antiquity
12-09-2002, 02:57 AM
LR man believes his disability has shown him how to live
BY STEPHEN DEERE
Five years had passed since Leonard Boyle lost feeling in his right leg. He could stand, but only briefly. He could walk, but only with crutches.
Most of the time, he used a wheelchair to get around.
He had been a mechanic once. Now he wasn't sure what he was.
He had lost his auto shop, his family, his identity.
For work, he had the jobs his friend Verlon McKay gave him around Verlon's house in Bryant.
One day in 1997, Leonard had just finished replacing an engine in Verlon stepson's car. It took him more than a week. It should have taken less than a day.
Afterward, he and Verlon sat at Verlon's kitchen table.
I can't live like this anymore, Leonard said.
Verlon empathized but would offer no sympathy.
Years earlier, an injury also had left him disabled.
I don't understand why you're not going to school, Verlon said.
The prompting was familiar. Verlon had told him he could either work himself to death and barely get by, or go to college. "Those are your options," he would say. "They're pretty damn narrow."
Leonard started to cry. Never had he given higher education much thought. Nearly 20 years had gone by since he graduated from high school. He hadn't read much outside of an auto manual.
But Leonard had no choice. Looking at Verlon, he had no excuse either. Now, his broken body would force him to use his mind. Working on Verlon's stepson's car "was more like an eye opener to let me know 'hey you need to reconsider this thing'... I was so scared. I was scared at the thought of going back to school." The disability had always brought Leonard misery. At the time, he never dreamed it could deliver opportunity. He just knew that his friend was right.
THAT NIGHT Leonard's journey began in 1992. It began with headaches - blinding pain that came from nowhere. Nausea followed, along with intense photosensitivity. Any exposure to light made his head feel as if it were on fire.
He remembers sometimes losing his balance for no reason at all.
One night left him crippled.
The scene: A local skating rink where Leonard was
supervising some youths. The activity was part of a church ministry aimed at keeping kids out of trouble.
A mirrored ball scattered light all around him. Music blared. His head spun.
Later he was in an emergency room. Searching for a diagnosis, a doctor performed a spinal tap.
His right leg kicked violently, damaging nerves at the base of his spine and paralyzing the leg.
He would never walk on his own again. He was 32 years old.
A mysterious illness. An op- eration. A reflex. And now, life as he knew it, had ended.
A LOSING BATTLE Questions still surround what had happened. Doctors later diagnosed Leonard with multiple sclerosis. But the spinal tap uncovered unidentifiable toxins in his body, causing him to question what really ailed him. After the injury, Leonard tried to continue working as a mechanic.
But he struggled to get underneath cars and had trouble reaching them when they rested on a lift. He pushed himself around on a mechanic's stool. When he needed to look under the hood of a car, he would pull himself up and lean against the vehicle
for balance.
But he feared falling on the engine and breaking something, or landing on a hot exhaust manifold and burning himself. After a while, he could no longer afford help, and he worked alone.
Before his illness he had worked hard to keep his own auto shop. Now, he still worked hard, but repairs were taking much longer.
Jobs became backlogged. He became exhausted. His clientele evaporated.
He lost the shop.
At night he lay in bed, his eyes filling with tears.
His new body didn't fit his old life.
A night off from his duties as a naval officer. A few too many drinks. A drunk friend at the wheel.
It was 1961. The car wreck broke Verlon McKay's neck in four places. The then 23-year-old woke up in a hospital. He was young, confused and had lost feeling in his legs.
He spent the next year in an alcoholic haze.
But one morning as he sat down to enjoy his first drink of the day, he wondered: Could he lead a life that mattered again?
He consulted the Veterans Administration, who had him take some tests. Afterward, he remembers a counselor calling. "Have you considered college?" she asked. "Well, no," Verlon said. "I never finished high school." "But you have your GED certificate," she said. "You can get into college with that." "I don't think so," Verlon said. "I'm not the college type." "I'm going to let you think about that," she said.
For the next three months, Verlon kept drinking. But then one day, he laid off the booze. "I thought ' Well, hell, I'll just try it, '" he said. "When I got in school, I liked it. It was a challenge. It started changing my direction and my ideas about drinking."
