Director’s Statement
Christian was 13, quadriplegic, non-verbal, and had a smile that would set a South Carolina wheatgrass field ablaze in a monsoon. During August storms in the “upstate,” the springs under my mattress chirped with each thunder crack as I wondered a way to skirt bathing duties tomorrow: a midnight streak across the campground? As I faded off, the cartoon faded in. “The rag-tag parade.” Boys: palsied or paraplegic, chronically ill-ed and tube-fed, fully anemic, partially verbal, dirty-elbowed-boys, rolling, limping, pedaling, hopping, and marching like a New Orleans jazz band as the world lit them in flashes of their truest selves. What I couldn’t dream was that tomorrow would be the hottest day since 1934, or that the cafeteria would serve spanakopita, or that I’d fall hard for the hippie counselor girl, or that, as I bathed him, I would lose my grip and drop Christian in the shower.
St. George started 20 years ago when I took a job for nine weeks in the woods at camp for those with physical disabilities and chronic illnesses. My senses were cracked open to the magnificent power of the individual will - and the village of support it took to promote real purpose, in each. My life was changed without my consent.
The story took further shape when I read about a single mother in the Bronx. The world’s temptations were moving fast around her kids. To keep her son on track, she entered him into an after-school NYFD program. But in an attempt at heroism, he created tragedy. My heart was scarred without my consent.
Then it was my first mentor. My junior high best friend. My high school roommate. All suicide. All addicts. And just like that, St. George came into focus. How do we mourn without the skills? Why do we search for reason? How do we find practical tools within our mythic memories?
The water ran down from the shower as Christian and I slumped, entangled, the moment before on repeat. I had him. I had him. Under the arms. Propped with my hip. Released my right hand. Reached for the shampoo. I reached for the shampoo…He had stopped crying.
The next morning, he had a small shiner, and I had a huge lump in my throat as I wheeled him to his mother. My apology, croaked through shame, was met with the grace of a thousand hard-learned lessons.
“Don’t worry, honey. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy. Thirteen-year-old boys fall.”
My life had been changed without my consent.
My heart had been scarred. But then filled.
I was given a story to tell, and the responsibility to tell it right.
It is essential that I work with both the national and local Down syndrome communities. I will ensure that Frank is represented accurately, and that the actor with Down syndrome is supported and inspired on and off set. I’ve seen, first-hand, the capability of those within the neurodivergent community. With St. George, I have a chance to prove it.