Shuffle Play

The World’s Greatest / R. Kelly

I was driving Archie to speech therapy this morning when he announced, “Randy is retired.” We were stopped at the roundabout on Rocky Slope, the one right next to the park, so I turned to look at his face. Archie likes to look at me over his glasses when we talk about important things. He was doing that then, his head tilted a little to the left, awaiting my response. 

“He is,” I replied, easing the car forward. 

“He will be missed,” Archie added. 

“Yes,” I affirmed. This is how Archie processes things. He repeats a statement or question again and again expecting the person with whom he’s talking to acknowledge him, no matter what. If you ignore Archie in the hopes doing so will discourage him from continuing the back-and-forth, he only becomes more insistent.     

We’d just passed the front of the coffee shop further down the road when Archie asked, “Who will do Randy’s job now?”

He was talking about Randy Muir, who has served as the Greenville County Parks and Rec’s Therapeutic Recreation Manager for 30 years. Before that, Randy would accompany his mother to work. She was the fine arts director at Camp Spearhead way back when it operated in Paris Mountain State Park. Going to work with his mom gave Randy the unique opportunity to spend his summers with the disabled community. 

I marvel at Archie’s adept ability to size up a person’s character. This talent isn’t unique to him, though, as many family members of disabled people will tell you. I suspect this intuition is a skill they begin to hone early on because Archie and his peers, no matter their innate abilities, are dependent on the kindness of strangers. When Archie’s dad and I, his siblings, and his grandmother aren’t present to look after him, someone must.   

Although he isn’t always able to articulate his opinions, I suspect Archie knows Randy is intrinsically good. Because of this, he’s earned Archie’s trust. And when I watch other campers interact with Randy, I can tell they believe in his magnanimity, too. In a world that weighs and measures their ability against non-disabled peers, the campers know Randy values them for who they are, not who they could’ve been. 

Yesterday we drove up to camp to attend a drop-in celebrating Randy’s retirement. Lutrell Lodge was filled with campers and families, most of whom I either know or recognize. That’s the thing about the disability community – there are no strangers. We’ve all met before or will meet soon. In carlines and doctor’s offices, support groups or advocacy organizations, mother’s morning outs or therapeutic activities, we’ve waved hello or stopped to introduce ourselves. We can’t travel anonymously after all. Our kids tend to stand out in a crowd. 

Archie, John, my mom, and I positioned ourselves at the back of the long line of people inside the lodge. We were all waiting our turn to talk to Randy, who spent the time to engage each camper and their family. Everyone visited as the line wound its way around the room, and there were lots of heartfelt hugs and high-fives, greetings you learn to love as a member of this community. That’s the thing about Camp Spearhead, a place where anything goes and nothing is considered odd or off-putting. Up here you learn to lean into acceptance. 

On Thursdays when camp is in-session family members and friends are invited to Talent Show night. Every single camper performs during the show, most of them choosing to sing along to a popular song. I’ve never heard a single camper who could carry a tune, but each of their performances are magically moving. At the end of the night after all the performances are concluded and each camper has been celebrated, the counselors encircle the audience, most of whom are campers, and sign the lyrics, moving hands replacing spoken words, to a song the campers recognize. “I’m that star up in the sky, I’m the mountain peak up high,” the counselors speak without saying a word. “Hey, I made it!” 

I can’t describe what it feels like to sit beside your camper as the song plays and the counselors sign along, but I can tell you every time it conjures up emotions I don’t even know I have. “I’m that little bit of hope, when my back’s against the ropes,” the counselors continue to sign. “I can feel it!” 

If you look around Fireside Hall, you’ll see many campers signing the lyrics back to the counselors. When you watch their actions mirror each other, the campers and their counselors, you know way down deep inside the inspiration goes both ways. 

Thank you for building the foundation upon which my hope for the next generation of decision makers and their charges has been built, Randy. Together they’ll change the world, I’m sure of it. Your counselors and campers wouldn’t be the people they are today, nor the ones they’ll become tomorrow, if it wasn’t for you. You’re the world’s greatest.