MELANIE EXCITEDLY TOOK MY HAND and led me from table to table. "And there's a bear and a monkey and a tiger and Dottie bought them all at the thrift store and washed them and here they are in the ark."
The ballooned and flowered dining room held 20 tables for the fiesta. The centerpiece of each table was a small stuffed animal, nestled in a construction-paper ark and tethered to a balloon on a long string. What a fitting symbol for this 25th anniversary of the L'Arche (meaning "the ark") communities, an international movement committed to joining the lives of persons with and without physical and mental handicaps in community.
Melanie is one of the newest members of the L'Arche home in Washington, D.C. Her exuberance made her literally dance with delight at the celebration. She is 24 years old and has both mental retardation and mental illness. Throughout the room, friends from L'Arche houses throughout the United States greeted one another -- aware that while distance separates them physically, they are all part of this special celebration of community.
Suddenly, Jean Vanier, the founder of this remarkable movement, arrived. As he came through the door -- a tall, white-haired, broad-faced man with the widest grin I've ever seen -- a dozen handicapped persons rushed to greet him, hold his hand, and touch him. The spontaneity of it took my breath away. Not even a "staged" arrival could have aroused that reception. As he threw back his head in a hearty laugh, the circle closed around him in a chorus of laughter and embrace.
IN 1964 JEAN VANIER, a former navy officer and philosophy professor, the son of the governor general of Canada, made a personal choice. He bought a small, dilapidated house in the village of Trosly-Breuil, France, and on August 4, 1964, welcomed two mentally and physically handicapped men, Philippe and Raphael, to live with him. Thus L'Arche began. And today the effects of that choice bear fruit in more than 85 communities in 20 countries throughout the world.
L'Arche was an idea radical and threatening in its simplicity. People with and without handicaps would live together in community, learning the ways that each is a gift to the body, bringing strengths and weaknesses, and relying on one another. How very different from the large and dismal institution where Philippe and Raphael had previously lived with 80 others: no work, locked doors, two large dormitories -- a world of sadness, fear, and despair. A world without love.
"The ark" is the symbol for this life together, begun so simply back then. One man saw the need, heard the call, and responded. Jean Vanier didn't start a "movement," He invited two handicapped men to share life together with him. And apparently God took care of the rest.
In the late 1960s and early '70s, the philosophy regarding the care of persons with handicaps was still somewhat archaic. In the wave of civil rights activism, however, a growing awareness emerged that all persons have rights and have something to contribute.
The term "normalization" crept into professional mental health vocabulary. It was one of the more progressive notions of the past few decades, a concept affirming the right of every person to live "as normal a life as possible" in the "least restrictive environment." The concept of "deinstitutionalization" followed, referring to the process of moving people out of large structures -- where they had been kept out of sight and out of mind -- and into the community in smaller, homelike facilities.
Like every entrenched prejudice -- whether racism, sexism, or "handicapism" -- the legal structures change long before the personal, attitudinal obstacles break down. Our laws don't permit large-scale "warehousing" of people for custodial care. We don't call disabled people "morons," "imbeciles," or "idiots" today, as was acceptable to some in the past. But we still harbor prejudices that lead to keeping group homes out of our neighborhoods and away from "normal" people.
THIS 25TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION in Washington, D.C. is called a fiesta and is symbolic of the shared community life. Unlike a party or celebration planned by a few, everyone makes this fiesta happen. Like the body, all the parts contribute uniquely and are missed if absent. The body is large now, and here in Washington, D.C., about 85 people from L'Arche communities in Syracuse, New York; Mobile, Alabama; Erie, Pennsylvania; and Seattle, Washington, celebrate with Jean Vanier.
The theme of this fiesta is "25 years and still in the ark," and each community plans and acts out a skit. The Washington, D.C. group enacts a poem written for the event by Dottie, the energetic and loving head of household on Euclid Street. This skit has special significance because of the harrowing process the community has recently been through trying to open up a second home.
Eugene, Mo, and Johnny, three of the handicapped men of the community, portray Jean Vanier, Philippe, and Raphael. As the story proceeds other household members portray the layers of bureaucracy: John, one of the assistants, portrays the local government official who wants "to regulate your soul." And Melanie and Glenn, two of the other handicapped members, portray the neighbors who have to be "won over." The fledgling actors and actresses create the atmosphere of celebration. Songs accompanied by guitars and violin complete the fiesta.
In his sharing during this anniversary celebration, Jean Vanier repeats a theme one finds frequently in his writing and speaking. It is a simple theme, but each time I hear it, the words take on more profound meaning.
