It's sickening--the things people say about humankind, to the point that I must pity every speaker for, from their twisted, horrifying viewpoint, I don't understand how they keep living. It's gross to conceive that we are forms of animals, that we have slowly evolved into what we are. Is this idea not a high price to pay in order to claim that there is no God and that we owe ourselves and our lives to no one? Perhaps, from the standpoint of evolution, we "have ourselves" and we can do "whatever we want," but there is no point in life at all. In dismissing God, everything is dismissed--joy, peace, fullfillment, art, beauty. It is as if we close our eyes and imagine that we have altered ourselves to fit life, when really we have been created with God's purpose in mind. He made us like we are so that we might carry out His will, and apart from this there is no real joy.
"In the image of God created He him: male and female, created he them." That makes me so excited to be alive!
Sorry, I'm just frustrated with that bit of stuff at the beginning of World Civ. marked as "Prehistory."
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Mutant of Maintstream Chapter 1 (A Revision)
This is a revision of the first chapter I posted a while ago. I would love to get your feedback. Never fear; there truely is a second chapter.
I was searching, as a snake wandering through the wilderness, but unsure exactly what I was searching for. Everyday, I received just what I needed from the hands of God in order to keep going, learning, and trusting. I had no idea what I was in for the spring of my junior year in high school, the trail that God had predestined for me to follow in order to bring me slowly, ever into his likeness.
Near the beginning of the semester, a meeting with the principal of the school loomed over my head. With everything in my being, I dreaded it, praying the meeting would be canceled or that I would get sick, but as the time neared and neither of my prayers were answered, I just asked God for wisdom that I might know how to respond to the principal, Mr. Rummers. His office was dark with a single dim lamp casting shadows across his face. In fact, the shadow of his glasses left his eyes hard to see and his lips hard to read. He complained about my recent decline in grades. Having known this was coming, I was prepared with my defense. I wrote down on a piece of paper that I was only doing so poorly because I had stopped speaking. Since then, I had begun flunking oral exams and presentations, although I should have been flunking them all along because no one could understand me when I spoke. Mr. Rummers then tormented me with his dim lips and concealed eyes, urging me to keep trying to speak, and reminding me how far I had come with lip-reading (so that I didn’t even need an interpreter for my classes), and assuring me that just such a thing could happen with my speech. However, Mr. Rummers, sitting back in his desk chair, with an immovable expression plastered across his face like a fortress which separated his world from mine, had no way of imagining what a monster speech could be. He had never known the feeling of doing away with it, as if chaining a vicious monster to a stake and setting it on fire. It was wonderful. But Mr. Rummers let me know that if I did not learn to speak, my life would be basically useless. Against these harsh ideas, I tried to copy his expression, to set my face like flint with no emotion, but the pain boiling inside of me was torture to mask. I feared the principal could see right through me.
When I was dismissed, the soft wind of the outside world greeted my face, cooling all that had boiled inside of me. My father had been waiting for me in the lone car in the parking lot. I used my natural means of communication—American Sign Language—to convey to him what Mr. Rummers had told me. But my father seemed to think little of Mr. Rummers’s concerns, signing to me that, as the Bible says, I was God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God had before ordained that I should walk in them. In comparison with God’s viewpoint, the speculations of my school principal were unimportant.
So, with my hope battled on against despair and my faith against doubt, I rested my head against the vibrating car window as my father drove us home. The feeling of uselessness was always chasing and taunting me and it was only further fueled by Mr. Rummers remarks. I cried out to God in the constant silence of my mind, pleading that He might take me and what little I had to offer and use me for His glory in order to accomplish His purpose.
Home was a small, ordinary-looking place, crammed into a neighborhood with miniscule yards. No flowers adorned the bushy garden outside—no flowers dancing like little, bright fairies in the wind to signify individuality or profess to passers-by of a feminine heart within the home’s brick walls. Yet this place welcomed us through the garage and into the kitchen. Once inside, the aroma of wood greeted me and I welcomed it gladly, for to me it was the scent of peace, work, and stability. Though the house held little furniture and few luxuries, there was no place I would have preferred to return to after that painstaking meeting with Mr. Rummers than this simple place.
Walking through the sawdust which covered the floor, I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, while my father turned on some music, sat down on the couch in the living room, and fashioned guitar parts. In my own silent world, I endeavored to focus my freshly wounded mind on American History, forcing myself to think in terms of questions, blanks, and complete sentence answers.
In the course of an hour, however, I had moved from a world of words to a world of wood, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my father, gluing guitar parts together. My father and I worked intently without much signing—for our hands and eyes were preoccupied with the wood. This was the tranquil community we shared, sanctified from the clamor of the world outside. Though the world cut at us and abandoned us, this was our haven of healing.
At six o’clock, we washed the sawdust and wood glue from our hands and began making a dinner characteristic of us—one which combined rice, chilly, and which ever spices appeared most tasteful to us at the time. Above the steaming pans on the oven, we signed leisurely about making guitar deliveries, things going on at our church, and interesting facts I had learned at school that day.
I told my father that I was invited to James’s house the following night along with Elizabeth. The three of us—James, Elizabeth, and I—were the only deaf students at our school, and we had been close friends since the deaf school we had begun in, with the focus and the end thereof being public, mainstream education. Still, as high school students, and James about to graduate, we stuck together through the currents, all of us inefficient communicators. James, who had lost his hearing at the age of five, could talk decently, but was not a lip-reader; I, having lost my hearing at three, could read lips, but had given up on speech; and Elizabeth, who was born deaf, could neither speak nor read lips. These “flaws” were evident to everyone, leading to our ostracism by the hearing students. To befriend one of us was to deface oneself, and it had been this way since grade school. We, the few, the deaf, though tragically unconformable, were still lost in the mad rush of the mainstream. Only, we all knew we could not end were everyone else was ending. We were different.
After dinner, my father and I pulled out two of our handcrafted guitars. My father began strumming some chords in the key of F. Noting this, my fingers drifted into picking solo notes up and down the frets and strings. The feeling of the wood, smooth beneath my finger, and the steel strings, pliable to my touch, indulged me. I lost myself in the vibrations. After a while, with my fingers still moving, I looked up into my father’s deep, brown eyes. Perhaps the darkness of his eyes drove many people away from him, but it welcomed me in. His hair was dark brown also and curly. A short, unkempt beard surrounded his face providing him with a rustic appearance. My eyes dropped down to his moving fingers, which were also rustic with work and practice so that looking at them caused respect and pride to grow in my heart. Certainly, we were not a typical family, but we loved what we had—what we had been given of God.
