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Out But Not Yet InBy: Jim Hasse
Summary:
From the book, "Break Out: Finding Freedom When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold," a modern literary memoir of 51 short stories about what it means to be presumed different.  "Include me out." Samuel Goldwyn "More handicapped people are coming out," I heard Jack, nodding slightly in my direction, whisper across the table to Tom. Jack, one of 24 people in management who had gathered for our workshop about how to effectively manage change, was sitting three feet from me on my side of the table. Tom, sitting kitty-corner from me, realized I was eavesdropping in amusement. He had a smirk on his face but said nothing. His eyes met mine for a second but then flashed back to Jack. "And, women," Jack continued, wide-eyed, with his back toward me. "I took another management workshop a couple of months ago, and almost a third of the class were women." "I can believe that," Tom, still with a whimsical look on his face, agreed. Jack was conveniently ignoring me, even though I had introduced myself to both of my table partners after parking my crutches and grabbing a chair. I had ventured outside my daily routine of familiar contacts and encountered another reaction to my disability from a person I hadn't met before. Knowing that my gestures and facial expressions often appear distorted and exaggerated to strangers, I tried to shape a slight grin on my face to let Tom know I wasn't offended. In fact, I felt privileged to have my own private view of human nature. It was like leaving my fly open and documenting, in my mind, the people who would draw my attention to my unfortunate oversight. It was 1985, and, yes, I had come out. In fact, I had been out a long time. Jack didn't know that I had been taking workshops and courses every spring and fall since I had graduated from college in 1965. But, he was probably right. I was unusual and incongruous. I was in management; I had a disability. Yet, the fact I was vice president of communication for Wisconsin Dairies didn't seem to surprise him. Perhaps he didn't understand me when I introduced myself. It was five years before the Americans with Disabilities Act, and apparently more of us with disabilities were coming out all the time. I just didn't see them in the circles I frequented. And, apparently Jack hadn't either. That was not surprising because I considered just being "out" an accomplishment -- something many others with a disability had not yet achieved. More than 20 years earlier, I remember receiving little guidance from the School of Journalism's placement office at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, mostly because I was probably the first journalism student with a severe disability to actually earn a degree. "We believe you'll be able to work on a job," Professor Abernathy, my advisor told me a couple of weeks before graduation, as he stroked his black, narrow tie. In one sense, that was reassuring. He was a former advertising executive who had blandly settled into academic life and wrote several stiff textbooks about advertising, promotion and public relations. But, he had, at least, been in the job market. On the other hand, I could see he was going against the prevalent philosophy on campus at the time. After all, a university education was to help me learn how to learn so I could live life to the fullest. The vocational benefits were only secondary. Professor Abernathy knew, however, my priorities were more utilitarian than that; I needed to get a job. At the same time, I felt uncomfortable. He was telling me something I already knew in my heart -- something so basic that I almost started to laugh when he said it, thinking he was trying a bit of wry humor on me. Yes, I could probably hold a job. Professor Abernathy was serious when he said it, and I saw the uneasiness in his eyes behind his rimless glasses. I thanked him, after realizing he had no advice about what careers in journalism held the most promise and how well my temperament and skills matched the requirements of those jobs. I was headed for a safety net -- a soft landing out of the mainstream of business. Dr. Reichman, a professor who specialized in the community press, recommended I take a state civil service exam so I could qualify for an editing job with a state government agency. But, I didn't want to get lost forever in the stifling state bureaucracy or in sheltered employment that shielded me from the real world. So, I chose, instead, to prove myself with a typewriter and camera, translating what I observed and heard in the dairy plants and cow barns of Wisconsin into a coherent magazine for Wisconsin's members. More than 20 years later, I still found it exciting to return to the university campus on a routine basis to talk about management theory and then grapple with the challenge of how I could transfer those ideas into practical programs that would work in rural Wisconsin. Dr. Stewart, our instructor for the day, finally stepped in front of our group, and the six tables of participants quieted. "We're going to begin today by first experiencing what it's like to manage change," Dr. Stewart began. "I'd like you to count off by ones and twos, starting with Jack, here." The toes in my left shoe curled. Another icebreaker. I dreaded icebreakers because I didn't have agility or the speaking ability to pull them off with aplomb. In fact, they just emphasized my disability. "You, Jim, can sit this one out and observe because this could get quite physical," he said quickly, pointing to me. I watched as the others started to count. One. Two. One. Two. One. Two ... I soon found myself at a table by myself, relieved but still conspicuous. "Those of you who are ones are going to be blindfolded," Dr. Stewart continued. "The twos are your guides and helpers ..." I was out but still not in, included but still apart.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Bookmark this article to: 
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