At the time, he had moved back to Arkansas where he spent much of his youth. He attended the University of Arkansas at Little Rock - then Little Rock University.
By 1972, Verlon had earned his master's degree in rehabilitation counseling. In 1991 he helped found the Arkansas Chapter of ADAPT (American Disabled for Attendant Programs Today), an advocacy group for the disabled.
FACING DOUBT At the time of his injury, Leonard was in his second marriage. But the relationship went bad, and in 1996 the couple divorced, his wife taking custody of Leonard's two children. After the spilt, Leonard lived alone in a cramped trailer in southwest Little Rock. He lived off a $420 a month disability check. The trailer rented for $200 a month. Watching Leonard walk on crutches out of his trailer and toward the pickup, Verlon knew Leonard was in bad shape. The pair drove to a local Sonic, sat in Verlon's truck and talked. Verlon bought Leonard a grape slush, a simple pleasure he hadn't enjoyed in a long time.
For the next year, Leonard performed odd jobs at Verlon's house in Bryant. He painted. He repaired siding. He worked on Verlon's cars. Soon Leonard wasn't coming over only to work, but for meals and to sit on Verlon's porch and talk.
Aside from age and race, they had much in common.
Verlon, a white man in his late 50s, had served in the Navy before the car wreck.
Leonard, a black man in his late 30s, had been a mechanic in the Air Force.
Verlon was physically worse off, but he had accomplished a lot. A master's degree. A large house in Bryant that sat beside a pond. A wife and two kids. All those accomplishments had come after
he was injured.
Watching his friend, Leonard was in awe. And he wondered if he couldn't accomplish what Verlon had. But college? Leonard graduated from Little Rock's Parkview High School in 1978. He had married just six months after graduating high school. The couple had a baby. A family to support meant going to work, not to a university. Nearly 20 years had passed since then. Still, he wondered... And then there was Verlon. "I just kept after him," Verlon said. "I said, ' You can either wimp out and feel sorry for yourself and do odd jobs until you can't move and wind up in a nursing home or you can go to school. Get off your ass and go to school. '" By spring of 1997,
Verlon's prodding had melted Leonard's resolve.
Sitting there that day in Verlon's kitchen, Leonard knew an education meant the difference between existing and living. "I finally figured it out," Leonard said. "I'd battled for a long time."
BACK TO SCHOOL Nothing about academics came easily. Leonard doubted himself. Others did too. He took some tests through Arkansas Rehabilitation Services. Afterwards a psychologist wrote that Leonard wasn't college material.
He couldn't just jump back into the classroom either. Before he could earn college credit, Leonard needed to take developmental courses. "I had learn the various testtaking strategies all over again because I had lost all of that," Leonard said.
Then there was the money. He had to apply for grants and financial aid.
But the money came, and in 1998, he enrolled at Pulaski Technical College. He was 38 years old.
At Pulaski Tech he wasn't just a student, but also an advocate.
Some doors were too heavy for him to open. Some bathroom stalls were too narrow for him to enter. Some curbs' cutout ramps weren't wide enough.
He read Martin Luther King Jr., and made one of King's sayings his motto: "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."
He worked with Pulaski Tech administrators, personally inspecting the campus with a measuring tape, detailing its problems for the disabled.
Eventually administrators remedied the problems.
Because he was in a wheelchair, some people looked at Leonard with pity. Some with condescension.
Some avoided looking at him at all, like he had a disease.
In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Leonard found a character with whom he could identify. Like Dr. Frankenstein's creature, he felt misunderstood because of his appearance.
During his time at Pulaski Tech, he made the Dean's List twice. One summer he served as an intern in U.S. Rep. Vic Snyder's office. "I made history in two ways," Leonard said. "First of all, I was the first two-year college student to do an internship in a congressional office. Second I was the oldest student to do an internship in a congressional office."
This fall Leonard enrolled at UALR as a junior. He is majoring in political science.
After he graduates, he plans to pursue a law degree. He dreams of being a legal advocate for the disabled.
Through the technical college, Leonard got a job as a education coordinator for the Welfare to Work program, where he counsels welfare recipients into careers.