As one fighting the ocean current, I struggled through the crowded hall at school the next morning, toward my locker. It was 6:55. If I did not get to homeroom by 7:00, I knew the teacher would take pleasure in mocking me before the entire class. She did it to everyone who was late, but she always found more to ridicule me about.
When I was near my locker, I saw Elizabeth surrounded by a group of students. The students’ mouths were moving rapidly and Elizabeth, unable to read lips, was simply trying to find a way past them. Because I knew exactly what the students were saying, my urgency to get to class instantly evaporated as my emotions suddenly boiled in anger. I pushed through the group of students which enclosed Elizabeth, conscious that this action had thrown at least one person to the ground. Putting my arm around Elizabeth, I broke through the other side of the group. Without looking back to see the damage I had caused, I walked with Elizabeth to her homeroom, my arm around her securely, until she sat down at her desk.
When she thanked me, respect revealed itself through her eyes. And as I turned to find myself lost again in the ocean of the hallway, working my way back to my locker, I could still see Elizabeth’s relieved face in my mind, her weak smile, her sparkling eyes, her blonde, wavy hair. She was a sort of angelic princess, always there in the corner of my mind, and it was my duty and privilege to protect her. The look she had given me which said that she needed and trusted me was well-worth what I knew was coming when I entered homeroom at 7:05.
As I took my seat at the front of the class, the teacher put on a sarcastic smile and, through it, asked me what had happened. She started with questioning about the little things, remarking that perhaps I had forgotten to set my alarm, or enjoyed my shower to much. But eventually she came to sharper ideas, saying perhaps my girlfriend had broken up with me, and that was what made me late, as pleasure in her own wittiness lit her face. Even when I started to write something down, she stopped me, telling me this was not writing class and that she wanted an answer. With a smile still plastered across her face, she said she sensed a lack of respect at my not answering her. It was utterly mortifying. Though I could not hear the laughter, I could sense it, which was probably worse. I forced myself to faze out completely and asking God to give me patience and a sound mind, to be “slow to anger and abounding in love,” as Paul puts it, as anything else would end me in detention.
When I arrived at James’s house that night, I was greeted first by his two youngest sisters, Jessica and Jenna, who swarmed me with hugs and then skipped hastily away into the kitchen. The aroma of lasagna coming from the place of their retreat made me want to follow them, but I forced myself momentarily ignore the smell and look for James.
As I neared the den of their house, it seemed to nearly vibrate as James’s two brothers, lay on top of him, wrestling with him. When James saw me enter the room, he flung his brothers off onto the ground. He then signed to me, thanking God I had come to save him from Joseph and Jared. After looking over at the twelve-year-old and eleven-year-old, I responded by signing that I did not think us a good match for them. Joseph and I against James and Jared looked fairer. But James let me know he did not think that was an even match either, reminding me of his being four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than me. I assured him, however, the odds were in my team’s favor, though I did not explain how. The younger boys were eager to begin. So, without a signal or the establishment of any rules, we slammed into each other, shoving, pulling, twisting, struggling, persevering, drawing back, then slamming again.
When Elizabeth walked into the room, everyone saw her, but no one stopped. James clearly became more desperate to get the upper hand after her entrance, but I also became more resistant to his taking it.
Suddenly, Joseph and Jared drew back. We signed to them, asking what had happened, and they replied that it was time for dinner. Though we were all panting from striving and sweat was dripping down our faces, all of our former efforts were instantly of no importance. We greeted Elizabeth as if we had just noticed her entrance. James kissed her cheek and placed his sweaty arm around her as we went into the dining room.
At the Kirkpatrick house, each person spoke and signed simultaneously, although James was the only deaf member of the family. Tonight, the mood around the table was light and refreshing after the tedious week of school, with the bright prospects of the weekend before us. I was intrigued by Jessica’s determined efforts to cut her own lasagna despite the offers of everyone at the table, not knowing she had already received offers, volunteering to cut it for her. James, who worked for his father’s company, was discussing a work situation with his father, as Elizabeth watched with interest. Julie, James’s fourteen-year-old sister, was telling her mom about being offered drugs at school that day. The four youngest children were too caught up in eating for making much conversation, although at intervals they would burst out with some nugget of information. I sat slowly taking in the food, looking from person to person in the warmth of the atmosphere, enjoying my feeling of invisibility for as long as it might last.
After dinner, we played an aggressive game of “Spoons.” The game is not solely about skill; it has much to do with one’s degree of viciousness as well. So, it was not surprising that James and Joseph were the ones to make it to the last round. At that point, the game is only luck. Joseph won, by chance.
When James, Elizabeth and I were in James’s room later that evening, James made a point to ridicule my poor skills at the game of “Spoons.” But Elizabeth stood up for me, reminding James that I was probably a wonderful guitar player, though the two of them couldn’t know, and that I at least looked cool when I played. Elizabeth and I looked at each other, smiling like two siblings might when they find themselves on the same side of a conflict. James reminded me of how weird Elizabeth’s grandmother thought I was when we were little kids and all I ever did was play guitar, despite my being deaf. I did not remember that. When I thought of Elizabeth’s grandmother, Mrs. Anderson, I could think of nothing but raking her yard for her in the fall and her repaying us with chocolate chip cookies and telling us stories about child-eating monsters. We asked Elizabeth how her grandmother was doing and she told her grandmother was doing very poorly, almost to the point of having to go into a nursing home. I, who had had no idea that things were so bad, looked away, ashamed I had not asked about Mrs. Anderson more recently.
If Mrs. Anderson went into a nursing home before Elizabeth graduated, James told me that Elizabeth would move in with his family for her senior year. At that time, James would have a full time position with his father’s company. After that, we all knew what was going to happen—James and Elizabeth were going to get married, get their own house, and start their own family. Though their anticipation seemed to grow as the time drew closer, that night the idea remained like the moon seen through the window, neither spoken of nor reached for, but present, still, in its resplendence.
I, on the other hand, faced the future without direction. Perhaps, after I graduated, I would go to college or perhaps I would simply become a luthier like my father and put in more hours in the workshop at home. Honestly, I would be content with anything, as long as God would place me in His will.
Chapter 1: The Workmanship
I was searching, as a snake wandering through the wilderness, but unsure exactly what I was searching for. Everyday, I received just what I needed from the hands of God in order to keep going, learning, and trusting. I had no idea what I was in for the spring of my junior year in high school, the trail that God had predestined for me to follow in order to bring me slowly, ever into his likeness.
