“My philosophy is to focus on my disabilities, not my abilities. I mean, like, it’s true I can think, but not like Albert Einstein. I’m strong, but not like Muhammad Ali. There are other people much more able than me. So compared to them, I’m a Crip. I try to be positive.” Jaycees and Jaycee-ettes are whispering, making sure they’ve heard it right. The campers are agog.

“Wow, that really makes you think, right, Jean?” I nod. “Denise, tell us what you have done with your life, despite the bad hand you’ve been dealt.”

“Well, I went to school. And now I have a job. It’s in a sheltered workshop with other people like me. We weave baskets, stuff envelopes, and string beads. I’ll never make enough to get off Ability Benefits, but I’m proud to have a job. It makes me feel almost like a Crip.”

“Denise, you’re an inspiration. Sometimes we Crips find that things come too easy. We go to the best schools, and we get the best jobs. Because we run the world.” Sara pauses and in the audience the Motown falsetto shouts amen. “We take it all for granted. It takes someone like you to make us thankful.”

“God bless us, every one.” Denise genuflects, and Sara gives her a pat on the head.

“Jean, give the people your reaction to Denise’s story. What do you think of that, Jean?”

I know it’s my cue, but I can only stutter. I’ve forgotten my line. Now I remember, but too late. I’m too flustered to get it out.

The silence continues, and finally I get it out: “That girl needs speech THER-a-py.” It’s incomprehensible, but Sara looks completely satisfied.

She looks to the audience. “Jean has hit the nail on the head. As usual. Friends, comrades, Philistines, did you hear what she said?”

“No!” shouts one of the boys in the back.

I repeat. I struggle to say it better, but I’m so nervous. They still don’t get it. My eyes tell Sara, Please don’t make me say it again.

Okay, she seems to answer, I’ll take care of it. “She said”—Sara speaks as slow as a foreign-language tape—“That girl needs speech therapy.” She waits for the reaction. Among the staff and visitors there is uncomfortable silence. The Norms go rigid, stone-faced. But the campers are tittering. Now, they’re laughing. Finally. Mr. Bob stands up. Furious. But I am jubilant. The joke worked. My heavy CP accent made it work.

Sara looks at me. “Yes, Denise desperately needs speech therapy. And without your help, ladies and gentlemen, she won’t get it.”

For me, hearing those words repeated is a kind of exorcism. If only that asshole from the telethon could be here!

Mr. Bob heads toward Sue and Carole. They stand up to meet him in the aisle.