foot made me feel like a fish cutting gracefully through the water, headed to the other side of the pool. When I flipped over to my back, I heard the tide of my breath in my head, powerful and rhythmic as a wave; my single foot was strong enough to move me through the water. The stump didn't do much, merely bobbed and floated like a buoy. The right leg took over on its behalf, compensating, kicking, and shearing the blue water. I was dividing a space with my body versus being divided: by a surgeon, by a prosthetist, by a wooden leg that was removed each night and lay by my bed until morning.
After reaching the other side of the pool, I lifted my head, triumphant. I hoisted myself onto the ledge. A little girl who was walking past stopped abruptly. Water dripped from the ends of her hair as she stood staring at me until a woman steered her away by her wet shoulders.
"Great," Ann said, putting her warm hand on my back. "You did great."
I loved to dive. I progressed steadily in ability until I could do jumps off the springboard, hopping up the first step and then crawling out to crouch carefully at the edge of the board, maintaining my balance. Just once I would plummet off the high board, letting every person in the pool have their moment to stare at me, the one-legged girl descending in a smooth arc into the water. I felt powerful, and I thought about my body in a new way, although the high dive itself had absolutely terrified me and I never did it again. Later, I would understand that learning to dive was my first experience of my body as capable of powerful, fluid, and beautiful motion. In those moments when I rounded my back, tucked my chin, and tipped gracefully into the smooth, accepting water, I was aware of the song that a body creates when it is released for just a few moments from its regular rules and restrictions and from the expectations of the person who lives with it. I felt the beauty of movement when the person who inhabits his or her unique form is perfectly content to do so, as if it were unimaginable being any other way.
At that time, a photo was taken of me with another amputee who was in her early thirties. We stood against a tile wall in the locker room, smiling, sharing just two full legs between us. I was thrilled to meet someone who was like me. She had long brown hair, soft-looking skin, and a bright smile. After Ann took our picture, the two of us put on our wooden legs. Mine was newer and shinier than hers, but they were similar models. Both had metal hinges on the outside of the wood; both were suspended from our bodies by a cloth strap that buckled just above the pelvis on the left side of the body.
Years later, when I looked at that photograph, I felt horror at my body and particularly at the woman's. By that time, I was used to seeing models in fashion magazines and judging my own appearance by the ways in which it compared with—and fell short of—theirs. Who would ever want this woman? I found myself thinking, and by want I meant love, as if these two expressions of desire were interchangeable. In the photograph, both of us were beaming. What does she have to be so happy about? I wondered bitterly, although arguably she and I shared a similar fate. I looked over at my younger self, who was wearing a similar genuine smile, who would grow up to be a similar disabled woman. Although I destroyed the photograph, I often thought about the woman standing next to me and wondered what had happened to her: Did she marry, did she have children, did she love her life, did somebody love her?
Two and half years earlier, in January 1979, I had finally received my first wooden leg. For my first fitting, I stood barefoot on the dirty floor of the changing room while the prosthetist took measurements of my stump. The stink of the healing wounds was finally gone; the limb was clean. Now that the left foot had been removed, or "disarticulated"—the sharp sound of the word matching the rough nature of the
After reaching the other side of the pool, I lifted my head, triumphant. I hoisted myself onto the ledge. A little girl who was walking past stopped abruptly. Water dripped from the ends of her hair as she stood staring at me until a woman steered her away by her wet shoulders.
"Great," Ann said, putting her warm hand on my back. "You did great."
I loved to dive. I progressed steadily in ability until I could do jumps off the springboard, hopping up the first step and then crawling out to crouch carefully at the edge of the board, maintaining my balance. Just once I would plummet off the high board, letting every person in the pool have their moment to stare at me, the one-legged girl descending in a smooth arc into the water. I felt powerful, and I thought about my body in a new way, although the high dive itself had absolutely terrified me and I never did it again. Later, I would understand that learning to dive was my first experience of my body as capable of powerful, fluid, and beautiful motion. In those moments when I rounded my back, tucked my chin, and tipped gracefully into the smooth, accepting water, I was aware of the song that a body creates when it is released for just a few moments from its regular rules and restrictions and from the expectations of the person who lives with it. I felt the beauty of movement when the person who inhabits his or her unique form is perfectly content to do so, as if it were unimaginable being any other way.
At that time, a photo was taken of me with another amputee who was in her early thirties. We stood against a tile wall in the locker room, smiling, sharing just two full legs between us. I was thrilled to meet someone who was like me. She had long brown hair, soft-looking skin, and a bright smile. After Ann took our picture, the two of us put on our wooden legs. Mine was newer and shinier than hers, but they were similar models. Both had metal hinges on the outside of the wood; both were suspended from our bodies by a cloth strap that buckled just above the pelvis on the left side of the body.
Years later, when I looked at that photograph, I felt horror at my body and particularly at the woman's. By that time, I was used to seeing models in fashion magazines and judging my own appearance by the ways in which it compared with—and fell short of—theirs. Who would ever want this woman? I found myself thinking, and by want I meant love, as if these two expressions of desire were interchangeable. In the photograph, both of us were beaming. What does she have to be so happy about? I wondered bitterly, although arguably she and I shared a similar fate. I looked over at my younger self, who was wearing a similar genuine smile, who would grow up to be a similar disabled woman. Although I destroyed the photograph, I often thought about the woman standing next to me and wondered what had happened to her: Did she marry, did she have children, did she love her life, did somebody love her?
Two and half years earlier, in January 1979, I had finally received my first wooden leg. For my first fitting, I stood barefoot on the dirty floor of the changing room while the prosthetist took measurements of my stump. The stink of the healing wounds was finally gone; the limb was clean. Now that the left foot had been removed, or "disarticulated"—the sharp sound of the word matching the rough nature of the
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