Last week I wrote about living with chronic pain. I was surprised by what came through as I worked to wrap-up that particularly potent time in my life when I was being pushed and pulled by . Writing about my hands, how they have carried pain each and every day for a full decade, brought me back to being born as the daughter of Deaf parents and then stretched me wide across the expanse of time and into the territory of my life as a mother today. The central truth of my childhood is that my mother’s pain and struggle served as the backdrop of my life. I have lived my life in longing to tell her story. Her story, which is also my story, which belongs also to my daughters.
I remember one night as a child, on one of those stormy Oklahoma nights when thunder rolls across the wide, open plains with nowhere else to rumble but in our homes and bones, my brother and I each made pallets on the pink carpeted floor of mom and dad’s bedroom. He at the foot and I wedged between mom’s bedside and the dusty cherry wood vanity dresser littered with dad’s collection of coins, trinkets, hearing aids and watches he never wore. As dad and brother slept, mom and I shared the silent flash of each lightening strike illuminating the still dark. But mom and I were not still. We each have a gift for gab and this was a night for talking. As I lay there on my pallet of puffy polyester and scratchy Strawberry Shortcake cotton, I reached my hands upward to meet hers lowered down from atop the bed. We took turns fingerspelling our message to one another. I twisted and contorted my fingers to form each letter for every word I wished to utter, as mom cupped her hands over mine and delicately dragged her fingers over each formed letter. I felt her hands pull away and fold into a fist, nodding ‘yes’ into my palm each time she understood a single letter. My hands would shudder and pull back over my ears with every lightning strike that collapsed into booming thunder. But mom’s remained ever steady, waiting for mine to make their return. For mom, that dimension of a thunderstorm, of a river, of the whole world, falls flat.
We never could say too much in those moments in the dark. Sign Language is a visual language and requires full-body participation. Every word is a beautiful, embodied gesture, not to mention the accompanying symphony of facial expression that rivals sound. Fingerspelling a conversation would be equivalent to an audible exchange in which each person annunciates each letter of every word spoken. I wish I could remember what mom and I were going on about those nights, but this is one of those moments where the memory of what I felt was more than enough.
Joanna. This may be the most beautiful and poignant piece yet. I an envision and feel it all, and that's fully due to how you eloquently share your gift. So proud of you, yet again. ***signing "good" over and over***