Having spent years repairing cars, Leonard is now helping repair lives.
http://www.nwarktimes.com/adg/story_arkansas.php?storyid=14953
BY STEPHEN DEERE
Five years had passed since Leonard Boyle lost feeling in his right leg. He could stand, but only briefly. He could walk, but only with crutches.
Most of the time, he used a wheelchair to get around.
He had been a mechanic once. Now he wasn't sure what he was.
He had lost his auto shop, his family, his identity.
For work, he had the jobs his friend Verlon McKay gave him around Verlon's house in Bryant.
One day in 1997, Leonard had just finished replacing an engine in Verlon stepson's car. It took him more than a week. It should have taken less than a day.
Afterward, he and Verlon sat at Verlon's kitchen table.
I can't live like this anymore, Leonard said.
Verlon empathized but would offer no sympathy.
Years earlier, an injury also had left him disabled.
I don't understand why you're not going to school, Verlon said.
The prompting was familiar. Verlon had told him he could either work himself to death and barely get by, or go to college. "Those are your options," he would say. "They're pretty damn narrow."
Leonard started to cry. Never had he given higher education much thought. Nearly 20 years had gone by since he graduated from high school. He hadn't read much outside of an auto manual.
But Leonard had no choice. Looking at Verlon, he had no excuse either. Now, his broken body would force him to use his mind. Working on Verlon's stepson's car "was more like an eye opener to let me know 'hey you need to reconsider this thing'... I was so scared. I was scared at the thought of going back to school." The disability had always brought Leonard misery. At the time, he never dreamed it could deliver opportunity. He just knew that his friend was right.
THAT NIGHT Leonard's journey began in 1992. It began with headaches - blinding pain that came from nowhere. Nausea followed, along with intense photosensitivity. Any exposure to light made his head feel as if it were on fire.
He remembers sometimes losing his balance for no reason at all.
One night left him crippled.
The scene: A local skating rink where Leonard was
supervising some youths. The activity was part of a church ministry aimed at keeping kids out of trouble.
A mirrored ball scattered light all around him. Music blared. His head spun.
Later he was in an emergency room. Searching for a diagnosis, a doctor performed a spinal tap.
His right leg kicked violently, damaging nerves at the base of his spine and paralyzing the leg.
He would never walk on his own again. He was 32 years old.
A mysterious illness. An op- eration. A reflex. And now, life as he knew it, had ended.
A LOSING BATTLE Questions still surround what had happened. Doctors later diagnosed Leonard with multiple sclerosis. But the spinal tap uncovered unidentifiable toxins in his body, causing him to question what really ailed him. After the injury, Leonard tried to continue working as a mechanic.
But he struggled to get underneath cars and had trouble reaching them when they rested on a lift. He pushed himself around on a mechanic's stool. When he needed to look under the hood of a car, he would pull himself up and lean against the vehicle
for balance.
But he feared falling on the engine and breaking something, or landing on a hot exhaust manifold and burning himself. After a while, he could no longer afford help, and he worked alone.
Before his illness he had worked hard to keep his own auto shop. Now, he still worked hard, but repairs were taking much longer.
Jobs became backlogged. He became exhausted. His clientele evaporated.
He lost the shop.
At night he lay in bed, his eyes filling with tears.
His new body didn't fit his old life.
A night off from his duties as a naval officer. A few too many drinks. A drunk friend at the wheel.
It was 1961. The car wreck broke Verlon McKay's neck in four places. The then 23-year-old woke up in a hospital. He was young, confused and had lost feeling in his legs.
He spent the next year in an alcoholic haze.
But one morning as he sat down to enjoy his first drink of the day, he wondered: Could he lead a life that mattered again?
He consulted the Veterans Administration, who had him take some tests. Afterward, he remembers a counselor calling. "Have you considered college?" she asked. "Well, no," Verlon said. "I never finished high school." "But you have your GED certificate," she said. "You can get into college with that." "I don't think so," Verlon said. "I'm not the college type." "I'm going to let you think about that," she said.
For the next three months, Verlon kept drinking. But then one day, he laid off the booze. "I thought ' Well, hell, I'll just try it, '" he said. "When I got in school, I liked it. It was a challenge. It started changing my direction and my ideas about drinking."
