By Ken Blackmer, February 1998
Stephen was a happy and healthy little boy who wanted nothing to do with being away from his daddy. It was hero-worship. I could do nothing wrong. I always knew exactly what to do and how to do it. I found fatherhood to be a very rewarding and ego-boosting experience.
Then Stephen started school. It didn’t take him long to realize that Daddy didn’t have all the answers. It came gradually, but by the time he went away to college, Dad really didn’t know much at all. Steve is an electrical engineer now, and he can say in one breath enough technical jargon to utterly confuse his once all-knowing Daddy. The only saving grace to the whole situation is that I may not have all the knowledge he possess in the electrical field, but I can still amaze him when it comes to woodworking, and I still have the upper hand in common sense. Well, at least he lets me think so.
When I realized I was the father of a Down Syndrome daughter, I hate to admit it, but I was embarrassed. I wanted to believe she would outgrow the condition. Of course she didn’t. My denial went deep. I wanted to blame my wife. I wanted to blame the environment. To be blunt, I wanted to place the blame just about everywhere as long as it wasn’t me. This reaction, I am told, is quite typical in new fathers of the handicapped. When the moment of truth finally is realized, some men can’t face up to the fact and divorce their wives just to get out of the situation. I am fortunate in the fact that I never considered leaving. This was my family and I had the right to stay. I figured my wife would take the brunt of the training and embarrassment—my way of coping with a child who, because of her facial features, could be immediately identified as “retarded.”
I was stationed with the First Army Band at Fort Meade, Maryland, from the time of Sherrill’s birth to just after her fourth birthday. One of the things an Army band does is put on performances at local schools. I panicked the day I discovered we were scheduled to play at Sherrill’s school. I could just see all these young soldier/musicians and combat-hardened soldiers making fun of the “retards”, one of which happened to be my daughter. I was so sure it would happen that I went to my commander and told him of my concerns. He told me that he wasn’t so sure the band members would react the way I was sure they would. He told me to have a little faith in the maturity of my peers and asked if I would like him to talk to the band and explain I had a daughter attending the school. I told him no. To me that would be advertising something that I didn’t want advertised. He said nothing to the band and we got on the bus and left for the concert.
I had my ears wide open on the way to the concert to see if I could hear any comments. Nothing. My fellow band members acted just like it was another job. For me it was not just another job; it was probably the most important job of my life. It turned out to be the turning point in the relationship I had with my daughter.
We got to the school about 45 minutes before the concert was to start. This was a normal arrival time to give us a chance to set up, warm up, and tune up. To my amazement the job didn’t start on time, not because we weren’t ready, but because the majority of the guys were too busy playing with the kids and showing them how to play their horns. Combat-hardened soldiers were on their knees playing with the little ones. Guys famous for their four-letter-word vocabularies were talking in baby talk and kissing the cheeks of kids I had always found repulsive. I was the only one not actively involved in showing love and compassion to these children. I was saving mine for my daughter.
When Sherrill’s class arrived at the gymnasium to hear the band, I rushed over to her as she rushed over to me. I was actually hoping I would be noticed by my fellow soldiers. I was bragging. The concert went exceeding well as the band performed with a passion I have not seen before or since. My commander looked at me from the podium and winked. He felt what I felt. He felt pride. He knew his musicians would fall in love with these kids. He knew I was the only person there with prejudices about the handicapped. I was the one with a chip on my shoulder.
From the very beginning I was Sherrill’s hero. Her first words were her attempt at saying Daddy. It is a very heady feeling to be a hero to someone. Daddy was and continues to always be there for her. She is now 23 years old and even though I may make the wrong decisions some of the time, even though I may not have the answers all of the time, and even though I may not deserve it, I am her knight in shining armor. I am the best man she knows. She compares all other men to me. She tells me at least twice a week, every week, that “Daddy’s a good man.”
There are times I don’t feel I am such a good man. I quit my job of seven years over my principles, leaving us without the needed income. I didn’t have another job waiting in the wings. I continue to look for other work, but after two months nothing has developed. To me and my way of thinking I am not such a good man. To Sherrill I am still her hero. To her delight I am home most of the time. What more can she ask for? When she gets home from school, Daddy meets her school bus. Imagine for a moment what it would be like for your hero to meet you every day when you get home.
Being the recipient of such attention makes me feel I have not just some, but a great deal of worth in this world. Even though I am going through a very tough time in my life, Sherrill makes it better. Nothing matters with her around except having her around. Her hero-worship makes me a better person—makes me want to be a better person, because I don’t want to let her down.
Sure, people may stare at her and us when we walk down the street, but if my sweet Sherrill were Miss America, the same people would stare at her. She will never wear the crown, but to me she is Miss America. She exemplifies the wholesome goodness we have come to expect of the young lady who holds that title. I am her hero and she is mine.
Mine is the story of a proud father. I am no more proud of my son than I am of my daughter. They each have their niche in life and they are very good at what they do. I believe being a good father to a handicapped daughter is simply letting your heart overrule your prejudices.
Let go and let God. If God didn’t know I could do it, He would have given her to somebody else, and my life and my world would be diminished.
