As a freshman at Roosevelt High School in Minneapolis, Hunter Sargent wanted to play football. The coach, worried that Sargent was too small and insufficiently focused, said no. So the team's big-hearted quarterback feigned illness and gave his uniform and helmet to Sargent.
Sargent was sacked, then threw for three touchdowns to win the game.
"Now tell me I can't play football!" Sargent told the coach.
It's been like that his whole life.
Sargent, 34, was born to a mother who drank throughout her pregnancy. He was pronounced dead three times before doctors said he would live, but in a vegetative state. When he was 5 months old, his mother left him in his crib in a soiled diaper and headed to California. "If you want your grandson," she told her mother in a phone call, "come and get him."
Grandmother Patricia Sargent lovingly raised the boy, whose Ojibwe name is "Wolf," and refused to let him be defined by his limitations. "We'll prove them wrong," she liked to say. She taught him English with help from "The Cat in the Hat." She encouraged him to make friends and stay in school. She attended all of his Individualized Education Program meetings.
Before she died when he was 12, she told him, "Don't ever be afraid of being you."
But nobody knew why Sargent struggled with coordination and focus, why he craved rough physical contact or why his facial features were slightly altered. "I had more labels than a pickle jar," Sargent said with a smile. "I was mildly mentally retarded. I had attention deficit disorder. I had Down syndrome. I was autistic."
He was none of those things. At 14, while living in foster care, Sargent watched the movie, "The Broken Cord," based on the 1989 book by Michael Dorris about a boy with fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS).
He saw himself.
"I wasn't very happy," Sargent said, "but at least I knew what I had."
He began drinking and smoking to escape. "But my gut said, 'This is not helping me.'" He began speaking to his peers about the dangers of alcohol use. Despite constant bullying, he was the first member of his family to graduate from high school. "You can either be a victim or a survivor," he said. "I chose to be a survivor."
Two weeks ago, Sargent was keynote speaker at a public awareness event at the American Indian Family Center in Minneapolis, sponsored by MN Organization on Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (www.mofas.org). Dressed in a Twins sweatshirt and brown tie, his dark hair accented with a blonde Mohawk, Sargent shared his personal story, filled with humor and hope.
His words come at a crucial time. Fetal alcohol spectrum disorders (FASD) are more common than autism and Down syndrome combined, but they remain "an invisible disability," said MOFAS spokeswoman Emily Gunderson. One in 8 pregnant women still drinks during pregnancy, which means that 8,500 babies are born in Minnesota each year with prenatal alcohol exposure.
Inconsistent messages from doctors aren't helping, she added. "Some providers say 'You can drink ... as long as you are not one of those binge drinkers,' giving women a license to drink a glass or more per day. The bottom line is that your baby's brain and neurological system are developing throughout pregnancy. There is no safe amount of alcohol."
MOFAS, in partnership with Minneapolis ad agency Kruskopf Coontz, is spreading the "049 -- zero alcohol for nine months" -- message to providers and women. The ads feature a jolting juxtaposition of young children holding beer bottles and mixed drinks.
Sargent continues to spread his own message of determination. He owns a condo and car, he said proudly. Best of all, he was recently married to Holly Turley, 33, whom he first met many years ago at a social club for people with disabilities.
"I'm always happy when my wife comes home and I can stop taking care of Hunter and start taking care of her," he said. But he knows he'll always need help. His personal care assistant, Amanda Paulson, comes in eight hours a week to assist with life skills. "She's my external brain," Sargent said of Paulson. "She allows me to be vulnerable."
In a bittersweet twist, his mother also is helping him move forward. "My mother, with a clear conscience, can now admit that she is responsible for my disability," Sargent said. "You want to put that in a frame."
She also said: "You are unstoppable, Hunter Sargent."
Gail Rosenblum • 612-673-7350 gail.rosenblum@startribune.com
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