I RECEIVED SPECIAL NEEDS IN A SPECIAL NEEDS SCHOOL

A really good lifeguarding friend and special needs teacher during the winter, Mark Kelly, is a very special human being with extrasensory awareness that many other people don’t have for humanity. He had the ability to see through old antiquated words that no longer worked, yet still held meaning from another era. His heightened awareness realized that many of these labels were manufactured through human thought processes and were not truly the truth of separation and division that society places upon those considered handicapped mentally, emotionally, physically, or spiritually.

Instead of looking at it as a handicap, Mark Kelly looked at it through the eyes of love, compassion, assistance, understanding, and acceptance. He operated from a newer and kinder school of thought that used compassion and humanity as its rule of thumb.

Skipping back to 1987, I had an extra room in our nice condo in North Manhattan Beach, California. My surfing and lifeguard medals filled that bedroom. I wore my medals on my sleeve.

My identity was fully invested in my athletic prowess. I was focused on my identity. This is who my ego thought I was: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, leaping, well-known surfer, lifeguard, model, stuntman.

This was all good until I matured out of brandishing my medals, talking about myself, and began looking more deeply into myself mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

As I matured, I saw that I was not my achievements. Yet I lived in a world where achievements often become who people think you are.

I’m not knocking achievements. I’m simply suggesting that one is not his achievements. Real growth is a deep understanding of self — being flexible, always growing, and being willing to go beyond self-made boundaries of the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Going back to the medals, all those achievements did not fulfill what my ego thought they would. More acceptance from society. Higher standing in my lifeguard and surfing career. Being well liked.

When in actuality, I was searching for the praise my father had never given me, for he had been out of my life for more than twelve years during my formative days.

I thought that if I made all these great achievements, people would love me more. I was looking outside of myself for love.

Before AIDS, society was much freer sexually and people experimented more openly. Sex felt lighter and less burdened with fear. I believed that much of the demonization surrounding AIDS, combined with the judgments imposed by religion, created even more fear and separation between people.

People don’t always like hearing “remember when” stories, but back in the 1960s and 1970s we truly helped one another. We shared tools, equipment, rides, and whatever we had. It felt more like a family, more like a village. The separation began slowly through walls, divisions, politics, and ideas that encouraged people not to help the poor or to fear immigrants. Yet in many ways immigrants helped California prosper and grow. None of that separation made sense to me.

I saw the split in society between the haves and the have-nots, the poor and the rich, the different ethnicities, and I began questioning my existence and the structure of the world around me.

Those medals were no longer an asset to my ego. They had become old, beat-up memories tied to the belief that achievements alone would bring me love and compassion. They didn’t. The medals tarnished, so I gave them away to Mark Kelly at the special needs school.

We were young lifeguards living on lifeguard salaries. Many lifeguards became teachers because it worked out perfectly — teaching during the winter and lifeguarding during the summer, if they could pass the rigorous Los Angeles County Fire Department swim test.

Long story short, I gave all my tarnished medals — Iron Man surfing medals and the whole lot — to Mark Kelly in a big box. He would hand them out on special event days. They were big, thick, red, white, and blue ribbons with either a gold, silver, or bronze medal hanging from them.

Later that year I needed my rusty old Ford van painted. Mark Kelly told me, “I have a family across the street that will do it for $650.”

A few days later it was a super hot day. I drove to Mark’s school, got stuck in traffic, and became irritated, overheated, and frustrated. I walked onto the campus looking for Mark so he could tell me where the family lived across the street that was going to paint my van.

My irritation grew with the heat.

As I walked onto the campus where Mark Kelly was teaching special-needs children, I suddenly saw two kids laughing and dancing with huge smiles running toward me.

The first child, who was bigger and faster, reached me quickly and excitedly shouted, “Look what I got!”

Around his neck was a beautiful ribbon with one of those medals hanging from it.

I instantly recognized it.

It was one of my lifeguard Iron Man medals.

The special-needs child was so happy that he had won something during their Special Olympics that day that his joy instantly transformed me. In one moment I went from being an overheated, irritated, angry man into a loving, joyous, grateful human being simply by witnessing what those old tarnished medals — the ones I thought were worthless — could mean to someone else.

That moment opened my eyes.

I realized that what I once viewed as symbols of ego and personal accomplishment had become symbols of encouragement, dignity, joy, and self-worth for another human being.

The medals had finally fulfilled a purpose greater than my ego ever could have imagined.

What unfolded for me that day became one of the most valuable lessons of my life: not to judge so quickly, to ponder before speaking, and to allow others to be who they are without harsh judgment. Most importantly, it taught me to hold less judgment toward myself.

As I stood there watching those children smile, laugh, and celebrate, something quietly shifted inside of me. I began to understand that love is not found in applause, trophies, titles, or recognition. Love is found in connection. In kindness. In seeing another human being light up with joy because they feel included, valued, and seen.

Those old medals were no longer tarnished to me.

They had become mirrors reflecting back a deeper truth:
that even our old wounds, our forgotten victories, and the pieces of ourselves we no longer value can still become gifts for someone else.

Sometimes the things we think are worthless carry the greatest power to heal another heart.

And in helping someone else feel special, I unknowingly received one of the greatest gifts of all — a deeper understanding of compassion, humility, and what it truly means to be human.