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She was maybe six years old， smiling and ladylike[如淑女的] in a gauzy[薄纱的] white dress. The kind of dress that makes me want a daughter. The kind of smile that’s heavy on sugar and light on spice[香料， 调味品]. She walked up to my son， as he wheeled in the circles outside the sanctuary[教堂] after church， and planted herself squarely[正好] in front of his wheelchair. They studied each other closely. He waved hello.
And then， without taking her eyes from his face， she said， “I feel sorry for him.”
I felt it more than I heard it. Deep in my stomach， in that place right below my breastbone[胸骨]. The place where I keep all my fears and my sadness. I felt it like a kick in the ribs[肋骨].
Children ask all sorts of questions about my son.
Why is he in that？ Why can’t he walk？ What’s wrong with him？ Will he need that thing forever？
But questions are easy. For children，questions have answers.
“I feel sorry for him” is not a question. It is a statement[陈述] of fact. A revelation[揭露]. A public disclosure[披露] of something I know to be true. Although I fight against it and try to believe otherwise， I know that many people feel the same way. Many people who see my son， smiling and spinning[欺骗， 哄] and exploring his world， and they feel sorry. They feel sadness. But adults know how to filter[过滤]. We know what not to say. We know to bottle it up[隐藏，克制]. This little girl was a leak[漏洞] in the system.
A system that tells her my son’s wheelchair is “very sad.”
A system that tells her he is a “poor thing.”
A system that uses words like confined to[关在……里面]， suffers from[患……病] and bound[受约束的].
A system that prefers to see people like my son as victims[受害者]， as recipients[接受者] of charity[施舍]， as less-fortunates waiting to be healed，rather than seeing them as neighbors， colleagues[同事]， teachers and friends.
A system that tells her my son smiles “in spite of，” rather than simply because he too is a child and has access to[接近] all the same earthly wonders that she does.
Wonders like fireflies， and candlelight， and going fast， and little girls in gauzy white dresses.
So I stood there shocked out of my comfort and fumbling[摸索] around for words to make this right. I wanted so desperately[极度地] to undo[取消] the damage done by a system that is still learning to accept my son. But I was tongue-tied and clumsy[笨拙的] as I mumbled[含糊地说话] something about “not needing to feel sorry...” And I walked away feeling like a failure. As if this little girl represented[描述] the whole world and I had missed my chance to set the record straight. I realized I am very small. I am only one person.
Then last week， sitting by the pool with my husband and my splashy[引人注目的] little boy， I heard it again. This time from a teen， maybe 19 years old. He had seen us there a few times. Today he had a girl with him. A girl he liked. I could tell. He gestured in our direction.
“Something’s wrong with that kid，” he whispered to her. “Did you see his back？ He can’t walk. So sad...”
I felt it more than I heard it. And I put my head down waiting for her reply. Her agreement. Her inevitable[必然的] recognition that， yes， my child’s life is very very sad.
“It’s not sad，” she said， looking at my son with so much kindness. “My brother was in the Special Olympics. Nothing sad about it. That kid is cute.”
And then my heart turned to mush[糊状物] and I closed my eyes to keep from crying.
I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her how rare she is. And how lovely. I wanted to believe she was once a little girl in a gauzy white dress.
More than anything， I wanted to thank her for reminding me that I am not the only one who sees my son for who he is. Unconfined[无拘束的]， unbound[解除束缚的]， human.
I am only one person. But I am not alone.