Near the beginning of the semester, a meeting with the principal of the school loomed over my head. With everything in my being, I dreaded it, praying the meeting would be canceled or that I would get sick, but as the time neared and neither of my prayers were answered, I just asked God for wisdom that I might know how to respond to the principal, Mr. Rummers. His office was dark with a single dim lamp casting shadows across his face. In fact, the shadow of his glasses left his eyes hard to see and his lips hard to read. He complained about my recent decline in grades. Having known this was coming, I was prepared with my defense. I wrote down on a piece of paper that I was only doing so poorly because I had stopped speaking. Since then, I had begun flunking oral exams and presentations, although I should have been flunking them all along because no one could understand me when I spoke. Mr. Rummers then tormented me with his dim lips and concealed eyes, urging me to keep trying to speak, and reminding me how far I had come with lip-reading (so that I didn’t even need an interpreter for my classes), and assuring me that just such a thing could happen with my speech. However, Mr. Rummers, sitting back in his desk chair, with an immovable expression plastered across his face like a fortress which separated his world from mine, had no way of imagining what a monster speech could be. He had never known the feeling of doing away with it, as if chaining a vicious monster to a stake and setting it on fire. It was wonderful. But Mr. Rummers let me know that if I did not learn to speak, my life would be basically useless. Against these harsh ideas, I tried to copy his expression, to set my face like flint with no emotion, but the pain boiling inside of me was torture to mask. I feared the principal could see right through me.
When I was dismissed, the soft wind of the outside world greeted my face, cooling all that had boiled inside of me. My father had been waiting for me in the lone car in the parking lot. I used my natural means of communication—American Sign Language—to convey to him what Mr. Rummers had told me. But my father seemed to think little of Mr. Rummers’s concerns, signing to me that, as the Bible says, I was God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God had before ordained that I should walk in them. In comparison with God’s viewpoint, the speculations of my school principal were unimportant.
So, with my hope battled on against despair and my faith against doubt, I rested my head against the vibrating car window as my father drove us home. The feeling of uselessness was always chasing and taunting me and it was only further fueled by Mr. Rummers remarks. I cried out to God in the constant silence of my mind, pleading that He might take me and what little I had to offer and use me for His glory in order to accomplish His purpose.
Home was a small, ordinary-looking place, crammed into a neighborhood with miniscule yards. No flowers adorned the bushy garden outside—no flowers dancing like little, bright fairies in the wind to signify individuality or profess to passers-by of a feminine heart within the home’s brick walls. Yet this place welcomed us through the garage and into the kitchen. Once inside, the aroma of wood greeted me and I welcomed it gladly, for to me it was the scent of peace, work, and stability. Though the house held little furniture and few luxuries, there was no place I would have preferred to return to after that painstaking meeting with Mr. Rummers than this simple place.
Walking through the sawdust which covered the floor, I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, while my father turned on some music, sat down on the couch in the living room, and fashioned guitar parts. In my own silent world, I endeavored to focus my freshly wounded mind on American History, forcing myself to think in terms of questions, blanks, and complete sentence answers.
In the course of an hour, however, I had moved from a world of words to a world of wood, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my father, gluing guitar parts together. My father and I worked intently without much signing—for our hands and eyes were preoccupied with the wood. This was the tranquil community we shared, sanctified from the clamor of the world outside. Though the world cut at us and abandoned us, this was our haven of healing.
At six o’clock, we washed the sawdust and wood glue from our hands and began making a dinner characteristic of us—one which combined rice, chilly, and which ever spices appeared most tasteful to us at the time. Above the steaming pans on the oven, we signed leisurely about making guitar deliveries, things going on at our church, and interesting facts I had learned at school that day.
I told my father that I was invited to James’s house the following night along with Elizabeth. The three of us—James, Elizabeth, and I—were the only deaf students at our school, and we had been close friends since the deaf school we had begun in, with the focus and the end thereof being public, mainstream education. Still, as high school students, and James about to graduate, we stuck together through the currents, all of us inefficient communicators. James, who had lost his hearing at the age of five, could talk decently, but was not a lip-reader; I, having lost my hearing at three, could read lips, but had given up on speech; and Elizabeth, who was born deaf, could neither speak nor read lips. These “flaws” were evident to everyone, leading to our ostracism by the hearing students. To befriend one of us was to deface oneself, and it had been this way since grade school. We, the few, the deaf, though tragically unconformable, were still lost in the mad rush of the mainstream. Only, we all knew we could not end were everyone else was ending. We were different.
After dinner, my father and I pulled out two of our handcrafted guitars. My father began strumming some chords in the key of F. Noting this, my fingers drifted into picking solo notes up and down the frets and strings. The feeling of the wood, smooth beneath my finger, and the steel strings, pliable to my touch, indulged me. I lost myself in the vibrations. After a while, with my fingers still moving, I looked up into my father’s deep, brown eyes. Perhaps the darkness of his eyes drove many people away from him, but it welcomed me in. His hair was dark brown also and curly. A short, unkempt beard surrounded his face providing him with a rustic appearance. My eyes dropped down to his moving fingers, which were also rustic with work and practice so that looking at them caused respect and pride to grow in my heart. Certainly, we were not a typical family, but we loved what we had—what we had been given of God.
As one fighting the ocean current, I struggled through the crowded hall at school the next morning, toward my locker. It was 6:55. If I did not get to homeroom by 7:00, I knew the teacher would take pleasure in mocking me before the entire class. She did it to everyone who was late, but she always found more to ridicule me about.
When I was near my locker, I saw Elizabeth surrounded by a group of students. The students’ mouths were moving rapidly and Elizabeth, unable to read lips, was simply trying to find a way past them. Because I knew exactly what the students were saying, my urgency to get to class instantly evaporated as my emotions suddenly boiled in anger. I pushed through the group of students which enclosed Elizabeth, conscious that this action had thrown at least one person to the ground. Putting my arm around Elizabeth, I broke through the other side of the group. Without looking back to see the damage I had caused, I walked with Elizabeth to her homeroom, my arm around her securely, until she sat down at her desk.
When she thanked me, respect revealed itself through her eyes. And as I turned to find myself lost again in the ocean of the hallway, working my way back to my locker, I could still see Elizabeth’s relieved face in my mind, her weak smile, her sparkling eyes, her blonde, wavy hair. She was a sort of angelic princess, always there in the corner of my mind, and it was my duty and privilege to protect her. The look she had given me which said that she needed and trusted me was well-worth what I knew was coming when I entered homeroom at 7:05.
As I took my seat at the front of the class, the teacher put on a sarcastic smile and, through it, asked me what had happened. She started with questioning about the little things, remarking that perhaps I had forgotten to set my alarm, or enjoyed my shower to much. But eventually she came to sharper ideas, saying perhaps my girlfriend had broken up with me, and that was what made me late, as pleasure in her own wittiness lit her face. Even when I started to write something down, she stopped me, telling me this was not writing class and that she wanted an answer. With a smile still plastered across her face, she said she sensed a lack of respect at my not answering her. It was utterly mortifying. Though I could not hear the laughter, I could sense it, which was probably worse. I forced myself to faze out completely and asking God to give me patience and a sound mind, to be “slow to anger and abounding in love,” as Paul puts it, as anything else would end me in detention.
