Freddie, Or, Why I Talk With Children

How we think of ourselves is often at odds with how others think of us. In this short memoir, author and diagnosed Diastrophic Dwarf Geri Mariano shares an encounter she had with an open-minded, inquisitive young boy named Freddie, her seatmate on an hours-long flight.

#EqualityIs: acceptance of differences of all kinds.


As digital communication becomes faster and more accessible, we are given a window into the lives of others, and given the chance to better understand differences. As TV shows like “Little People Big World” showcase people living “ordinary” lives simply in differently shaped bodies, I believe that opportunities for women with disabilities will continue to grow. As a woman with a disability, I look to women like Illinois Congresswoman Tammy Duckworth, a double amputee now serving as a leader for our country. I draw strength from examples like hers in my work raising awareness about disability.

In my experience, sometimes the simplest of interactions can affect great change, particularly with children. Children can often see beneath the odd-looking exterior a person might have and to see what’s inside. They are more open than adults, until they are taught that they shouldn’t be. These few moments with this little boy named Freddie remind me that the work I do speaking at schools is worthwhile. I remain hopeful that there might now be countless other open-minded children like Freddie out there.


Still adjusting myself in the spacious accommodations, I shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable.

“I love first class,” said the child seated next to me.

I nodded, heartily agreeing with his declaration.

“I do it every time I fly,” he continued.  “Do you?”

I wish. I had only gotten this seat assignment five minutes before. Still weary from worry, I wiped away a stray tear of grateful relief over finally being able to relax on the second leg of the flight home, after a three-and-a-half day whirlwind trip.

Shaking my head no, I responded, “Hardly, but when I do, I like it very much.”

“My mom works for the airline,” he revealed, “so we get whichever seats are left open after everyone has boarded.” He looked at me expectantly, ostensibly awaiting an explanation as to why I was privileged to be in the airplane’s front cabin.  “Usually, whenever the airlines mess up my seat assignment,” I began, trying to make it sound simple, “they end up moving me to first class.  It doesn’t happen very often though.”

Satisfied for the moment, he went on. “My parents are divorced. I’m an only child, you know, so my mother takes me to a lot of places! And we always go first class. I guess I’m pretty spoiled.” He stated this so matter-of-factly, as if it were the most common state of being for a child.

How does one respond to such a proclamation?  And what was this kid going to be like the whole two hour flight to LaGuardia?  I shifted around to look at my neighbor more closely. He certainly dressed well–Lands End shirt, khaki baggy pants and a World War II type leather flight jacket. He had a small, round face and frame, pinchable cheeks, and cropped brown hair.

Before I could gather my wits for a response, he was already fidgeting with a hand-held Nintendo computer game, complete with different game cartridges and a re-charger apparatus. He then turned back to me and focused on my “legs” over which he had climbed earlier. His mother had seemed annoyed that I couldn’t move them out of the way.

“They’re prosthetics,” I started. “They cover my own legs, so I can walk. They don’t bend at the knees, so I need to sit in the first row, the bulk-head, so my legs will fit sticking straight out.”

“Oh.” Like most kids, he looked as if questions were bursting out of him.

The flight attendant then came with my complimentary pre-take-off drink, one I hoped would push me into the sleep which I had missed over the past few days.


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my neighbor watch as I juggled the drink, a purse, and four fast wilting roses. Spotting my flower predicament, the flight attendant promised to come back with wet napkins for the flowers after we were airborne.

“Just came from a wedding and plucked these from my bouquet to bring home,” I offered, attempting to direct the course of conversation.

He nodded understandingly and with piqued interest. “Whose wedding?” 


“A friend from college,” I replied enthusiastically, happy for an opportunity to talk of the grand wedding, my first as a bridesmaid.

He eyed me suspiciously following that last answer.  “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. How old are you?”

“Nine. You don’t look that old,” he pressed.

He was right, though. Even sitting down, I still looked shorter, younger and I sounded younger–my short vocal chords give me higher pitched voice, a physics phenomenon I learned in high school. And my arms were also shorter than normal. In medical terms, I am a Diastrophic Dwarf, but to kids, I’m an odd looking package. I didn’t blame him for wondering and staring. And he wasn’t rude about it like the kids who pester their parents with “Mommy, look at that girl.” Parents could be the worst offenders though, when they shame their kids into silence, thus perpetuating the “different equals freak” credo.


In medical terms, I am a Diastrophic Dwarf, but to kids, I’m an odd looking package. I didn’t blame him for wondering and staring. And he wasn’t rude about it like some kids.