那个小女孩约摸六岁大，穿着白色的薄纱裙，笑起来像个小淑女似的--那是一条让我也想养个女儿的漂亮裙子，那是一个甜而不腻的纯真笑靥。参加完礼拜之后，我儿子在教堂外面用轮椅转圈圈；她走上前去，直接堵在他的轮椅前面。他俩凑到一起，互相打量着对方，他向她挥手打招呼。
而后，她并没有将目光从他脸上移开，说道：“我很同情他。”
与其说我听到了，不如说我感觉到了--在腹部深处，就在胸骨下面，那是我将所有的恐惧与悲伤封存起来的地方，感觉就像有人往我的肋骨狠狠踢了一脚。
孩子们总会对我儿子的情况提出各种各样的问题。
他为什么坐在那里面？他为什么不能走路？他有什么毛病？他永远离不开那个玩意儿吗？
但是，问题还是很好办的。对于小孩子来说，问题总会有答案。
“我很同情他”并不是一个问题，而是在陈述事实。这是一个被揭露出来的真相，是对一个我再清楚不过的事情进行公开披露。尽管我与之进行抗争，努力让自己不这么想，但我知道许多人都是这么认为的。许多见过我儿子的人都会面带微笑，嘴里说着哄人的话，一边探索他的世界--他们为他怜惜，他们为他难过。但是成年人知道如何过滤这些情绪。我们懂得什么话不能乱说。我们懂得将这些话藏起来。而这个小女孩，则是这套体系的漏洞。
这套体系告诉她，我儿子的轮椅是“让人难过的”。
这套体系告诉她，他是个“可怜的小家伙”。
这套体系常常采用的词汇是“局限在”、“罹患”和“被束缚的”。
这套体系喜欢把像我儿子这样的个体当作受害者、被施舍的对象，以及等待救治的不幸者，而不会将他们视为邻居、同事、老师和朋友。
这套体系告诉她，我儿子的微笑是出于“不管不顾”，而不是单纯因为他也是个孩子，也像她一样，能够接触到人世间的种种乐趣。
比如萤火虫，比如烛光，比如飞驰，比如穿着白色薄纱裙的小女孩。
于是我愣愣地站在那儿，难受极了，支支吾吾地想找些话来扳回一城。我多么想消除这套仍在学习如何接纳我儿子的体系所造成的伤害，但我结结巴巴，笨嘴笨舌，只是咕哝一句“这没啥好可怜的……”便非常挫败地走开了。仿佛这个小女孩代表全世界发言，而我错过了澄清事实的机会。
我意识到自己太渺小了。我孤身一人。
到了上星期，我、丈夫以及我家这个引人注目的儿子一起坐在游泳池边，我再次听到同样的话。这次说话的是个年轻人，大概19岁的样子。他在这里见过我们一家几次了。今天他和一个女孩一起来玩，他喜欢那姑娘，我一眼就看出来了。他用手势比了比我们这边。
“那个孩子有点毛病，”他对女孩悄声说道。“你看到他的脊背没？他走不了路，真可怜……”
与其说我听到了，不如说我感觉到了。我垂下头，等着那个女孩答话，等着她附和，她必定会赞同这一点——没错，我家孩子的人生实在是太可怜了。
“这不可怜，”她这样说道，用满怀善意的目光看着我儿子。“我哥哥参加过特奥会。这一点都不可怜。那小孩真可爱。”
我的心顿时软得一塌糊涂，连忙闭上眼睛，以免自己当场哭出来。
我真想给她一个拥抱，让她知道她有多么难能可贵，让她知道她有多么可爱。我想让自己相信她曾经也是一个穿着白色薄纱裙的小女孩。
最重要的是，我要感谢她让我明白了，并不是只有我才能看到儿子的本质——无拘无束，自由自在，同样是人。
我孤身一人。
但我并不孤单。
And then， without taking her eyes from his face， she said， “I feel sorry for him.”
I felt it more than I heard it. Deep in my stomach， in that place right below my breastbone[胸骨]. The place where I keep all my fears and my sadness. I felt it like a kick in the ribs[肋骨].
Children ask all sorts of questions about my son.
Why is he in that？ Why can’t he walk？ What’s wrong with him？ Will he need that thing forever？
But questions are easy. For children，questions have answers.
“I feel sorry for him” is not a question. It is a statement[陈述] of fact. A revelation[揭露]. A public disclosure[披露] of something I know to be true. Although I fight against it and try to believe otherwise， I know that many people feel the same way. Many people who see my son， smiling and spinning[欺骗， 哄] and exploring his world， and they feel sorry. They feel sadness. But adults know how to filter[过滤]. We know what not to say. We know to bottle it up[隐藏，克制]. This little girl was a leak[漏洞] in the system.
A system that tells her my son’s wheelchair is “very sad.”
A system that tells her he is a “poor thing.”
A system that uses words like confined to[关在……里面]， suffers from[患……病] and bound[受约束的].
A system that prefers to see people like my son as victims[受害者]， as recipients[接受者] of charity[施舍]， as less-fortunates waiting to be healed，rather than seeing them as neighbors， colleagues[同事]， teachers and friends.
A system that tells her my son smiles “in spite of，” rather than simply because he too is a child and has access to[接近] all the same earthly wonders that she does.
Wonders like fireflies， and candlelight， and going fast， and little girls in gauzy white dresses.
So I stood there shocked out of my comfort and fumbling[摸索] around for words to make this right. I wanted so desperately[极度地] to undo[取消] the damage done by a system that is still learning to accept my son. But I was tongue-tied and clumsy[笨拙的] as I mumbled[含糊地说话] something about “not needing to feel sorry...” And I walked away feeling like a failure. As if this little girl represented[描述] the whole world and I had missed my chance to set the record straight. I realized I am very small. I am only one person.
Then last week， sitting by the pool with my husband and my splashy[引人注目的] little boy， I heard it again. This time from a teen， maybe 19 years old. He had seen us there a few times. Today he had a girl with him. A girl he liked. I could tell. He gestured in our direction.
