Simon Longhi, M2, Class of 2025
♪♪
Oooo yooou can dance
You can jiiiive
Having the time of your life
Oooo see that girl
Watch that scene
Digging, the dancing queeeeenn
♪♪
My little sister spins around the room in her cracked, calloused bare feet, gloriously fanning out her wild, endlessly flowing curly hair – the envy of virtually all the many young women we’ve had work in our home to help care for her. Nobody dances like Bianca. Now into her 30s, Bianca still needs help going to the bathroom and cleaning herself. Bianca cannot talk, other than rudimentary “ma’s” and “ta’s” if she wants something like a car ride or a piece of candy. She may scream or cry at any time, anywhere between a disconcerting slow boil or a flat-out tantrum, or bang her hands on the table and exhibit other such self-injuring behavior without warning. Bianca has no concept of social norms – of danger when crossing a street, of knowing when to be quiet and be calm in public, of suppressing her inner urge to pinch us or lash out at us when she feels frustrated. Bianca has no hope of independence, not even close. She will need someone taking care of her 24/7 for the rest of her life. I grew up in a household that spoiled Bianca rotten, that revolved around giving her the most stable environment possible, of putting a numbing bandaid on that down-the-road, bleeding fear our family has always had of what would happen to her when my parents were gone.
But man, nobody dances like Bianca.
Med Intima 