We live, Vanier says, in a wounded and broken world. The redemption of this brokenness is, simply, love. Those with physical and mental handicaps have traditionally been rejected by the world. Unable to take on the masks and defenses the rest of us can, they react to the experience of being separated from love. The "acting out," the aggression sometimes seen in those with handicaps, and the profound sadness are simply evidences of that separation from love.
Vanier's answer is not a behavioral, psychological, programmatic, professional, or chemical one. It is love. And he's been living it out for 25 years.
The two L'Arche houses here in Washington, D.C. to me are symbolic of his theme. They are bright, airy, colorful, and full of life. Eugene, Melanie, Glenn, Dottie, Wendy, and Fred live in one. Mo, Mike, Johnny, Marcie, John, and Ray share the other.
Love abides in these homes, and it envelops you in a warm embrace. I think again of that word "normalization" used in professional circles when talking about people with handicaps today. Things are not just normal here. A spirit abides here, and it is found in few "normal" homes that I know.
Those with handicaps in L'Arche homes go out every day to jobs, workshops, or day programs. Household chores are shared as in most families. Supper is followed by a quiet time in which a candle is lit and all join hands in a time of prayer and sharing. Evenings are for chores, watching television, or talking in the warmth of family. A seemingly minor but very important thing here, unlike an institution, is the element of choice that each person has.
Each L'Arche community throughout the world shares the same philosophy and vision of life together, but because of the diversity of cultures these find expression in many different ways. The original Trosly-Breuil community now comprises approximately 400 people living in surrounding villages in 22 different homes. About half the members are persons with handicaps and half are assistants.
India was one of the early homes for L'Arche after Trosly-Breuil, followed by Canada and, later, England. Communities exist now in Belgium, Scotland, Ireland, Denmark, Spain, Honduras, Haiti, Australia, and Mexico. Some communities are large, others are small. During the anniversary weekend, Vanier connected us with this international body by sharing stories.
TWO DAYS AFTER THE CELEBRATION, I return to work at a state institution for people with physical and mental handicaps. The contrast is overwhelming and stops me in my tracks.
Entering "my cottage," the smells and sights assail me. Mine are the oldest of the residents, some having lived here for more than 60 years. Mealtimes especially bring to mind a phrase I heard once about meals in institutions being "quiet little murders." Tasteless food, often cold and hurriedly served, and an impersonal setting, punctuated by angry voices and pressure to "hurry up," make a mockery of any idea of shared community and life together.
"Behavioral problems" escalate during mealtimes, in direct proportion to the pressure and atmosphere of anger. Residents cry out, hit themselves on the side of the head, bite their hands, and stamp their feet, prompting angry staff to stand over them threateningly.
I think of supper at L'Arche, and I want to cry. Then I think of Eugene -- quiet and dignified with his pipe and his love of long walks -- who spent more than 32 years in this institution before going to L'Arche. And Mo -- buoyant, exuberant, and always ready to party -- who lived here for more than 40 years from the age of 5. And Glenn -- slow and deliberate Glenn -- who was moved from an institution to foster care and then to a psychiatric institution (for "aggressive behavior") before coming to L'Arche. Now I know why L'Arche is an important part of my life. It is the sign of hope I so desperately need.
I mentally place Bobby, one of my favorite residents at the institution, in a L'Arche house. Bobby has cerebral palsy and is both physically and mentally handicapped. With a "mental age" of about 5, Bobby understands most of what is going on around him, unlike some of the more profoundly handicapped residents. He is always smiling, always anxious to get involved in the pitifully little that happens here. We started cooking projects soon after my arrival, and that became part of the weekly activities that Bobby looked forward to. But then he was moved to another building and he could no longer participate.
Bobby bids me goodbye every Friday, saying, "I'm going to have a great weekend." He greets me on Monday with "I had a great weekend." Each time he tells me, "I watched TV. I went to church."
Bobby once told me he has two favorite songs. "Jesus Loves Me" is one. We sang it together, and I realized his understanding of that song is much more profound than mine. His other favorite is "This Little Light of Mine." His light does shine for me. I dream of the day when it can shine, not in the midst of darkness, but in the light of love.
Jean Vanier did a most preposterous thing 25 years ago. And it is still going on. Twenty-five years and still in the ark. The light shines and grows brighter.
Barbara Ryan was a nutritionist at a state institution for developmentally disabled adults when this article appeared.
Got something to say about what you're reading? We value your feedback!