When I arrived at James’s house that night, I was greeted first by his two youngest sisters, Jessica and Jenna, who swarmed me with hugs and then skipped hastily away into the kitchen. The aroma of lasagna coming from the place of their retreat made me want to follow them, but I forced myself momentarily ignore the smell and look for James.
As I neared the den of their house, it seemed to nearly vibrate as James’s two brothers, lay on top of him, wrestling with him. When James saw me enter the room, he flung his brothers off onto the ground. He then signed to me, thanking God I had come to save him from Joseph and Jared. After looking over at the twelve-year-old and eleven-year-old, I responded by signing that I did not think us a good match for them. Joseph and I against James and Jared looked fairer. But James let me know he did not think that was an even match either, reminding me of his being four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than me. I assured him, however, the odds were in my team’s favor, though I did not explain how. The younger boys were eager to begin. So, without a signal or the establishment of any rules, we slammed into each other, shoving, pulling, twisting, struggling, persevering, drawing back, then slamming again.
When Elizabeth walked into the room, everyone saw her, but no one stopped. James clearly became more desperate to get the upper hand after her entrance, but I also became more resistant to his taking it.
Suddenly, Joseph and Jared drew back. We signed to them, asking what had happened, and they replied that it was time for dinner. Though we were all panting from striving and sweat was dripping down our faces, all of our former efforts were instantly of no importance. We greeted Elizabeth as if we had just noticed her entrance. James kissed her cheek and placed his sweaty arm around her as we went into the dining room.
At the Kirkpatrick house, each person spoke and signed simultaneously, although James was the only deaf member of the family. Tonight, the mood around the table was light and refreshing after the tedious week of school, with the bright prospects of the weekend before us. I was intrigued by Jessica’s determined efforts to cut her own lasagna despite the offers of everyone at the table, not knowing she had already received offers, volunteering to cut it for her. James, who worked for his father’s company, was discussing a work situation with his father, as Elizabeth watched with interest. Julie, James’s fourteen-year-old sister, was telling her mom about being offered drugs at school that day. The four youngest children were too caught up in eating for making much conversation, although at intervals they would burst out with some nugget of information. I sat slowly taking in the food, looking from person to person in the warmth of the atmosphere, enjoying my feeling of invisibility for as long as it might last.
After dinner, we played an aggressive game of “Spoons.” The game is not solely about skill; it has much to do with one’s degree of viciousness as well. So, it was not surprising that James and Joseph were the ones to make it to the last round. At that point, the game is only luck. Joseph won, by chance.
When James, Elizabeth and I were in James’s room later that evening, James made a point to ridicule my poor skills at the game of “Spoons.” But Elizabeth stood up for me, reminding James that I was probably a wonderful guitar player, though the two of them couldn’t know, and that I at least looked cool when I played. Elizabeth and I looked at each other, smiling like two siblings might when they find themselves on the same side of a conflict. James reminded me of how weird Elizabeth’s grandmother thought I was when we were little kids and all I ever did was play guitar, despite my being deaf. I did not remember that. When I thought of Elizabeth’s grandmother, Mrs. Anderson, I could think of nothing but raking her yard for her in the fall and her repaying us with chocolate chip cookies and telling us stories about child-eating monsters. We asked Elizabeth how her grandmother was doing and she told her grandmother was doing very poorly, almost to the point of having to go into a nursing home. I, who had had no idea that things were so bad, looked away, ashamed I had not asked about Mrs. Anderson more recently.
If Mrs. Anderson went into a nursing home before Elizabeth graduated, James told me that Elizabeth would move in with his family for her senior year. At that time, James would have a full time position with his father’s company. After that, we all knew what was going to happen—James and Elizabeth were going to get married, get their own house, and start their own family. Though their anticipation seemed to grow as the time drew closer, that night the idea remained like the moon seen through the window, neither spoken of nor reached for, but present, still, in its resplendence.
I, on the other hand, faced the future without direction. Perhaps, after I graduated, I would go to college or perhaps I would simply become a luthier like my father and put in more hours in the workshop at home. Honestly, I would be content with anything, as long as God would place me in His will.
The Mirror Tells It All
(A sequel to "For Fear of Beauty")
When I look in the mirror, I'm met with sagging lips and swollen eyes.
Nothing fascinates me long; nothing brings me back to life.
I've become so tired of this:
The river surges past, beckoning me, but I cling like a branch to its tree.
The river wants to set me free, but I'm stuck in individuality.
I know I was not made for this:
To be a ghost, chained and controlled, untended and ungrown.
To be a figure still and cold, untouched and unknown.
I hate who I've become:
The hesitant, unreachable girl, without a smile, without a twirl,
With empty dreams to change the world, locked away in a dresser drawer.
When I look in the mirror, it's like looking through a window
Into a deep and dead place in the shadows of my soul.
When I look in the mirror, I'm met with sagging lips and swollen eyes.
Nothing fascinates me long; nothing brings me back to life.
I've become so tired of this:
The river surges past, beckoning me, but I cling like a branch to its tree.
The river wants to set me free, but I'm stuck in individuality.
I know I was not made for this:
To be a ghost, chained and controlled, untended and ungrown.
To be a figure still and cold, untouched and unknown.
I hate who I've become:
The hesitant, unreachable girl, without a smile, without a twirl,
With empty dreams to change the world, locked away in a dresser drawer.
When I look in the mirror, it's like looking through a window
Into a deep and dead place in the shadows of my soul.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
For Fear of Beauty
(A sequel to "Observations of a Little Girl")
What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free,
Continually screaming out my name,
But seldom heard from her prison chains?
She says if I will loose her bonds, take her hand, lead her out,
She will show me happiness, love, and what I'm all about.
She tells me the two of us will be the best of friends,
That she will secure a place for me in the world I'm in.
What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free,
Combating with that familiar tone
Which urges me to be my own.
It tells me beauty will buy from me everything I love,
And then stock me with amusing, but unfullfilling stuff.
It tells me beauty will enslave me just like all of them,
Make me pleasing on the outside, but rotting from within.
What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free?
I'll leave her barred in the prison where I will not often see her face,
For fear that she will grab me there and crush me in her embrace.
What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free,
Continually screaming out my name,
But seldom heard from her prison chains?
She says if I will loose her bonds, take her hand, lead her out,
She will show me happiness, love, and what I'm all about.
She tells me the two of us will be the best of friends,
That she will secure a place for me in the world I'm in.
