DISABLED ACTOR TALLIES THE GAINS

“Whether or not he knew it, Lanford Wilson wrote this play for me,” said Alan Toy of his role in Wilson’s “Fifth of July” (the continuing saga of the Talley family, at Theatre West to Sept. 28).

“Ken (his character) lived in Berkeley--and I lived there. He had the same radical politics. In 1970, I studied in England--and so did the characters in the play. And the demonstration that they refer to--the 1969 moratorium in Washington--I went to that as well.”

There’s one more aspect the actor shares with his character: They’re both physically disabled. Ken lost the use of his legs in Vietnam; Toy, 36, is a victim of childhood polio (contracted the year before the Salk vaccine became available). But unlike Ken, who is wallowing in anger and self-pity, Toy has long since put his handicap into workable perspective.

“I was a March of Dimes poster boy,” the actor (who appeared in 1985’s “Wings” at the Odyssey) recalled fondly. “I got to ride in the back of the convertible Caddy, be on TV and radio. I toured the Nautilus submarine, was captain for a day on a U.S. destroyer, went to all these stock car races and bake sales. I was an adorable blond kid who pulled a lot of heartstrings.”

The disability, he shrugs, really only became burdensome “when I was in second grade. All the little boys were chasing little girls around the schoolyard, and I could never catch the one I wanted.

“Then as a teen-ager I started to become self-conscious--as all teen-agers do--but I had a whole lot more to be self-conscious about. So I was sort of a wallflower, hanging around with the unusual people, the ones who eventually grew their hair long and questioned where the generation before was leading us.”

Toy, too, had political leanings (and an eye on a diplomatic career in South America), but soon found that his disability ended that. He turned to directing, first at North Carolina School of the Arts, then at the Goodman School in Chicago. “When it was cold, I fell on the ice a lot; when it was hot and humid, my brace stuck to my leg and rubbed the skin off.” He transferred to CalArts in 1972.

After graduation, heeding commencement speaker Steve Allen’s exhortation to “use your art to improve the world,” he moved north and became a drama teacher in the Oakland Parks and Recreation Department. In his spare time he stage-managed for Holly Near, the San Francisco Mime Troupe and various political benefits. Then one day, auditioning as a stage manager for a friend’s play, Toy was instead cast in a performing role, and when the production was later reviewed, the actors were singled out for praise.

And not a word appeared about his disability.

Thrilled by this “whole new world suddenly open,” Toy returned to Los Angeles to pursue acting, racking up several television credits (“Benson,” “MASH,” “Simon & Simon”) while serving as board chairman of Media Access Office, a liaison service between the industry and disabled artists.

“Look, it’s hard for anyone to make a living in this business, and harder still for someone with a disability. But there are some of us who are doing it. We’ve been forging incredible ground, seen thousands of roles given to people with disabilities. And all of this on a shoestring budget, not more than three people on staff and donated office space. We have been responsible for turning around the town’s attitude toward disability.”

Although he doesn’t dwell on them, Toy has his share of horror stories: a long-ago bully who took his crutches and taunted him with them for a half-hour; a memory from his Oakland teaching days (not unlike the scenario Ken faces in the play) of “having kids gather at the bottom of the stairs and giggle as I went by.”

Often the pain is unintentional.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’m introduced to someone and instead of saying, ‘How’s it going?’ the first thing out of their mouths is, ‘What happened?’ And I say, ‘I don’t know; I didn’t hear the news today.’ That’s me being facetious and making them look ridiculous--because I’m tired of always being the one who feels ridiculous.

“Hey, if someone with a bizarre body comes in, I’ll look. It’s only natural to be curious. So for me, being on stage provides a safe way to allow people to stare, to get adjusted to the disability, get adjusted to the character.

“After that, I hope people will be able to see me through different eyes: not as a cripple but as an actor, a director, a stage manager . . . a person who just happens to have a disability.”