Being nine, the boy’s interest immediately changed to a more urgent matter–why the flight attendant hadn’t asked his meal choice yet. On her next walk-by I flagged her down and explained the young boy’s concern. Once he finally gave his selection, he turned to me with a new look.

“Hey, thanks for getting her attention.”

“No problem,” I said, taking pleasure from my all too infrequent role as helper as opposed to help-ee. I suddenly felt very protective of the lad and wanted to know his name. “By the way, my name is Geri.”

“I’m Freddie.” He held out his hand to shake my offered hand, like a well-mannered boy. Most grown-ups are usually much more tentative during an introduction.

For a self-proclaimed spoiled kid, he was turning out alright.

The flight attendant returned with the promised napkins and Freddie asked about the wedding again. I gave a brief summary while he listened intently.

“Are you going to get married?”

He certainly was direct. A very good question though, one that had swirled in my head a lot over the past weekend. Some people didn’t think so. “Hope to, but you know, I’ll need to have a boyfriend first. Right now I don’t have one. But how about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

He smiled shyly then took me into his confidence about his girl back home.

Later I asked Freddie about his travel plans.

“We’re going to New York for New Year’s. I have cousins on Long Island and we’re going skating at Rockefeller Center,” he bubbled with anticipation.

Above the clouds, Freddie and I dined together. When lunch came, Freddie was the perfect gentleman, offering to open all the plastic wrappers. The packages I could open with my stub-like fingers I did. The ones that were more difficult, I turned over to his eager hands.


When lunch came, Freddie was the perfect gentleman, offering to open all the plastic wrappers. The packages I could open with my stub-like fingers I did. The ones that were more difficult, I turned over to his eager hands.



From that point on we covered a range of topics, including my possible graduate school plans. Freddie assured me that if I ever chose Emory University, he’d fill me in on all the hot spots to go in his hometown of Atlanta. We didn’t talk the whole time though.  He played some more Nintendo and even offered me a turn which I graciously refused. Once, while he dozed for a few minutes, his mother came forward, leaned over me and checked on him. Smiling, I said, “Your son has been very friendly and helpful.  I’ve enjoyed talking with him.”

No smile, no nod of agreement. Nothing. Was I invisible?

In due time, we arrived in the air space over LaGuardia only to circle for an hour. The whole eastern seaboard had been fogged in for over 24 hours and the delays were endless. After a while the captain announced that the fog was still very heavy, that some planes were being sent to other airports. We had enough fuel for one landing attempt and for flight to Boston if need be.

Feeling uneasy, I turned to Freddie and grinned, to reassure him, just in case he might have been worried. He just nodded and then we both braced ourselves.

The plane started its descent but then the pilot pulled it up suddenly. “Sorry folks for that last jolt. I tried to land, but I couldn’t see the runway down there,” the captain apologized over the intercom. “We’re off to Boston. We won’t know for a while whether we’ll stay over there or try to come back here again later,” he explained further.

Freddie still appeared nervous, even after we were safely above the dense clouds. He went back to talk to his mother and returned dejected. “She won’t go to New York now,” he reported.

After finally landing at Boston’s Logan’s Airport to a round of applause, the captain came on with more apologies and advised us to wait for instructions. Clearly vexed over this detour and with apparently no patience to await word of our fate, Freddie’s mother came forward and hauled him out of his seat. He had accurately predicted that they’d be headed back on the next available flight to Atlanta. In whatever class seats were open, I figured.

Freddie loaded his belongings into his backpack and climbed over me for the last time. Shrugging his shoulders, he looked forlorn, and even apologetic. Before disappearing into the jet way, he glanced back, his eyes a bit brighter. “I hope you get married someday, Geri. I think you’re a nice lady.”

Maybe, someday. If there are more like you, Freddie.

About the Author 

Geri Mariano is a 46 year old woman with congenital defects of all parts skeletal. She was given up by biological parents of Italian heritage in 1967, when despite changing attitudes, shame and fear around babies who were not “normal” was still prevalent. Social Workers responsible for Geri’s care placed her picture in a local county newspaper, seeking a family for her and though never legally adopted, Geri was raised from 18 months old with a mom, dad and three sisters. She attended public school in New York State before the 1973 Rehab Act mandated that public schools accept students with special needs and she was “mainstreamed” before mainstreaming was a term used in education. Geri went on to attend Smith College and later graduated with a MS. Ed in Therapeutic Recreation. It was at Smith that she began talking with campus pre school students to promote awareness and understanding of those with differences. In the years since then, Geri has been interviewed for TV and newspaper outlets and taken her talks around the country. You can read more about Geri and her work at her website,