What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free,
Combating with that familiar tone
Which urges me to be my own.
It tells me beauty will buy from me everything I love,
And then stock me with amusing, but unfullfilling stuff.
It tells me beauty will enslave me just like all of them,
Make me pleasing on the outside, but rotting from within.
What is this yearning deep inside of me?
What is this beauty begging to be set free?
I'll leave her barred in the prison where I will not often see her face,
For fear that she will grab me there and crush me in her embrace.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Observations of a Little Girl
My sisters play with barbie dolls
Clothed in latest trends from latest malls.
They play with plastic crowns and heels,
With made-over faces and lofty ideals.
My brothers play with army men,
With sweat and blood to beat their friends.
They play with fake guns and swords
To slay the dragons and save the world.
My mother's friends sit and talk
To see if they can amuse and shock.
They speak about their little girls,
Sweet and small with proper rules.
And they laugh about their little boys,
Always finding new and dangerous toys.
Then they redicule their husbands' lives,
Since they are like boys with real guns and knives,
Since they are always holding back their wives
From treating money like paper just to dress nice.
But here I sit in the middle of the house,
Pondering inside and looking about,
Not caring at all for girls' plastic heels,
Their barbie dolls and lofty ideals.
I don't want to grow up like my mother's friends
Sitting and gossiping about their men.
I want to change the world, and then,
As I stare in wonder at the men,
I know I cannot be like them
Because I'm not like that deep within.
Oh God, how can I change the world,
Since You've made me a little girl?
Clothed in latest trends from latest malls.
They play with plastic crowns and heels,
With made-over faces and lofty ideals.
My brothers play with army men,
With sweat and blood to beat their friends.
They play with fake guns and swords
To slay the dragons and save the world.
My mother's friends sit and talk
To see if they can amuse and shock.
They speak about their little girls,
Sweet and small with proper rules.
And they laugh about their little boys,
Always finding new and dangerous toys.
Then they redicule their husbands' lives,
Since they are like boys with real guns and knives,
Since they are always holding back their wives
From treating money like paper just to dress nice.
But here I sit in the middle of the house,
Pondering inside and looking about,
Not caring at all for girls' plastic heels,
Their barbie dolls and lofty ideals.
I don't want to grow up like my mother's friends
Sitting and gossiping about their men.
I want to change the world, and then,
As I stare in wonder at the men,
I know I cannot be like them
Because I'm not like that deep within.
Oh God, how can I change the world,
Since You've made me a little girl?
Monday, August 13, 2007
Lament of Leaves
We came to life with the spring;
It gave us hope, it gave us rain,
And we danced in it's breeze,
Contented servants in our chains.
We desire drink now, but the skies have become iron,
Leaving us without music, without tears to cry,
Like prisoners to the branches,
Yearning, burning for an end of summertime.
Come, Autumn, come to cut and set us free,
To entrap us in your wind and guide us with your breeze.
Come, Autumn, come, that we may kiss the ground,
To be there forever lost and there forever found.
It gave us hope, it gave us rain,
And we danced in it's breeze,
Contented servants in our chains.
We desire drink now, but the skies have become iron,
Leaving us without music, without tears to cry,
Like prisoners to the branches,
Yearning, burning for an end of summertime.
Come, Autumn, come to cut and set us free,
To entrap us in your wind and guide us with your breeze.
Come, Autumn, come, that we may kiss the ground,
To be there forever lost and there forever found.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Mutant of Maintstream Chapter 1: The Workmanship
A Note About ASL
Because ASL (American Sign Language) has its own grammar rules and sentence structure and is dependent on facial expressions and body language, it is impossible to write it in English just as it is signed. When reading the signed communication in this story, imagine it as a translation from ASL into English—and not a translation of words, but of concepts. The characters are communicating to each other what is printed, but they are doing it in a different way.
Chapter 1: The Workmanship
“I know you can do better than this, Lance,” were Mr. Rummer’s stony words. “You’ve gone from Bs to Fs. Could you please give an explanation for the change in your performance?”
My hearted thudded like the ground when it is bombed over and over again, as I stared into the man’s bleak, grey eyes overlaid with large, thick glasses. Taking a notepad and a pen from my pocket, I wrote: “I was not doing any better when I was making Bs. The teachers probably pitied me then. But ever since I quit trying to talk, I’ve been flunking oral exams and presentations. The truth is, I should have been flunked before because no could understand me.”
After looking at the note I had written, Mr. Rummer responded, “So basically, you’re failing because you’ve given up.”
“I’ve become realistic,” I wrote.
“If you wanted to enough, you could speak. Just stop worrying about what other people think. If you want your life to count for something, you can’t go on in fear.”
“I’ve been trying my entire life. I just can’t talk well.”
“When you were younger, you probably never imagined being able to read lips as well as you can now. You don’t even need an interpreter in your classes. If you keep trying, you could get just as good at speaking. The only way to fail is to give up.”
“I’m finished trying, Mr. Rummer.”
“Don’t you want to go to college, Lancen?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, don’t you at least want to make a difference? I mean, what’s the point of living and breathing, if you’re not contributing anything to the world?”
I looked away instinctively with my body shuddering against the bombs constantly landing in my chest. Though I had amunition of my own, begging to be used, I kept it tucked tightly inside me.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Mr. Rummers questioned.
“No sir,” I jotted down hurriedly.
“Then you’re free to go.”
As I left the room, a refreshing breeze greeted my burning face. I walked down the hall, through the door, and into the majestic sunshine. Breathing deeply, I went the short distance from the school building to the lone car in the parking lot. I got in on the passenger’s side and sat down.
“How was it?” my father signed to me from the driver’s seat.
I shuddered again upon the remembrance of the dark office from which I had come. “The principal said I’m never going to amount to anything or do the world any good if I can’t talk,” I signed back. “And I can’t talk. So basically…”
“But he’s wrong of course,” my father’s hands responded, “God has an incredible plan for you, Song. He sees so much in you. You are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works which God hath before ordained that you should walk in them. It doesn’t really matter what the principle of the school thinks you’re capable of doing!”
“Yes, I know.”
My father started the ignition. Leaning my head against the car window, I prayed, God, I trust You. I don’t have anything else to rely on. Please take my life and let it count for something. Let it bring You glory.
When at last we came to a neighborhood with all of the houses packed tightly together and separated by miniscule yards, we pulled into the driveway of a house with no flowers adorning the outside. It may have seemed a bit uncared for by visitors, perhaps the kind of house one would ring the doorbell, expecting a man to answer dressed only in a bath towel, with a half shaven face. But this same place beckoned us through the garage door and into the kitchen. Upon entering, the fragrance of wood entered my nostrils. I welcomed it heartily, for to me it was the very fragrance of passion, labor, and stability. Though our house held few luxuries when compared with most American homes, there was nowhere I would have preferred to come back to after the painstaking meeting with Mr. Rummers than this place.
