‘We Can Contribute to Society Like Everyone Else’

Hardly a day goes by that Allison Stokes doesn’t hear it in the hallways, whether uttered in jest or offhand chatter or barbs imbued with malice and intent.

The "R-word."

Each time, it stings the Watkins Mill senior, who was diagnosed with a form of Down Syndrome at an early age. She and her sister Caroline, a junior, do what they can to convince their schoolmates of how offensive it is and to raise awareness about campaigns to end its use.

"We don’t like that word much," Allison said. "It can hurt. Some people don’t really realize it. Words like ‘retard’ and ‘retarded’ can be hurtful."

And each time, she makes sure it doesn't deter her from her school day—a dedication that, in its own way, chips away at those prejudices every time she takes a seat in class.

Allison's condition, Mosaic Down Syndrome, falls in the high-functioning end of developmental disabilities. But its effects on the 17-year-old are unmistakable.

When unsettled, she shifts in her seat and tends toward heavy gestures. And though she bears no shortage of articulation—most ideas spring forth with ease and eloquence—some abscond away beyond reach. "Executive function" disabilities complicate her efforts to organize and plan. A math disability diagnosed in elementary school limits her to a specialized geometry class.

"It’s really hard to explain," she said of her struggle with math. "It doesn’t always—register—with me."

Undaunted by the challenges, she started the switch from special ed to mainstream curriculum in her freshman year at Watkins Mill, one of the county school system's two remaining Secondary Learning Centers. It was a nerve-wracking change. Slight disruptions can throw her off, and mainstream classes are bigger, louder and offer less individualized attention.

She gets a handful of accommodations—help taking notes, extra time if she doesn’t finish a test before the bell. But it has been her teachers’ personal touch, she says, that has made the biggest difference.

"They’re not only helpful with all the work, they’re also very nice to me, and they can be funny—at times," she said wryly. "They definitely helped accept who I am, and I am very grateful for them."

Now a senior, she’s taking mainstream history and Spanish, is one of the most dedicated students in her psychology class and is entirely in her element in Advanced Placement English.

Allison doesn’t fuss much over her college-bound, AP-taking, stereotype-subverting successes. If anything, she's demure when asked to account for all that she has accomplished.

"Oh yes, I am proud," she said. "I’m just a little shy."

It's not that she doesn't find satisfaction in proving the doubters wrong—those who didn’t think she could pass the algebra HSA, those who use the R-word in the harshest sense, those who assume she can’t be self-sufficient at a high level. She just doesn’t go out of the way to prove them wrong, she says; it ends up as such simply because.

"Not just me—people with disabilities in general: We can contribute to society like everyone else," she said.

Her life's grander contributions will take shape this fall at Penn State-Mont Alto, which she chose over two other schools in part because it has a quiet campus of about 1,200 students (nearly 500 fewer than Watkins Mill) and is close to home—without being too close, Allison joked. Most of all, Mont Alto offers a major in Human Development and Family Studies, through which she hopes to fashion her way of helping others.

In the meantime, this summer promises the usual off-to-college shopping and preparation, her parents as worried and proud as any other—and a touch of nerves creeping in beneath Allison’s otherwise calm demeanor.

"Maybe just a little," she said. "But aren’t most students nervous about college?"