heart felt heavy as I slowly climbed the stairs. Entering my room, I locked the door behind me and threw myself onto my bed. Tears began to roll down my face. "Why, God?" I pleaded inwardly. My mind was crowded with 14 years of memories all jumbled up like photographs scattered across the floor-an innocent baby reaching for my finger, a blond-headed first grader saying the word "truck" clearly for the first time, a frustrated seventh grader struggling to remember what letter comes after T.

Hopes and Memories
As these pictures of my sister raced through my mind, I picked up my journal, and in an effort to clear my head and organize my thoughts, I began to write.

To my sister:

When I found out you were on your way, I was more than excited. I didn't know if you'd be a boy or girl, but I knew even then that I loved you more than words
can say.

We were all sitting around the kitchen table when my mother turned to me suddenly and asked, "Lisa, how would you like a little brother?"

My eyes widened with excitement. Oh, yes. It would be so nice to have somebody to play with, I thought.

As the days passed, it seemed like forever until the baby would come. In my 4-year-old mind I rehearsed all the things I would teach my little brother-how to play hide-and-seek, how to draw a person with hands behind the back so he wouldn't have to worry about drawing fingers, and of course, how to recognize the letters of the alphabet on storefront signs.

Then a car ran a red light and hit us broadside.

I didn't understand everything at the time. I didn't understand why I had to stay in the hospital because my cheek hurt (I had a mild concussion). But mostly, I didn't understand how this could affect the baby.

My parents were thrilled when the smiling, seemingly healthy baby girl came home to stay. I had suggested that if the baby were a girl, we would name her Tammy (I was obsessed with the name; it was the name I had given every one of my dolls). The name stuck.

I couldn't wait until the baby got big so I could teach her all the wonderful things I had learned in my four years of life.

* * *
Picking up my pen, I began once again to write:

I told Mom and Dad that I was going to teach you to be smart, but smartness is not something that can be taught, and that's why I guess I feel like such a failure.

"Failure, failure, failure . . ." the words echoed in my head like an ancient drumbeat. How I hated the word. How determined I was not to become one myself. Yet it seemed that no matter what I did, Tammy's disability made me feel as if that was what I was.

Only two months earlier I had won a writing scholarship at our local college's Senior Visitation Day. It felt good to hear my classmates scream and cheer for me as I went forward to receive my prize. Even those who hadn't been at the meeting knew who won, just from the glow I carried on my face for the rest of the day.

But at home things were different. "We're proud of you," my mother told me that evening at dinner, "but understand if we don't show it too much. You know, Tammy feels so bad that she can't win scholarships too."

And that's how it was with every one of my accomplishments. I always felt wonderful until I thought of Tammy. Realizing she would never know the same feeling of accomplishment, I would feel guilty. The bigger the accomplishment, the more guilt I felt.

It was the same kind of guilt I felt listening to Tammy struggle with her alphabet. I had never had problems with my alphabet. Like everything else, it came easily to me. Why couldn't it be easy for Tammy?

Tears raced down my face and landed on my pillow. Wiping their tracks away, I took a deep breath before writing again:

Today it hit me, like a bomb from a clear sky. When I heard you, my 14-year-old sister, try to recite the alphabet, and give up after the letter T.

T-The beginning of her name and the end of her alphabet. I remembered the road trips we made when she was a toddler.

"Look, Tammy!" I would shout every time it was a sign with a T in it. "There's a T; T for Tammy! You're famous!"

Soon after that, I started trying to teach her the alphabet.

That was the first thing I ever tried to teach you. I remember sitting on my bed, having you copy the letter A again and again. But your attention span was short-and we never got much past the letter A.

When Tammy turned 4, she had problems saying her new age. My mother mentioned this to a church member, who suggested that Tammy might have a learning disability. We had it checked out, and she did.

We started sending Tammy to a special school for children with disabilities. After 10 years and almost as many special schools, we weren't seeing the improvement we hoped for.

But now they are saying you have more than a learning disability. They even used the word "retarded."

I shuddered as I wrote the word "retarded," remembering the time my fourth-grade class had gone to sing at a home for those who had mental diabilities. I remembered one boy in particular who sat there the entire time tracing the veins in his hands. The people there scared me. I was glad to finally leave that place. I hoped secretly that I would never have to face another person like that again.

How I despise that word. You know how everybody pictures such people, head to the side, eyes rolled up, moaning and sucking on their hands. You're not like that!

"Retarded, retarded, retarded . . . " The drumming returned, this time beating out a different, though equally depressing, beat. "My sister's not retarded!" I screamed inwardly, as if denying the problem would make the drumming go away.

I never want anybody to categorize you like that. Maybe that's why I get after you so much about brushing your teeth and chewing with your mouth open. I love you and want you to be accepted by the outside world.

I knew Tammy didn't take my reprimands as a sign of love. It always upset her when I tried to correct her or help her with something she didn't understand.

I don't hate you, even though you think I do. I love you so much it hurts. And it hurts so much that I get angry and take my anger out on you. I wouldn't be hurting if I didn't love you.

I felt overwhelmed with guilt as I thought of all the times I had needlessly lost my temper, causing Tammy to feel hurt and rejected. I knew she needed to know I accepted her the way she was, and yet I continued to treat her badly. I knew much of her pain had been caused by her disability, yet so much of it could have been spared had I been more sensitive to her needs.

I didn't mean to hurt you. I only wanted to help you. But I didn't. I
couldn't. I don't have the patience. I never did. I just wish you could understand. I wish you could forgive me. And I wish, more than anything else, that you could be like everyone else.

Tears flowed uncontrollably as I finally faced the truth.

But they say you never will be like everyone else. They say you'll be disabled forever. Well, if that's true, and if you can't forgive me before then, will you please forgive me when forever is through?

I love you,
Lisa

A New Reality
That was 12 years ago. I still struggle to accept my sister the way she is, but I'm getting better, and so is she.

Tammy graduated from high school, not with a regular diploma, like her classmates got, but with a certificate of attendance.

But we're proud of her. Proud of her for not giving up, proud of her for doing her best, but most of all proud of her for doing more than any of her testers thought she would.

She's passed most of her classes, too. Because of her determination she had the highest grade in Remedial English.

The other evening at dinner my mother turned and asked, "Tammy, can you say the alphabet?"

"Why?" A confused look crossed her face.

"I just want to see if you can do it," Mother responded.

The whole family sat silently as she began to race through the alphabet. "Wait a minute, slow down!" my mother interrupted, "You're going too fast for me!"

As she started once again, I felt my heart beat a little faster. How far will she make it this time? I wondered. Soon she was finished, and cheers filled the dining room. Tammy had made it all the way to Z.

_________________________
Lisa Fletcher is a pseudonym.