The Enrichment Center

Last night we went to an art opening and concert just down the hill from our house at The Enrichment Center. Adults with autism, Down’s Syndrome, and other physical and mental disabilities spend their days at The Enrichment Center, painting, making music, and playing. The world of The Enrichment Center is one of the wonderful gifts we have opened since Errol was born.

One of the first people we met at last night’s opening was James. James is probably around 30 years old (it’s hard to tell), no more than five feet tall, walks with a wobble, and talks like a kid. He was wearing a suit and tie, had a bouquet of roses in his arms, and had a shit-eating-grin on his face. After all, it was his art opening and the walls of the Enrichment Center’s art gallery were festooned with his colorful paintings of houses. In the thirty or so paintings James had made, his iconic house was always the same: a rectangle with two windows, a door, and a pointy roof on top; but the wonderful colors changed in each painting; from red to blue to violet to yellow. James’ powerful paintings would fit right into a gallery next to a Klee, Miro, or Twombly. James was having the time of his life and kept hugging me every time he reintroduced himself.

James and Errol weren’t the only disabled people there. Right after we arrived, a van full of Enrichment Center clients pulled up and the riders, with great fanfare, spilled into the center. They shuffled into the gallery, took a quick lap, and made a bee-line for the food and drink (just like at any opening). I introduced myself to most of them and made conversation (it certainly wasn’t more awkward than at any other cocktail party), but I realized that I didn’t have much experience talking to disabled adults (I’ll have plenty), and that I didn’t quite know how to do it. Should I speak to them like I was speaking to a friend? A child? Like I was an ESL teacher? A bartender? Or should I talk to them just like I talk to anybody else? Not that there is even such a thing as a typical disabled person (the range is staggering), any more than there is a typical, typical person. Complications make life more interesting, and I must have been doing okay, because everyone was much more concerned with the snacks than with my tone of voice, and they all seemed to be having a great time. After all, it was their big night.

After everyone had viewed the neighborhood of cheery houses, the Enrichment Center Percussion Ensemble took the stage. I had seen the members of the ensemble awkwardly struggling through the room before their performance began. But as soon as they took their places on stage and the first notes rang out, they were transformed into a deliberate, confident, focused, and tight band. As they played, they weren’t happy or sad, laughing or crying, they were rooted in that place - completely consumed by their music. And so were we. The music was a haunting swirling, miracle of guitar, vibes, and drums marching together into the unknown. I didn’t want it to end. It did.

These were Errol's peeps, and the place was full of excitement and magic. That wonderful night was probably the first time I’ve been in the minority as a person without a disability, but it probably won’t be the last. As sweet Errol has proven, over and over again, in so many ways, we typical people are the emotionally disabled ones. After all, I wasn’t dancing, laughing, and grinning the whole time.