You may think you know who I am. You see me every day at the shelter. The one for the mentally challenged. You pick up the pace when you pass me, afraid that I might try to speak to you, afraid of being made uncomfortable. I hear what you say about me. “Look at the freak!? Or…What a retard! And…He’s such an imbecile!”

I know why you say these things. I understand. You’re afraid. You’re afraid I might try to touch you, that maybe whatever I’ve got is contagious. You’re afraid of not being able to understand, thereby exposing my ignorance. You think I must be a good-for-nothing. A waste of space.

But you don’t know that through the computer, we’ve had a conversation. You were treating me just like a person and didn’t even know it.

You look at me and see my disabilities. You don’t know what I’m capable of.
You may think you know who I am, but you don’t even know my name.