Walking through the sawdust which covered the floor, I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, while my father turned on some music, sat down on the couch in the living room, and fashioned guitar parts. In my own silent world, I endeavored to focus my freshly wounded mind on American History, forcing myself to think in terms of questions, blanks, and complete sentence answers.
In the course of an hour, however, I had moved from a world of words to a world of wood, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my father, gluing guitar parts together. My father and I worked intently without much signing—for our hand and eyes were preoccupied with the wood. This was the tranquil community we shared, sanctified from the clamor of the world outside. Though the world cut at us and abandoned us, this was our haven of healing.
At six o’clock, we washed the sawdust and wood glue from our hands and began making dinner. “Dad,” I signed, “can I go hang out at James’s house tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Do you want to take the car?”
“If it’s alright.”
“That will be fine. I don’t have any deliveries to make tomorrow. How is that rice coming?”
“It’s getting there.”
“Will it just be you and James tomorrow night?”
“His family will be there… and Elizabeth.”
“You’re going to make sure James and Elizabeth behave, I guess?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Alright, you can add the rice to the chilly now.”
After eating a meal characteristic of us, we pulled out two of our hand crafted guitars. My father began strumming some chords in the key of F. Noting this, my fingers drifted into picking solo notes up and down the frets and strings. The feeling of the wood, smooth beneath my finger, and the steel strings, pliable to my touch, indulged me. I lost myself in the vibrations. After a while, with my fingers still moving, I looked up into my father’s deep brown eyes. Perhaps the darkness of his eyes drove many people away from him, but it welcomed me in. His hair was dark brown also and curly and a short, unkempt beard surrounded his face providing him with a rustic appearance. My eyes dropped down to his moving fingers, which were also rustic with work and practice so that looking at them caused respect and pride to grow in my heart. Certainly, we were not a typical family, but we loved what we had—what we had been given of God.
As one fighting the ocean current, I struggled through the crowded hall at school the next morning, toward my locker. It was 6:55. If I did not get to homeroom by 7:00, I knew the teacher would take pleasure in mocking before the entire class—She did this to everyone who came late, bust she always found more to ridicule me about.
When I was near my locker, I saw Elizabeth surrounded by a group of students. Though the students’ mouths were moving rapidly and I knew exactly what they were saying, Elizabeth could not read lips. My urgency to get to class instantly evaporated as my emotions suddenly boiled in anger. I pushed through the group of students which enclosed Elizabeth, conscious that this action had thrown at least one person to the ground. Putting my arm around Elizabeth, I broke through the other side of the group. With out looking back to see the damage I had caused, I walked with Elizabeth to her homeroom, my arm around her securely.
“Are you okay?” I signed to her, after she had sat down at her desk.
“Yes. Thank you, Lance,” she signed back, as appreciation and respect revealed themselves through her eyes.
“Anytime,” I responded, turning swiftly and finding myself lost again in the ocean of the hallway. But as I worked my way back to my locker, I could still see Elizabeth’s relieved face in my mind, her weak smile, her sparkling eyes, her blonde, wavy hair. She was a sort of angelic princess, always there in the corner of my mind, and it was my duty and privilege to protect her. The look she had given me which said that she needed and trusted me was well-worth what I knew was coming when I entered homeroom at 7:05.
“What happened, Lancen?” the teacher’s lips read as I took my seat at the front of the class. “Let me guess: You forgot to set your alarm. No? You really enjoyed your shower this morning? I suppose it’s worth it to get a tardy for something that important. Oh, no, I know: Your girlfriend broke up with you?”
I started to write something down, but she stopped me.
“This is not writing class, Lancen. I want an answer.”
God, I can’t even answer for myself. She might as well just shoot me on the spot and save me this mortification, I prayed. But thank you that at least I don’t have to hear everyone laughing right now.
“I sense a lack of respect,” the teacher said.
I knew I could close my eyes and block out all that was happening around me, but that would do no good. So, I waited eagerly until the subject changed.
“So, I said, ‘Man, I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m deaf,’” James signed on Friday night. “And then, he just kept talking. So, I went and got my dad who told me the guy was asking me how I could talk if I couldn’t read lips. I was thinking, ‘Maybe it’s because I live in Memphis with people like you who don’t open their mouth when they speak.’”
“But he didn’t say that,” signed James’s father, Mr. Kirkpatrick.
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Customer service isn’t your calling, is it James?” I signed.
“He’s great at stocking though,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick immediately responded in defense.
“He’s our companies best,” added Mr. Kirkpatrick.
At this, the younger members of the dinner party instantly joined in the admiration of their oldest brother. “It’s because he’s so strong,” spoke the seven-year-old, Jenna, as she signed.
“Yeah, he’s strong,” copied Jessica, the five-year-old.
If I had remembered that James’s huge fan club sat before me, perhaps I never would have commented on his customer service skills. Even James laughed at his family’s avid admiration.
But Elizabeth, with her blue eyes glowing, smiled and signed, “They’re right.” Then her hand disappeared beneath the table, no doubt to be caught up in James’s hand.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick got up from her seat, gathering plates from around the table. Julie, the fourteen-year-old, helped her mother. They both vanished into the kitchen and when they emerged again, Mrs. Kirkpatrick spoke and signed, “So, let’s get this party started. What do ya’ll want to play?”
“‘Spoons!’” said Jared, the eleven-year-old, signing with large, repetitive movements.
“Yes, ‘Spoons,’” the twelve-year-old, Joseph, agreed with slower lips and more passive hands.
“No, no,” pouted Jessica, “I hate that game. I’m always the first one out.”
“Alright, calm down,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick interfered. “Let’s find out what our guests want to play.”
Elizabeth and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“I want to play ‘Go Fish,’” Jessica announced.
“But it’s not your decision,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick reminded her. “What do you think, James?” she asked Mr. Kirkpatrick.
“I think most everyone here is too old to enjoy ‘Go Fish.’ And we haven’t played spoons in at least two months. So, who’s up for spoons?”
Though the uproar was not loud enough for me to hear, I sensed a sudden rising of tension and commotion. It was settled. We began a long, aggressive game of ‘Spoons.’ Gradually, the table of ten dwindled down until the final two, James and Joseph competed in the championship. We all watched as Joseph got four of kind first and grabbed the one remaining spoon.
“You may be good at playing guitar, but you really suck at spoons,” James told me when he, Elizabeth, and I were in his room later that evening.
