Tim Shriver is not patronizing. He easily could be because his inspiring book, Fully Alive (Farrar, Straus, 2014), is about disabled people. He profiles several remarkable people and even suggests that the intellectually disabled can change society—not only spiritually, but even politically. I had to read a section and then put the book down for at least a couple hours; the story compels that type of reflection.
Shriver keeps it real. Treveon Wimberly, Shriver tells us, cannot talk in a standard language. He gestures and makes sounds to express himself. Wimberly, who is mobile only with a wheelchair, tells his high school friend that he wants to walk across the stage at graduation. The two boys “committed to a daily routine of exercises and therapies,” every single day for one year. Now the movie version ends with Wimberly strutting his stuff at graduation and the friend throwing the wheelchair in the school dumpster. But Fully Alive is real: Using a walker, Wimberly takes only three steps on the stage and the crowd erupts. I had to put the book down.
Shriver’s aunt, Rosemary Kennedy (1918-2005), was intellectually disabled. He again tells it honestly. Initially, Rosemary’s parents and siblings nobly included her in family life. Her father, however, trusted in a now discredited procedure. Rosemary was damaged and then sent to a facility. Rosemary’s father arranged care for her thereafter, but never visited. Her siblings didn’t know much. Plus, as Shriver explores, they were in denial about her.
Shriver’s mother, Eunice Kennedy Shriver (1921-2009), gradually but dramatically redeems the situation. She directs money from the family foundation to research and treatment for mental health; she lobbies her brother, President John Kennedy (1917-1963), on disability legislation; and with the support of her husband Sarge (1915-2001) and others she founds the Special Olympics (www.specialolympics.org).
Fully Alive is not just a feel good book—if it is that at all. Shriver repeatedly asks of us, as he asks of himself: “What should we do with our lives?” In fits and starts he discovers that the answer comes from finding one’s soul and giving energy and time to the ill, the young, the lost and the poor. This is the way to have power and lots of fun.
Shriver’s recommended way of empowerment is not sugar-coated. Yes, there are poignant incidents, like with a runner at the first Special Olympics, who having earnestly trained, pulls away and is close to the finish line. And then he stops; turns around; and runs back to comfort a friend who has fallen. “Who won that race,” Shriver asks? But don’t get the wrong impression. On another occasion Shriver himself is in the infield for a Special Softball game. A liner knocks him over and splits his lip wide open. The fans are quite concerned, but not the Special Batter. He hovers over the dazed Shriver, taunting him: “You heard me. We’re gonna win States this year and you ain’t got no chance.”
Fully Alive features several families who integrate their special child into their home life. But though Shriver highlights families and deplores some facilities, he certainly realizes that not all special people can be at home all day. Some don’t even have a family home.
When Eunice Shriver died, her brother Senator Ted Kennedy (1932-2009), who died two weeks later, remarked that she among all the Kennedy siblings did the most for society. Tim Shriver plausibly argues that Rosemary, in turning her siblings’ souls toward the poor, deserves that distinction.
Droel serves on the board of St. Coletta of Illinois, the sister facility to the one in Wisconsin where Rosemary Kennedy over many years lived and was well cared for by Sisters of St. Francis of Assisi.