This is a work in progress. I was assigned to write a 1,000 word fiction short-story for class. I have written several drafts for this assignment but did not like any of them because they do not embrace an important characteristic of myself, being Deaf (technically I am Hard-of-hearing but I culturally identify as Deaf). I know there are MANY Deaf authors, but for nearly my entire collegiate career, all my assignments are by Hearing authors. So, I would really like your feedback: How does the dialogue affect you? Do you feel as you have entered Deaf dialogue or do you feel that interpretation would be better than writing the English translation?
"Life Pictures"
I'd rather have my life in pictures. E taught me this motto. She is my dearest Deaf friend, mentor, and, yes, my Super-Women. She is now 86 years young and remains my teacher and friend. As I sit here at her bed-side, praying, "Please / You-for-me / No-take-her."
My first childhood memory is of E. It's afternoon and I am in my yard with my furry old English friend, Medic. We are playing biker and cop and I can't pull over Medic to give her a speeding ticket. E walks up to me and makes a funny gesture that I do not understand. My chocolate-brown, three-year-old eyes stare into her neon blues yearning for comprehension. We can't understand each other, so, I continue my high speed pursuit of outlaw English.
E never gave up. She knew something about me that I didn't; I was Hard-of-Hearing and needed to learn ASL. She walked down to my house everyday to visit my mother. They enjoyed Gin Rummy and cooking but E couldn't stand Mom spanking me all the time. Finally, one day, E asked Mom, "Suppose / Tomorrow / V-E-R-I-T-Y / My-House / Visit?" Mom stared at her. She couldn't understand why E would want to babysit a disobedient child.
On my first visit, E had personal pictures strewn across her kitchen table's speckled linoleum top: the banquet of enlightenment. She motioned for me to sit on a chair and handed me one of the photographs: a group of girls dressed in roaring twenties night wear having a banquet. E pointed, "Me / Smile." She grabs my hands; I was supposed to repeat her gestures. Again, she pointed, "Drink / And / Food." Disappointed, E turned to her cupboards, pulled out Animal Crackers, and held the red and white box by it's cloth string in front of me, "Cookie / Want?" I didn't understand her gesturing but I understood her look. I nodded yes.
She took me by the hand to her Foodarama Kelvinator refrigerator. "Open," she signed. Every item I touched; she signed. I tried a couple of times to remove a Shasta but she shook her head no. Finally, I repeated to her, "Soda-pop?" E's arms went up like a football referee and her hands shook; I didn't know until a month later, she was applauding my accomplishment. One hour elapsed from the time she opened her refrigerator until I chose to sign my first word, my first question, and gave birth to my actuality.
A thump-a shift nurse drops E's chart on the floor while opening her door-arouses me from remembrances. The nurse looks over at me but didn't say a word. "I can talk, you know." Her face reddens because she had assumed all of Esther Judd's visitors couldn't speak.
"Sorry."
"Her blood pressure remains high and her oxygen level remain low. What medication is she taking?" the nurse's eyes about bulged out of her sockets because I signed and spoke my question.
"You don't have to sign. Esther is not awake. It won't help her." I want to slap this women's face. Does she think she is the language police?
"I am Deaf."
"But you speak so well."
I fight the urge to give her a lesson in prejudice; I fight the urge to speak only with me Deaf voice. I resolve, however, to think like E whose hands artfully sing, "Please / Forgive / Evil / Same-as / Me / Forgive / Evil. No-lead / Temptation. Your / Kingdom / Power / Glory / Forever." If only the cloud of Death would move away from my North Star, a star that had guided my for over forty years.
She has been a leader and an activist in the Deaf community. She has suffered their chastisement, "Language / Give-Away," and experienced many lonely nights when I first became her student because the community didn't approve of her choice to mentor me, a child of Hearing adults.
"Later / She / Leave / Deaf-World. Wait / See." They would say to her.
"Everyone / Must / Choice / Have." E's hands zipped like a momma bear striking at a predator. "Hearing-People / No / Patience / For-Her. No-Understand / She / H-O-H. We / Example / For-Her." Their eyes softened and they went home.
A tapping on the bed-rails arouses me from daydreaming. "Hey / Here / Nice." Her medicated, clouded eyes force focus on my face. "Always / Beautiful / Picture / You." Tears linger my face because her hands seemed confused, lethargic.
"Happy / Awake. Scared / Me / Scared," I said. "Hold-On." I picked up my black leather purse and reached out a picture: Medic, me, and E sitting on her front porch the day my family moved. She holds the tattered edges and stares at the faded images. I could see years of picture memories flood her eyes.
"Ready / You / World / Got-to. ASL / Learn / Wonderful. No / Hearing-Brained. World / You / See / Like / Pictures." I lay my head on her soft belly looking up at her eyes . While she caresses my hair, my mind travels, I can see the occurrence like a picture: E consoles me because my classmates threw rocks at my talking hands. Blood stains my sky-blue sundress and oyster white socks. E knew what happened because every Deaf experiences hatred and ignorance at the hand of Hearing.
"Never / School / Never-Go-to / Again!" I exclaimed to E who was pouring rubbing alcohol into the gnashes on my hands and legs.
"Now / Only / One / Picture. Later / More / Deaf / Go-to / Hearing-World / School. You / Need / More / Pictures. Later / They / Come. A-L-L / Pictures / Like / Movie. Later / Feel / Better."
E's belly starts moving slower. I check her vital monitors, all flashing lights. E slightly raises her hand off the bed, "I-Love-You. Life / Always / Pictures."