I laughed. “Yeah, too bad you and Elizabeth can’t even tell whether I’m a good guitar player or not.”
“Well, you look cool when you play,” Elizabeth commented.
“Thanks…”
“Do you remember when we were little, how Elizabeth’s grandmother used to make fun of you when you played guitar, Lance? She thought it was just weird that a deaf kid would play guitar.”
“I guess I was too focused on playing to look up and notice criticism back then. I just remember that we would rake her yard and she would pay us in chocolate chip cookies afterward and she would tell us those weird stories about child-eating monsters.”
“Oh, yeah, I could never forget that. How is your grandmother doing, Elizabeth?”
“She’s hanging in there,” Elizabeth responded hesitantly.
“Is she taking care of you?” I signed.
“I guess you haven’t been over in a while, Lance. I’m taking care of her.”
“It’s that bad?”
“She might have to go into a nursing home soon.”
I looked away, ashamed that I had not inquired of her grandmother more recently. “But where will you go then?”
James answered for her. “If it happens before Elizabeth graduates, she’s going to come live here.” We all knew what would happen after Elizabeth’s graduation. She and James had been planning it for as long as I could remember. This year, James was a senior. After he graduated, he was going to a get steady position with his father’s company. Then, a year later, when Elizabeth would be out of high school, they would get married, buy a little house, and start a family. Though their anticipation grew as the time drew closer every day, that night the idea remained like the moon seen through the window, neither spoken of nor reached for, but present, still, in its resplendence.
Because ASL (American Sign Language) has its own grammar rules and sentence structure and is dependent on facial expressions and body language, it is impossible to write it in English just as it is signed. When reading the signed communication in this story, imagine it as a translation from ASL into English—and not a translation of words, but of concepts. The characters are communicating to each other what is printed, but they are doing it in a different way.
Chapter 1: The Workmanship
“I know you can do better than this, Lance,” were Mr. Rummer’s stony words. “You’ve gone from Bs to Fs. Could you please give an explanation for the change in your performance?”
My hearted thudded like the ground when it is bombed over and over again, as I stared into the man’s bleak, grey eyes overlaid with large, thick glasses. Taking a notepad and a pen from my pocket, I wrote: “I was not doing any better when I was making Bs. The teachers probably pitied me then. But ever since I quit trying to talk, I’ve been flunking oral exams and presentations. The truth is, I should have been flunked before because no could understand me.”
After looking at the note I had written, Mr. Rummer responded, “So basically, you’re failing because you’ve given up.”
“I’ve become realistic,” I wrote.
“If you wanted to enough, you could speak. Just stop worrying about what other people think. If you want your life to count for something, you can’t go on in fear.”
“I’ve been trying my entire life. I just can’t talk well.”
“When you were younger, you probably never imagined being able to read lips as well as you can now. You don’t even need an interpreter in your classes. If you keep trying, you could get just as good at speaking. The only way to fail is to give up.”
“I’m finished trying, Mr. Rummer.”
“Don’t you want to go to college, Lancen?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, don’t you at least want to make a difference? I mean, what’s the point of living and breathing, if you’re not contributing anything to the world?”
I looked away instinctively with my body shuddering against the bombs constantly landing in my chest. Though I had amunition of my own, begging to be used, I kept it tucked tightly inside me.
“Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Mr. Rummers questioned.
“No sir,” I jotted down hurriedly.
“Then you’re free to go.”
As I left the room, a refreshing breeze greeted my burning face. I walked down the hall, through the door, and into the majestic sunshine. Breathing deeply, I went the short distance from the school building to the lone car in the parking lot. I got in on the passenger’s side and sat down.
“How was it?” my father signed to me from the driver’s seat.
I shuddered again upon the remembrance of the dark office from which I had come. “The principal said I’m never going to amount to anything or do the world any good if I can’t talk,” I signed back. “And I can’t talk. So basically…”
“But he’s wrong of course,” my father’s hands responded, “God has an incredible plan for you, Song. He sees so much in you. You are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works which God hath before ordained that you should walk in them. It doesn’t really matter what the principle of the school thinks you’re capable of doing!”
“Yes, I know.”
My father started the ignition. Leaning my head against the car window, I prayed, God, I trust You. I don’t have anything else to rely on. Please take my life and let it count for something. Let it bring You glory.
When at last we came to a neighborhood with all of the houses packed tightly together and separated by miniscule yards, we pulled into the driveway of a house with no flowers adorning the outside. It may have seemed a bit uncared for by visitors, perhaps the kind of house one would ring the doorbell, expecting a man to answer dressed only in a bath towel, with a half shaven face. But this same place beckoned us through the garage door and into the kitchen. Upon entering, the fragrance of wood entered my nostrils. I welcomed it heartily, for to me it was the very fragrance of passion, labor, and stability. Though our house held few luxuries when compared with most American homes, there was nowhere I would have preferred to come back to after the painstaking meeting with Mr. Rummers than this place.
Walking through the sawdust which covered the floor, I got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, while my father turned on some music, sat down on the couch in the living room, and fashioned guitar parts. In my own silent world, I endeavored to focus my freshly wounded mind on American History, forcing myself to think in terms of questions, blanks, and complete sentence answers.
In the course of an hour, however, I had moved from a world of words to a world of wood, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from my father, gluing guitar parts together. My father and I worked intently without much signing—for our hand and eyes were preoccupied with the wood. This was the tranquil community we shared, sanctified from the clamor of the world outside. Though the world cut at us and abandoned us, this was our haven of healing.
At six o’clock, we washed the sawdust and wood glue from our hands and began making dinner. “Dad,” I signed, “can I go hang out at James’s house tomorrow night?”
“Sure. Do you want to take the car?”
“If it’s alright.”
“That will be fine. I don’t have any deliveries to make tomorrow. How is that rice coming?”
“It’s getting there.”
“Will it just be you and James tomorrow night?”
“His family will be there… and Elizabeth.”
“You’re going to make sure James and Elizabeth behave, I guess?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“Alright, you can add the rice to the chilly now.”
After eating a meal characteristic of us, we pulled out two of our hand crafted guitars. My father began strumming some chords in the key of F. Noting this, my fingers drifted into picking solo notes up and down the frets and strings. The feeling of the wood, smooth beneath my finger, and the steel strings, pliable to my touch, indulged me. I lost myself in the vibrations. After a while, with my fingers still moving, I looked up into my father’s deep brown eyes. Perhaps the darkness of his eyes drove many people away from him, but it welcomed me in. His hair was dark brown also and curly and a short, unkempt beard surrounded his face providing him with a rustic appearance. My eyes dropped down to his moving fingers, which were also rustic with work and practice so that looking at them caused respect and pride to grow in my heart. Certainly, we were not a typical family, but we loved what we had—what we had been given of God.
