Page 17 of The Sign for Home

She reached into her purse on the desk, pulled out a small white mint Life Saver, and popped it in her mouth, then broke into a broad smile. The class, in a collective sigh of relief, started to laugh.

“You appear to be quite perceptive, Mr. Arlo Dilly. That’s a good quality for a writer. But tell me something. As an experiment. What else can you tell me aboutmyself? Don’t be shy! Tell me everything!”

As soon as Professor Bahr said this, I decided to increase my lag time, allowing the gap between Arlo’s signing and my voicing to increase. Then, if I did need to do any cultural mediation, I’d have the time and space to do a better job. And this time I needed it.

Arlo in ASL:“What I know about you? Honest? You big woman (gestures a large frame). Your hands—very wrinkled, tired, old feeling. Work hard! Weigh? How much? Maybe 190 to 200 pounds. Maybe more. Wow, very big fat strong! Not young. Maybe fifty or sixty. You big ego. Attitude… strong. Smart! Wow! Impress me!”

My voicing: “Professor, to be honest, I’d say you weigh about 190 pounds. In your middle years. Fiftyish. From the feel of your hands and what you’re saying, I’d say you’re probably exhausted from your hard schedule, but you have a very strong personality and are extremely intelligent. Wow. Very impressive.”

It was then that I realized how in sync I felt with Arlo. It was almost as if I was channeling his voice. Which, of course, I wasn’t, but it felt that way.

Arlo continued:

“When I was young, Molly helped me to improve my ASL, but my best ASL teachers were my two DeafBlind friends, Martin and Big Head Lawrence.” I had to clarify the second name with him twice! “When I first met them my signing was pretty lousy. But my friends were both experts with ASL. Whenever I didn’t know how to sign something, Martin and Big Head Lawrence would teach me and insist I sign it right. Finally, I knew my own language, and the world opened up more for me. Understand? So, it seems only natural that I’d want to be taught by the best writing teacher at the community college.” At this point he again described her using signs that could meanold,tall,fat, and addedmean… but he signed them with admiration. “And I’m not intimidated by your strictness or formidablepresence. I just want to learn to write better. So please let me switch to your section.”

Finished. I felt exhilarated but also a little spent, like after good sex. I asked Molly to switch with me. Even she looked impressed with how it went, though she said nothing.

Everyone in the room waited in anticipation, including Snap, whose ears aimed directly toward the professor, expectantly. Professor Bahr gave nothing away. She just stared at Arlo’s wandering gaze until she suddenly threw her head back and detonated a huge bellowing laugh from the depths of her lungs.

“HA HA HA! Oh my God! This handsome boy is brilliant! And so perceptive! That’s unbelievable. He really understood all that about me just by his sense of touch and smell? And by you two making those signs? I’m sorry… You, Arlo—this is who I am talking to—you were really able to deduce all that about me?”

“Yes,” Arlo signed, but with Molly voicing now.

“Oh, my goodness,” Professor Bahr exclaimed. “Now you have a woman’s voice! This is going to get so confusing and also fascinating!”

Arlo started to rock back and forth, his own smile acknowledging that he had made a connection with the professor.

“Mr. Arlo Dilly, I am thrilled to have you in my class! Will I need to grade your interpreters’ essays as well? And your doggie’s?”

“No,” Arlo signed, getting the professor’s joke, but his demeanor remained deadpan. “Interpreters are here so everyone understands each other. And my dog, Snap, writes even worse than me. That’s a joke.”

Suddenly Arlo started laughing so hard his shoulders shook. This led the way for the entire class to erupt in joyful hysterics. As for Molly, there was finally the slightest hint of a smile.

9MARTIN AND BIG HEAD LAWRENCE

On Tuesday afternoons you, Brother Birch, and Mrs. Brother Birch stand outside the entrance to the food court at the Galleria to do field service. Brother Birch and Mrs. Brother Birch engage passersby by saying things such as “Does God really care what happens to us humans?” or “Do all good people go to heaven?” Your job is to hold up brochures like a DeafBlind billboard. Today you’re not even sure which brochure Mrs. Brother Birch put in your hand. All the brochures smell and feel the same. The titles are usually something likeCan the Dead Really Live Again?orGood News from God!or your favorite:How Can You Have a Happy Life?It answers important questions such as “What do we need to do to be happy?” and “What hope do we have for future happiness?” The brochure says, because of war and hunger, we’re not really happy. Then it points out what we would need to be happy, like peace and security, loving family and friends, good health, enough food and housing, purpose in life, and hope for the future. The first time you read this brochure enlarged on the internet you exclaimed:Yes, yes, yes! If I had these things, I certainly would be happy!The literature goes on to say that these things that will make you happy are very difficult to achieve.(Okay, and?)Then it promises that you will definitely get them if you just do certain things.(Great! How?!)This is where Jehovah God plays a trick on you. It turns out that you’ll only get these gifts from God if you live a spiritually strong life and follow Scripturein every detail—no lying, no sinful actions like masturbating, disobeying Brother Birch, or telling sinful secrets, and you must spend lots of hours standing around holding up brochures outside of food courts. And even if you can achieve all these impossible goals, you still won’t even know if you’ve succeeded in being “truly happy” untilafterJudgment Day, which, the elders say, could be any day now, or not for a hundred years. In other words, don’t hold your breath.

You hold your breath.

You sniff the brochures a few times.

You rock from one foot to the other.

Professor Bahr said to become a good writer you need to “find your voice.” She said “voice” meantconnecting your true soul to the words on the page. You will need to write tens of thousands of words before you can find your voice, which seems too many to write in one summer. You also have to be “willing to write very badly,” she said, before you can write well. Luckily, you are an expert at writing badly, so that first part is done. Professor Bahr also said you should keep a journal and tell yourself all your secrets. But if you write down your secrets, you will be breaking your promise to Brother Birch and Jehovah God to try to forget them. How can you remember just some secrets but forget the rest? How can you select only certain parts of the air to breathe?

After two hours of standing at the mall, your feet hurt and your arm is tired and you wish the Second Coming of the Messiah would happen in the next fifteen minutes. Saturday field service is better because you get to go door-to-door. Brother Birch likes to do door-to-door field service with you. When people see that you’re DeafBlind they feel guilty for slamming the door in your face, so sometimes they invite you in. Brother Birch does all the talking. You just get to feel what it’s like to be in strangers’ homes. Some smell really nice and warm. Some smell like dog piss and dirty socks.Brother Birch promises that someday, after you do better in Theocratic Ministry School, you will get to spread the word of the Lord as well. But, for now, your job is to just get Brother Birch into the strangers’ houses, or stand in the hot sun, just outside the food court, bearing witness to how great Jehovah God is for making use of a DeafBlind man.

Someone stops at the brochure rack. You push the brochure in their direction. They come closer.

Sniff.

A gust of sweet and salty peanut butter air from their mouth.

A memory of a person. Short. Squat. Thick chubby fingers. Wiry hair. You go into your memory place.

Martin. You told the professor about him, one of your best friends from the Rose Garden School. The one who really taught you ASL. You were thirteen. That first day after all the students had come back. Gym class. Late afternoon.

The climbing rope…

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