A C-Shaped Spine and the Straightest Path to Wonder by Octavia McBride-Ahebee

In a Northeast Philly hospital, a tiny girl’s

 Spanish showed me that Blackness had

 a global map. *Images generated using AI tools.

As an aging woman still living with the long-term effects of scoliosis and multiple back surgeries, I’ve spent more than 60 years learning profound lessons from my body’s journey.

A large part of my early life was shaped by my time — both as an inpatient and outpatient — at what was then called Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children, located in Northeast Philadelphia. I even attended school on-site during my stays. Though I spent long stretches away from home, my parents visited almost daily, other family members stayed closely involved — and even my beloved, radical nun teachers from Saint Leonard’s came to visit me wherever I was during those times I couldn’t be in school.

Surrounded by children living not only with scoliosis, but also those with spina bifida, cerebral palsy, and other congenital conditions, I learned to see beyond the limitations of the physical body. In that small, sheltered world, we found self-acceptance through the deep friendships and unwavering love we had for one another. Despite all we endured, there was joy, resilience, and a fierce sense of belonging to each other.

I also caught the travel bug there — a flicker of wanderlust that would eventually propel me around the world as an adult. No matter where I’ve gone, even on my last trip to Rwanda, for example, I’ve always, with intention, connected with disabled communities.

My curiosity about a wider world — one bigger than me, yet with me still on the scene— began the moment I heard a little, Black girl speak Spanish. And I glimpsed Blackness as a borderless truth. To entertain the fact that Black folk were telling stories in many languages, floored my little girl mind and excited it as well.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the wider world.

I always thank my C- shaped spine for alerting me early to the fact that black folk existed in other parts of the world other than just Philadelphia and that they had other narratives, told in other languages of what we share and how we are distinct. The idea, the possibility, the fact that we were everywhere, opened me to the whole of the world.

Children from all over the world came to that strip of the Roosevelt Blvd, in Northeast Philly, to be treated and I was fortunate to have the foundations of my little girl worldview shaken at its core while having my spine stretched and supported.

As one of the few Black children receiving care at Shriners at that time, seeing another kid of color was always a pleasure for me. On one visit, when I about 10, I was startled to see, what I thought to be, a U.S./African-American girl. She was younger than I, perhaps 5 or 6 years old, and she was unusually small and unable to walk. She was in a mobile crib-like contraption. She appeared to be without her parents and a nurse was escorting her to radiology, where we both were to have x-rays taken.

She must have felt very alone, because she started to cry and then to babble. But quickly, my ears were able to discern that there was a method and a purpose and lyricism to her outburst. It was almost poetic. My father, who had accompanied me that day to the hospital for an outpatient appointment, said the girl was speaking Spanish. WOW, I thought, a black person, a child, speaking another language.

I remember the care and precision with which my father proceeded to enumerate the seemingly endless possibilities of where that beautiful, black girl –immobile and all alone-might be from in the world-North Philly, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Spain, Peru, Dominican Republic, Equatorial Guinea…. She and her Spanish-speaking-self, though seemingly caged, unleashed my sense of wonder about the world.

My father didn’t just see a girl in a hospital crib. 

He saw the world in her—and helped me see it too.

She marked the beginning of my wanderlust. That propitious meeting happened more than 50 years ago.Hearing the strange, beautiful, cacophonous sound of another language was like a sighting by ear — one that placed me firmly on a new path. That moment sparked my lifelong love affair with literature, food, and music from around the world. These have become the ways I begin to build and nurture global community. These are some of the ways I build community with new neighbors.

Concha Buika from Equatorial Guinea/Spain

I was listening all day to some of my favorite singers of African-descent who sing in Spanish. Concha Buika from Equatorial Guinea/Spain, Choc Quib Town from Colombia and Susana Baca from Peru.

Choc Quib Town from Colombia

In honor of that small, adorable Spanish-speaking girl and the lasting impression she left on me, I offer these reflections at a time when headlines and public policy too often reduce so-called foreigners —  neighbors — to threats or burdens. I am grateful that Shriners Hospital brought the world to its young patients, giving us the chance to encounter those once seen as strangers as people who expanded our compassion and deepened our sense of shared humanity. Those experiences awakened our curiosity about the world! 

Susana Baca from Peru

*Every coffee fuels not just my writing, but the workshops, conversations, and creative spaces I help nurture. If you’re able, I’d be grateful for your support.