“Something’s wrong with that kid，” he whispered to her. “Did you see his back？ He can’t walk. So sad...”
I felt it more than I heard it. And I put my head down waiting for her reply. Her agreement. Her inevitable[必然的] recognition that， yes， my child’s life is very very sad.
“It’s not sad，” she said， looking at my son with so much kindness. “My brother was in the Special Olympics. Nothing sad about it. That kid is cute.”
And then my heart turned to mush[糊状物] and I closed my eyes to keep from crying.
I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her how rare she is. And how lovely. I wanted to believe she was once a little girl in a gauzy white dress.
More than anything， I wanted to thank her for reminding me that I am not the only one who sees my son for who he is. Unconfined[无拘束的]， unbound[解除束缚的]， human.
I am only one person. But I am not alone.
那个小女孩约摸六岁大，穿着白色的薄纱裙，笑起来像个小淑女似的--那是一条让我也想养个女儿的漂亮裙子，那是一个甜而不腻的纯真笑靥。参加完礼拜之后，我儿子在教堂外面用轮椅转圈圈；她走上前去，直接堵在他的轮椅前面。他俩凑到一起，互相打量着对方，他向她挥手打招呼。
而后，她并没有将目光从他脸上移开，说道：“我很同情他。”
与其说我听到了，不如说我感觉到了--在腹部深处，就在胸骨下面，那是我将所有的恐惧与悲伤封存起来的地方，感觉就像有人往我的肋骨狠狠踢了一脚。
孩子们总会对我儿子的情况提出各种各样的问题。
他为什么坐在那里面？他为什么不能走路？他有什么毛病？他永远离不开那个玩意儿吗？
但是，问题还是很好办的。对于小孩子来说，问题总会有答案。
“我很同情他”并不是一个问题，而是在陈述事实。这是一个被揭露出来的真相，是对一个我再清楚不过的事情进行公开披露。尽管我与之进行抗争，努力让自己不这么想，但我知道许多人都是这么认为的。许多见过我儿子的人都会面带微笑，嘴里说着哄人的话，一边探索他的世界--他们为他怜惜，他们为他难过。但是成年人知道如何过滤这些情绪。我们懂得什么话不能乱说。我们懂得将这些话藏起来。而这个小女孩，则是这套体系的漏洞。
这套体系告诉她，我儿子的轮椅是“让人难过的”。
这套体系告诉她，他是个“可怜的小家伙”。
这套体系常常采用的词汇是“局限在”、“罹患”和“被束缚的”。
这套体系喜欢把像我儿子这样的个体当作受害者、被施舍的对象，以及等待救治的不幸者，而不会将他们视为邻居、同事、老师和朋友。
这套体系告诉她，我儿子的微笑是出于“不管不顾”，而不是单纯因为他也是个孩子，也像她一样，能够接触到人世间的种种乐趣。
比如萤火虫，比如烛光，比如飞驰，比如穿着白色薄纱裙的小女孩。
于是我愣愣地站在那儿，难受极了，支支吾吾地想找些话来扳回一城。我多么想消除这套仍在学习如何接纳我儿子的体系所造成的伤害，但我结结巴巴，笨嘴笨舌，只是咕哝一句“这没啥好可怜的……”便非常挫败地走开了。仿佛这个小女孩代表全世界发言，而我错过了澄清事实的机会。
我意识到自己太渺小了。我孤身一人。
到了上星期，我、丈夫以及我家这个引人注目的儿子一起坐在游泳池边，我再次听到同样的话。这次说话的是个年轻人，大概19岁的样子。他在这里见过我们一家几次了。今天他和一个女孩一起来玩，他喜欢那姑娘，我一眼就看出来了。他用手势比了比我们这边。
“那个孩子有点毛病，”他对女孩悄声说道。“你看到他的脊背没？他走不了路，真可怜……”
与其说我听到了，不如说我感觉到了。我垂下头，等着那个女孩答话，等着她附和，她必定会赞同这一点——没错，我家孩子的人生实在是太可怜了。
“这不可怜，”她这样说道，用满怀善意的目光看着我儿子。“我哥哥参加过特奥会。这一点都不可怜。那小孩真可爱。”
我的心顿时软得一塌糊涂，连忙闭上眼睛，以免自己当场哭出来。
我真想给她一个拥抱，让她知道她有多么难能可贵，让她知道她有多么可爱。我想让自己相信她曾经也是一个穿着白色薄纱裙的小女孩。
最重要的是，我要感谢她让我明白了，并不是只有我才能看到儿子的本质——无拘无束，自由自在，同样是人。
我孤身一人。
但我并不孤单。