At the time, he had moved back to Arkansas where he spent much of his youth. He attended the University of Arkansas at Little Rock - then Little Rock University.
By 1972, Verlon had earned his master's degree in rehabilitation counseling. In 1991 he helped found the Arkansas Chapter of ADAPT (American Disabled for Attendant Programs Today), an advocacy group for the disabled.
FACING DOUBT At the time of his injury, Leonard was in his second marriage. But the relationship went bad, and in 1996 the couple divorced, his wife taking custody of Leonard's two children. After the spilt, Leonard lived alone in a cramped trailer in southwest Little Rock. He lived off a $420 a month disability check. The trailer rented for $200 a month. Watching Leonard walk on crutches out of his trailer and toward the pickup, Verlon knew Leonard was in bad shape. The pair drove to a local Sonic, sat in Verlon's truck and talked. Verlon bought Leonard a grape slush, a simple pleasure he hadn't enjoyed in a long time.
For the next year, Leonard performed odd jobs at Verlon's house in Bryant. He painted. He repaired siding. He worked on Verlon's cars. Soon Leonard wasn't coming over only to work, but for meals and to sit on Verlon's porch and talk.
Aside from age and race, they had much in common.
Verlon, a white man in his late 50s, had served in the Navy before the car wreck.
Leonard, a black man in his late 30s, had been a mechanic in the Air Force.
Verlon was physically worse off, but he had accomplished a lot. A master's degree. A large house in Bryant that sat beside a pond. A wife and two kids. All those accomplishments had come after
he was injured.
Watching his friend, Leonard was in awe. And he wondered if he couldn't accomplish what Verlon had. But college? Leonard graduated from Little Rock's Parkview High School in 1978. He had married just six months after graduating high school. The couple had a baby. A family to support meant going to work, not to a university. Nearly 20 years had passed since then. Still, he wondered... And then there was Verlon. "I just kept after him," Verlon said. "I said, ' You can either wimp out and feel sorry for yourself and do odd jobs until you can't move and wind up in a nursing home or you can go to school. Get off your ass and go to school. '" By spring of 1997,
Verlon's prodding had melted Leonard's resolve.
Sitting there that day in Verlon's kitchen, Leonard knew an education meant the difference between existing and living. "I finally figured it out," Leonard said. "I'd battled for a long time."
BACK TO SCHOOL Nothing about academics came easily. Leonard doubted himself. Others did too. He took some tests through Arkansas Rehabilitation Services. Afterwards a psychologist wrote that Leonard wasn't college material.
He couldn't just jump back into the classroom either. Before he could earn college credit, Leonard needed to take developmental courses. "I had learn the various testtaking strategies all over again because I had lost all of that," Leonard said.
Then there was the money. He had to apply for grants and financial aid.
But the money came, and in 1998, he enrolled at Pulaski Technical College. He was 38 years old.
At Pulaski Tech he wasn't just a student, but also an advocate.
Some doors were too heavy for him to open. Some bathroom stalls were too narrow for him to enter. Some curbs' cutout ramps weren't wide enough.
He read Martin Luther King Jr., and made one of King's sayings his motto: "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."
He worked with Pulaski Tech administrators, personally inspecting the campus with a measuring tape, detailing its problems for the disabled.
Eventually administrators remedied the problems.
Because he was in a wheelchair, some people looked at Leonard with pity. Some with condescension.
Some avoided looking at him at all, like he had a disease.
In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Leonard found a character with whom he could identify. Like Dr. Frankenstein's creature, he felt misunderstood because of his appearance.
During his time at Pulaski Tech, he made the Dean's List twice. One summer he served as an intern in U.S. Rep. Vic Snyder's office. "I made history in two ways," Leonard said. "First of all, I was the first two-year college student to do an internship in a congressional office. Second I was the oldest student to do an internship in a congressional office."
This fall Leonard enrolled at UALR as a junior. He is majoring in political science.
After he graduates, he plans to pursue a law degree. He dreams of being a legal advocate for the disabled.
Through the technical college, Leonard got a job as a education coordinator for the Welfare to Work program, where he counsels welfare recipients into careers.
Having spent years repairing cars, Leonard is now helping repair lives.
http://www.nwarktimes.com/adg/story_arkansas.php?storyid=14953