Adventures of Hearing Girl: the SHY story...
In honor of tomorrow (Deaf Day at Robin Hood Faire), I give you a slice of life from high school. Some of you have heard this story before, but it's the story of how my mom tried to introduce me to a Deaf idol of mine. I originally wrote this in high school, and I'm not going to re-write it now, so forgive the slightly anachronistic details. ;c)
There are some things I don’t leave to chance: my grades, my work, my encounters with demigods. So, on the day I was to meet Miss Deaf America, Lauren Teruel, I practiced signing “It’s an honor to meet you,” at least 50 times.
When I arrived at the bookstore where she was appearing, she was already telling a story to a rapt group of Deaf children. As she narrated the exploits of “The Perky Pumpkin,” I found myself equally spellbound. Her hands glided and flitted through the air, dimples danced below her high cheekbones, and her almond-shaped eyes flashed and sparkled and twinkled. She was having as much fun as the children- and I was awestruck.
After the stories, and after the crowd of adoring children had been pried away by their harried mothers, I approached Miss Teruel. “It’s an honor to meet you,” I signed flawlessly. She blushed, smiled, responded, “Thanks. Your name’s -?”
“N-A-A-R-A,” I faltered- “No- N-A-S-S-I-R-A.”
She grinned. “Tired? Same here. Excuse me for a sec.” She dashed to the bathroom.
I was pretty pleased with myself- until I realized that I hadn’t prepared anything else to say! I wandered off to chat with an interpreter friend of mine. After all, I couldn’t wing it with Lauren Teruel!
Luckily (I suppose), my mother had no such compunctions. With spontaneity inversely proportional to ASL fluency, she called me back over, flagged down Miss Teruel, and said, “This is my daughter. She’s a prostitute.”
Well, it was an icebreaker, anyway. By the time I was through explaining that my mom had meant “shy” (with a twist of the wrist, not a flick of the fingers), I had ceased to worry about my own signing. Miss Teruel and I continued to chat easily while my mother watched, bemused. After about 5 minutes, Miss Teruel asked me, “So,- you’re Deaf, right?”
(It was as if a Frenchman had asked me why I had moved to Paris if I’d been born in Lyons!)
I replied quite eloquently: “Uhhhh . . . . no.”
"Hearing? Wow.”
“Ummmm . . . yup . . . hearing. Why?”
“Well, you just sign so well.” (Base flattery. Give me more!)
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. So you have Deaf family?”
“No, why?” (Yes, I was fishing for praise at that point!)
“Well, then, why are you studying ASL?”
I told her the whole sordid tale, which boils down to: I was helping my best friend flirt with a Deaf guy, and I got hooked. (Unfortunately, the guy didn’t.)
We passed another half-hour in pleasant conversation, then collectively began to drift toward the door. As we parted, she said, “Hey, you know the National Center on Deafness? You should come down there sometime- I work there, and it’s a great place to interact with Deaf people.”
I answered, “Yeah, I’ve gotta come by.” And we left.
Yeah. I’ve gotta come by. After all, I’m now an NCOD intern. When my boss was showing me around, the last office we came to belonged to none other than Lauren Teruel herself.
She saw me and smiled. “We’ve met!” (Oh, yes, we had, and I’d been on Cloud 14 ever since!) “Your name is- . . . oh- . . . . N-A-A-R-A, right?”
“Ah, N-A-S-S-I-R-A.”
“L-A-U-R-E-N. Nice to see you here.”
Lauren? Lauren? Well, I don’t ordinarily call demigods by their first name- especially when they have control over the photocopier- but if I’ve learned anything from Lauren, it’s the virtue of occasionally living on the edge.
There are some things I don’t leave to chance: my grades, my work, my encounters with demigods. So, on the day I was to meet Miss Deaf America, Lauren Teruel, I practiced signing “It’s an honor to meet you,” at least 50 times.
When I arrived at the bookstore where she was appearing, she was already telling a story to a rapt group of Deaf children. As she narrated the exploits of “The Perky Pumpkin,” I found myself equally spellbound. Her hands glided and flitted through the air, dimples danced below her high cheekbones, and her almond-shaped eyes flashed and sparkled and twinkled. She was having as much fun as the children- and I was awestruck.
After the stories, and after the crowd of adoring children had been pried away by their harried mothers, I approached Miss Teruel. “It’s an honor to meet you,” I signed flawlessly. She blushed, smiled, responded, “Thanks. Your name’s -?”
“N-A-A-R-A,” I faltered- “No- N-A-S-S-I-R-A.”
She grinned. “Tired? Same here. Excuse me for a sec.” She dashed to the bathroom.
I was pretty pleased with myself- until I realized that I hadn’t prepared anything else to say! I wandered off to chat with an interpreter friend of mine. After all, I couldn’t wing it with Lauren Teruel!
Luckily (I suppose), my mother had no such compunctions. With spontaneity inversely proportional to ASL fluency, she called me back over, flagged down Miss Teruel, and said, “This is my daughter. She’s a prostitute.”
Well, it was an icebreaker, anyway. By the time I was through explaining that my mom had meant “shy” (with a twist of the wrist, not a flick of the fingers), I had ceased to worry about my own signing. Miss Teruel and I continued to chat easily while my mother watched, bemused. After about 5 minutes, Miss Teruel asked me, “So,- you’re Deaf, right?”
(It was as if a Frenchman had asked me why I had moved to Paris if I’d been born in Lyons!)
I replied quite eloquently: “Uhhhh . . . . no.”
"Hearing? Wow.”
“Ummmm . . . yup . . . hearing. Why?”
“Well, you just sign so well.” (Base flattery. Give me more!)
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. So you have Deaf family?”
“No, why?” (Yes, I was fishing for praise at that point!)
“Well, then, why are you studying ASL?”
I told her the whole sordid tale, which boils down to: I was helping my best friend flirt with a Deaf guy, and I got hooked. (Unfortunately, the guy didn’t.)
We passed another half-hour in pleasant conversation, then collectively began to drift toward the door. As we parted, she said, “Hey, you know the National Center on Deafness? You should come down there sometime- I work there, and it’s a great place to interact with Deaf people.”
I answered, “Yeah, I’ve gotta come by.” And we left.
Yeah. I’ve gotta come by. After all, I’m now an NCOD intern. When my boss was showing me around, the last office we came to belonged to none other than Lauren Teruel herself.
She saw me and smiled. “We’ve met!” (Oh, yes, we had, and I’d been on Cloud 14 ever since!) “Your name is- . . . oh- . . . . N-A-A-R-A, right?”
“Ah, N-A-S-S-I-R-A.”
“L-A-U-R-E-N. Nice to see you here.”
Lauren? Lauren? Well, I don’t ordinarily call demigods by their first name- especially when they have control over the photocopier- but if I’ve learned anything from Lauren, it’s the virtue of occasionally living on the edge.