Page 18 of The Sign for Home

“The gym teacher wants you to try to climb it,” Molly signed, handing you the rope that was as thick as your wrist, and scratchy like a hairbrush.

“Top far away?” you asked, looking up toward the very, very high ceiling, seeing only oblivion.

“Yes,” Molly signed. “You don’t have to climb all the way. Gym Teacher said you just need to pull yourself up about ten feet above the ground. It’s only about twice your height. Gym Teacher will make sure you’re safe.”

“Teacher crazy!” you exclaimed, pushing the rope away. “Too dangerous! Will fall and die!”

“Just try!” Gym Teacher demanded, signing to you with his own thick, calloused fingers.

Gym Teacher was a hearing man who had Deaf parents, so it wasn’t as easy to garner his sympathy like the other hearing teachers.

“Don’t be a baby!” he signed.

Your face flushed hot. Did the other students see what Gym Teacher signed? You squeezed your face closed because if you cried it would make it worse.

“Just hold on to the rope and pull yourself up to the next knot!”

Before you could object, Gym Teacher led you to a place where the thick hairy rope hanging down from the ceiling hit you in the face. You grabbed it. He guided your hands to another knot a foot above the first and you clutched it with both hands, squeezed your biceps and lifted yourself higher. Then you reached for the third knot and pulled higher. Then the fourth, and fifth, higher still. And just as you had lifted your body to the sixth knot, flames of pride ignited inside your brain. Were you at the ceiling yet? You wished you could see something. How high had you gone exactly? Suddenly you felt the rope begin to swing. Paralyzed. You held your breath. The weight of your dangling body grew heavier. Your arms began to ache. Your sweaty hands started to slip. You were about to die. When you let go you fell instantly into the gym teacher’s arms, causing both of you to tumble onto the soft mat.

“Why did you let go of the rope?!” Gym Teacher yelled. “You weren’t even that high off the ground! Now try again!”

“No! No! No! Dangerous!” You hid your hands inside your armpits, protecting them from Gym Teacher’s mean, angry fingers.

After a few moments Molly tapped your shoulder.

“Okay. Gym Teacher said you don’t have to do the rope today. Go do sit-ups by the bleachers and wait for class to end.”

A brush fire of embarrassment crept from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.

“Other kids laugh at me?”

“No,” Molly signed—probably lying. “I’ll make sure the gym teacher doesn’t make you do that again. Go do your sit-ups and I’ll take my break.”

Alone on the mat you lay there, faceup, imagining you were back atyour mama’s house, safe and sound. No Rose Garden School, no gym teacher, no scary rope, no mean Deaf students laughing at you. Two minutes later, you felt the ball of the stranger’s cane hit you on the side of your ribs. You leaped up and confronted the attacker.

“Who?!”

Sniff.

NotMolly. Not the gym teacher. Not the spicy-sweet smell of the mysterious bully in the cafeteria. Peanut butter? Suddenly, a heavy hand clumsily felt your hair, your cheek, your chest. Why would the person be touching you that way?Who there?!You grabbed the thick wrist, holding it still so you might get a glimpse of his face. But his dark features, along with the dimly lit corner of the gym, made it impossible. The boy was shorter than you, with a plump round body. In one smooth move, he pulled his wrist from your grasp, then jammed his sausage fingers into your hands.

“Stop grabbing me!” the boy said using Tactile Sign Language. “You new boy, right? A-L-R-O? A-R-O-L? A-O-L-R-A? Whatever. We roommates!”

Roommates!It was one of the students Sybil had mentioned. In the chaos of everything, you had forgotten. You had never met anyone your own age who also had low vision. You corrected him on the spelling of your name and then told him your name-sign.

“Got it!” The boy patted you rapidly on the shoulder, which made you smile. “My name M-A-R-T-I-N! Name-sign (“M” pressed into his right temple). Why? Because of my eyes.”

Eyes?What was different about his eyes? You pulled Martin across the floor to a brighter part of the gym and positioned him so the sun from an upper window streamed onto his face. Then you stepped back several feet until you could at least capture parts of his face, but not all at the same time. He had a friendly smile set inside a very round head, a wooly short cut of black hair, and very white teeth. His eyes looked closed, which wasfrustrating. Martin started signing. Back then, given the right light and distance, you could sometimes see well enough to read visual sign language. But because Martin’s skin and shirt were the same dark shade, it was hopeless. Frustrated, you crossed back to him.

“I can’t understand!” you told him. “Must wear light shirt. Different from skin. I low-vision, same as you.”

“I not low-vision!” Martin signed. “I full blind!”

Martin guided your fingers to his soft, velvety eyelids. It took you a few seconds to realize what you were feeling. Behind those eyelids was nothing. You jerked your hands away. Martin instantly pulled them back, insisting your fingers linger on the soft emptiness, as if to say,This is who I am.

“When I grow up, Mama will buy me beautiful glass eyes. Green! I will look really handsome and sexy!”

Martin laughed. But that word squirmed like a hungry worm inside your brain:blind.Martin didn’t even see the blur, the shapes, or even your one elusive and diminishing perfect spot of vision. Martin saw nothing. You had never called yourselfblindback then. Yet it was the unspoken fear that awakened you every morning and put you to sleep at night.

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