Alexandre Jollien, struck by cerebral palsy, spent seventeen years in an institution before discovering philosophy. His book In Praise of Weakness won the French Academy Prize. In what follows, Alexandre speaks with simple honesty about the secret of his "joyous struggle."
At the Center where I lived, they taught me to walk, to speak, to tie my shoes, to cut meat without stabbing my neighbor, to write on a computer. But the other disabled people around me—whom society dismissed as "vegetables"—became my true teachers. They taught me that you don't build yourself alone. You learn most things by watching others, by taking part in how they solve problems. I watched Dominique, confined to a wheelchair, coax a smile from his own body. From him I learned that what matters most isn't what you do or what you own, but who you are.
Leonardo taught me too—"the mute of the ward"—to pay attention to others and develop my own abilities. He had an intellectual disability, but he noticed every change in us.
Companions in Trial
I lived my life as a joyful battle. Every day you had to start from scratch, face difficulties, accept challenges, and stay cheerful. Even the smallest victories helped us grow. Everyone shared them. When I found the courage to learn to walk, I fell regularly, almost at every meter. Dominique would watch and laugh at my attempts. I understood then that, unable to walk or speak, laughter was the only way he could encourage me. Dominique could easily have been jealous: "I will never walk. Alexandre walks. That's not fair." Instead, without bitterness, he shared my hope for victory. Yet it's not easy at all to be happy in such a situation!
A joyful struggle is the realization that life is, in fact, a serious and difficult thing—and that despite this, you will do everything you can to make it beautiful, joyful, and rooted in solidarity.
Today we hold up the man who pulls himself up by his bootstraps (often crushing others in the process). We aren't told that a man who does it all alone can just as easily destroy himself, and very quickly. In the institution, we were companions in difficulty, together facing our trial. This bond tied us more strongly than the shared suffering we lived through with a bit of humor, with lightness, refusing all self-pity.
Some try to deny their handicap. One of my companions was missing a thumb. He always kept his hand in his pocket because of it. He said it looked "cool." I don't share his opinion. It's a daily battle, because you can't accept your handicap once and for all. There are no miracle cures. Some days the handicap hurts more than others.
In my life, beyond my exceptional parents and my friends, one person was very important: Father Morand. He too was a companion in difficulty. He was eighty-seven, often unshaven and poorly dressed. One day I went to see him. "Tell me, Father, what's your God doing up there?" He took note of my question without trying to answer with arguments. We became close friends. I wanted to be like him. He gave off a deep joy—not through forced smiles, but through his attitude toward life. He didn't try to change me; he welcomed me as I was without judging. We talked. That's how he was with everyone. When he died, he left me an inheritance—a certain way of looking at things that I use every day.
Someone recently told me about a sixteen-year-old girl, also struck by cerebral palsy, who was depressed and had already tried to take her own life several times. What can you do to give her back a taste for living? I don't believe there are miracle cures. We want to eliminate suffering as quickly as possible and we must work toward that. But we also have to know how to wait until a person is mature enough to listen to someone who wants to help. What helped me personally was meeting genuine, authentic people. Sometimes you have to create these meetings. You have to provoke Providence.
But even if you build your life well and make the effort to fight, sometimes heavy difficulties come—too heavy. You can give way overnight. You have to start all over again.
There's often a tendency to judge suffering people negatively. We ask ourselves why they don't do something to get out of it. When the suffering is too great, when there's no hope, people resign themselves. To fight, you need hope, even if it's absurd. Every trial we face in life can become a possibility and a source of strength. This is where you can put willpower, hope, and above all mutual aid into daily practice.
I Found Philosophy
Until I was fourteen, I was worthless at school. It was discouraging. I repeated two or three grades. My parents don't come from an intellectual background. So when I said I wanted to study philosophy, they agreed even before I explained what it was! They trusted me completely! I really do owe this calling to Providence. When I took career aptitude tests, they asked me what shape a balloon is. They made me build a tower with blocks. Then I had to choose from a list of jobs: computer programmer, cashier, plumber. I thought: "Philosopher comes before plumber." There was nothing in the program suggesting I study philosophy! We shouldn't rule out certain paths too quickly, even for people with disabilities.
Every human being is unique. Each person is truly, in my view, a source of wonder.
(from Ombre e Luci, no. 135)
Alexandre Jollien, 2002
