The Way I See It...

Publisher's Letter 

Robin Rogers, Ed.D.

February 2025

I can be a real jerk behind the wheel. There’s no reason to report me to the police, because as much as I trash talk other drivers, I am not one to take any chances—especially when I am responsible for an extra passenger, and that’s a given most of the time. My daughter, Emily, has to put up with a side of me that very few know: Mean Momma Robin. 

Mean Momma Robin drives a wheelchair-accessible van, chauffeuring the chattiest backseat driver never to have driven an automobile. I get all kinds of regular advice on better routes, road closures, and pothole avoidances. She also sits directly behind my headrest, and despite being inches away from my ears, loud is her mode of delivery when we are driving. There’s no wonder I suffer from slight road rage; like a teenager driving with an overprotective parent, I am constantly being warned of an impending crash that never comes. 

Those who truly know Emily know that she is brilliant. To say she “keeps up” with local goings-on would be an understatement; she is like the switchboard operator of lore, with knowledge of everyone and everything happening in the community. If you’ve ever met her (or even if you’re just acquainted on Facebook), I would bet you a crisp, clean $50 bill that she knows not only your full name but also your birthday, your place of employment, or the name of a relative; I’d bet $10 that she knows all three. She is our family’s go-to source when we want to know about anything going on in town, from ribbon-cuttings and construction sites to new births and retirements. She checks the obituaries on a weekly basis, reads breaking news on her phone, and has even been known to listen to the police scanner “for fun.”

She is exceptional in ways that most people can’t even imagine. 

Driving a van was something that I always thought I was too cool ever to do, but life is full of little surprises, and these days, I am just thrilled that our van has cold air and heated seats. Without Emily, I’m not sure who I would be.

Emily has cerebral palsy. During her birth, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. She was close to making her arrival when her fetal heart monitor dropped to nothing, and the doctor had to make an emergent decision to get her out and get her out fast. That delivery room was evacuated, and the tone changed. I remember our doctor calling for forceps to pull her from my body. It took what seemed like forever for him to unwind the cord, not once but four times, from around her head and neck. When she finally screamed, relief washed over everyone left in that hospital room.

Emily didn’t hit some of the eagerly anticipated baby milestones at the expected times. I fretted. The late, great Dr. Nathan Wright, our pediatrician, warned us not to put labels on her; he said something to the effect that when you label a child, expectations fall, and Emily deserved more than that. Of course, he was right. Arkansas Children’s Hospital diagnosed her with CP when she was about a year old; an MRI showed she had a spot of brain damage from when she lost oxygen during birth.

Outsiders underestimate Emily because of her disability. When we are at the grocery store and run into someone I haven’t seen in many years, Emily tells me who that person is before they’re within earshot—while also holding our grocery list in her head, finding coupons on her phone, and mentally dealing with 100 other life-administration tasks. She is so smart. She is also more forgiving and gracious than anybody I have ever known.

When the accessible parking spots are full of cars without disabled placards or plates, I fume. The lady waiting for her takeout, the man “just running in for something quick” at the E-Z Mart, and the kid on a motorcycle who parks on the white stripes wheelchair users need to get in and out of their vehicles—those people all better hope Emily is with me when I see them. She will talk me down before I confront that lady, or block in that man while we wait for the police, or push that motorcycle into the Red River. We are all lucky that Emily is kind and forgiving. She’ll remind me that many people don’t “look disabled” but are and need accessible parking; she will always suggest we just park out in the middle of nowhere when there are other people who need to be closer to the entrance than she does.

We are taught by society to judge books by their covers. We make assumptions about people based on their skin color, accent, clothing, gender, mobility, attractiveness, body size, age. But Emily knows from experience that this is misguided. Human beings are much too complex. Intelligence, character, disability, health—none of these look any certain way.

Janie Wright, whose photo is our cover this month, was assumed healthy by both her peers and medical professionals, based primarily on her outward appearance; she “looked healthy”—but there is no such thing. Today, she looks almost exactly as she did this time last year, but after undergoing a quintuple bypass, her heart health is night-and-day different. Thanks to her proactive behavior and access to exceptional medical care, Janie avoided a heart attack and is now recovering from open-heart surgery. But had she brushed off her symptoms, as many people would, reasoning that she didn’t fit the stereotypical profile of an unwell person, she might have paid the ultimate price, as so many do; after all, heart disease is the top cause of death for both men and women in the U.S.

Making assumptions about people—based on appearance, age, disability status, or any other surface-level characteristic—has only negative repercussions. Janie knows that. I know that, too, though I regularly forget. Luckily for me, I have my favorite backseat driver and partner-in-kindness to remind me every day. As she likes to say, she is my heart.

Enjoy this issue, and thanks as always for reading FSLM.