As one fighting the ocean current, I struggled through the crowded hall at school the next morning, toward my locker. It was 6:55. If I did not get to homeroom by 7:00, I knew the teacher would take pleasure in mocking before the entire class—She did this to everyone who came late, bust she always found more to ridicule me about.
When I was near my locker, I saw Elizabeth surrounded by a group of students. Though the students’ mouths were moving rapidly and I knew exactly what they were saying, Elizabeth could not read lips. My urgency to get to class instantly evaporated as my emotions suddenly boiled in anger. I pushed through the group of students which enclosed Elizabeth, conscious that this action had thrown at least one person to the ground. Putting my arm around Elizabeth, I broke through the other side of the group. With out looking back to see the damage I had caused, I walked with Elizabeth to her homeroom, my arm around her securely.
“Are you okay?” I signed to her, after she had sat down at her desk.
“Yes. Thank you, Lance,” she signed back, as appreciation and respect revealed themselves through her eyes.
“Anytime,” I responded, turning swiftly and finding myself lost again in the ocean of the hallway. But as I worked my way back to my locker, I could still see Elizabeth’s relieved face in my mind, her weak smile, her sparkling eyes, her blonde, wavy hair. She was a sort of angelic princess, always there in the corner of my mind, and it was my duty and privilege to protect her. The look she had given me which said that she needed and trusted me was well-worth what I knew was coming when I entered homeroom at 7:05.
“What happened, Lancen?” the teacher’s lips read as I took my seat at the front of the class. “Let me guess: You forgot to set your alarm. No? You really enjoyed your shower this morning? I suppose it’s worth it to get a tardy for something that important. Oh, no, I know: Your girlfriend broke up with you?”
I started to write something down, but she stopped me.
“This is not writing class, Lancen. I want an answer.”
God, I can’t even answer for myself. She might as well just shoot me on the spot and save me this mortification, I prayed. But thank you that at least I don’t have to hear everyone laughing right now.
“I sense a lack of respect,” the teacher said.
I knew I could close my eyes and block out all that was happening around me, but that would do no good. So, I waited eagerly until the subject changed.
“So, I said, ‘Man, I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m deaf,’” James signed on Friday night. “And then, he just kept talking. So, I went and got my dad who told me the guy was asking me how I could talk if I couldn’t read lips. I was thinking, ‘Maybe it’s because I live in Memphis with people like you who don’t open their mouth when they speak.’”
“But he didn’t say that,” signed James’s father, Mr. Kirkpatrick.
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Customer service isn’t your calling, is it James?” I signed.
“He’s great at stocking though,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick immediately responded in defense.
“He’s our companies best,” added Mr. Kirkpatrick.
At this, the younger members of the dinner party instantly joined in the admiration of their oldest brother. “It’s because he’s so strong,” spoke the seven-year-old, Jenna, as she signed.
“Yeah, he’s strong,” copied Jessica, the five-year-old.
If I had remembered that James’s huge fan club sat before me, perhaps I never would have commented on his customer service skills. Even James laughed at his family’s avid admiration.
But Elizabeth, with her blue eyes glowing, smiled and signed, “They’re right.” Then her hand disappeared beneath the table, no doubt to be caught up in James’s hand.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick got up from her seat, gathering plates from around the table. Julie, the fourteen-year-old, helped her mother. They both vanished into the kitchen and when they emerged again, Mrs. Kirkpatrick spoke and signed, “So, let’s get this party started. What do ya’ll want to play?”
“‘Spoons!’” said Jared, the eleven-year-old, signing with large, repetitive movements.
“Yes, ‘Spoons,’” the twelve-year-old, Joseph, agreed with slower lips and more passive hands.
“No, no,” pouted Jessica, “I hate that game. I’m always the first one out.”
“Alright, calm down,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick interfered. “Let’s find out what our guests want to play.”
Elizabeth and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“I want to play ‘Go Fish,’” Jessica announced.
“But it’s not your decision,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick reminded her. “What do you think, James?” she asked Mr. Kirkpatrick.
“I think most everyone here is too old to enjoy ‘Go Fish.’ And we haven’t played spoons in at least two months. So, who’s up for spoons?”
Though the uproar was not loud enough for me to hear, I sensed a sudden rising of tension and commotion. It was settled. We began a long, aggressive game of ‘Spoons.’ Gradually, the table of ten dwindled down until the final two, James and Joseph competed in the championship. We all watched as Joseph got four of kind first and grabbed the one remaining spoon.
“You may be good at playing guitar, but you really suck at spoons,” James told me when he, Elizabeth, and I were in his room later that evening.
I laughed. “Yeah, too bad you and Elizabeth can’t even tell whether I’m a good guitar player or not.”
“Well, you look cool when you play,” Elizabeth commented.
“Thanks…”
“Do you remember when we were little, how Elizabeth’s grandmother used to make fun of you when you played guitar, Lance? She thought it was just weird that a deaf kid would play guitar.”
“I guess I was too focused on playing to look up and notice criticism back then. I just remember that we would rake her yard and she would pay us in chocolate chip cookies afterward and she would tell us those weird stories about child-eating monsters.”
“Oh, yeah, I could never forget that. How is your grandmother doing, Elizabeth?”
“She’s hanging in there,” Elizabeth responded hesitantly.
“Is she taking care of you?” I signed.
“I guess you haven’t been over in a while, Lance. I’m taking care of her.”
“It’s that bad?”
“She might have to go into a nursing home soon.”
I looked away, ashamed that I had not inquired of her grandmother more recently. “But where will you go then?”
James answered for her. “If it happens before Elizabeth graduates, she’s going to come live here.” We all knew what would happen after Elizabeth’s graduation. She and James had been planning it for as long as I could remember. This year, James was a senior. After he graduated, he was going to a get steady position with his father’s company. Then, a year later, when Elizabeth would be out of high school, they would get married, buy a little house, and start a family. Though their anticipation grew as the time drew closer every day, that night the idea remained like the moon seen through the window, neither spoken of nor reached for, but present, still, in its resplendence.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
A Story on the Way
At last, I have finished the first draft of "Mutant of Mainstream." I'm very excited about that story. In fact, I think I like it better than any first draft of a story I have ever written. There is a lot of passion in it, a lot of personality, a lot of feeling. But I am really going to need feedback on this one since I am writing it from the perspective of a deaf guy and I am neither a guy nor am I deaf. The story is split up into four chapters, so I may post one chapter at a time as I complete them. The first draft isn't terribly long--about twenty-six handwritten pages--and I imagine that the second draft will be about the same length. I would like to have as many readers as possible. Thank you, everyone.
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