Face me, I read lips

My husband and I took a couple beginning ASL sessions together two years ago, then he forgot nearly everything. He’s busy. We didn’t practice enough. I have deaf/HH friends who know a little sign, so I practiced with them and advanced more quickly, then he decided to drop out and I took more classes. To be fair, he isn’t a stupid man. He was fluent in German when we met, and he has taught himself French and Spanish since then. Normally he picks up languages quickly.

Now I’m taking ASL at the local community college, and finding I need to practice more often. So last weekend I asked him to help with my ASL vocabulary. Also, I thought maybe if he helped me practice he might pick up a few words. Sound like a good plan?

Breakfast seemed like the right time. I asked if he remembered the sign for bacon. We learned that before. He didn’t remember. I showed him.

“Really?” he asked in surprise, “Why are the fingers sizzling in an H instead of a B?”

“Whoa, great question!” I thought smiling. So I explained how the H looks more like a thin strip of bacon whereas the B- hand doesn’t.

Then I asked if he remembered the sign for coffee.
He made the sign for making out. I snickered and showed him the difference between “making out” and “coffee.”

Then I showed him “syrup.”

“Not to be confused with gas,” I said.

“Gas?” he piped up , “Which kind?”

“The kind you pump.” I showed him my fist. This is the tank, and here’s your spout. My right thumb became a spout.

“Oh!” he smiled mischievously, “How do you sign the other kind???” Men are just little boys in big pants, I thought to myself. Didn‘t my mom always say that?

I only just recently learned that “gas” sign. “Weellll,. . .” I made my hand into a fist again, “You see this fist can have another meaning. It looks like, er. . .an . . .something at the other end of your body. . .that can be offensive.“ He smiled broadly, as I traced around the index finger and thumb of my fist. He understood. Good, I thought.

“In fact,” I went on, “you don’t ever want to do the gasoline sign, stick your thumb ALL the way in, then pull it out with a jerk while frowning at someone or pointing at them. That’s bad. But the other kind of gas sign is. . .well, . . . you can make it look like air is coming out of your fist (which represents the other end) by filling up your cheeks with air, then pushing quick puffs out of your mouth while spreading your other hand out over the obscene part of the fist, OR you can just hold your nose.” I demonstrated. . .

“Why is it bad to. . .?”

“Nevermind,” I cut him off.

Next, it was time to practice. I’m terrible at lip-reading random words. Who isn’t?? There’s no context.

“mmmppfff” he says.

“What?”

Mmmmpppfff” he emphasized.

I still didn’t get it.

“MMMPPPPFFFF.” he said it louder, moving his lips in slow motion.

“Sorry, I’m NOT getting it.”

“You know–MPF!, MMPPFF!” He said in frustration.

“Can you fingerspell it?”

He thought and paused as he formed each letter carefully. I’ve been told by ASL teachers to be patient because man fingers aren’t as nimble as female fingers. I sat. . .waiting. . . patiently.

Then I was confused. “S-t-r-u-n-k?” I guessed.

“NO!” he gasped in frustration. “I forgot “tht– what’s THT?!?”

“tht?. . .ummmm” I thought hard.

Moving on, we proceeded down my list of vocabulary words. Several chapters worth. Each time I didn’t sign something exactly as it showed in the book, he’d correct me.

“Shows here TWO hands.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s OK to do it with one.” I would assure him.

“That’s not what it shows.” He’d argue.

“Well, I’m telling you it’s OK!”

“Look. YOU did THIS, and the picture shows THIS! He would hold up the book. “You did it WRONG.”

“NO. I. DIDN’T. Deaf people sometimes use one hand because the other hand is busy. They don’t ALWAYS sign everything exactly the way it shows in the book!”

“Well, I’m just telling you so you’ll know. . .And your other hand WASN’T busy! Do you NOT want me to say anything if you do it the wrong way? Because from now on, every time you make a mistake I just won‘t say anything. . .if that‘s what you want . . .”

(sigh)

Then he signed a sentence. “You, me, make-out.” Clear as day. His eyebrows moved up and down suggestively. And another sentence . . . “I horny.”

This was no accident. We learned “horny” a couple years ago in ASL after a German woman accidentally told the entire class how horny she was. “Horny” happens to be one of the few signs my husband has never forgotten. Why? He’s a man.

I adore him, but he’s a lousy study buddy. I don’t get much ASL practice at home. I need Deaf support.

When I was a little girl my favorite bedtime story was The Sneetches. My dad used to read it to me using funny voices. It wasn’t until many years later, I realized this book was really about racism. I think because the message contained in this book was so important to my dad, he took great care to read it in an entertaining way, so I would understand. You see, as a little girl I lived in a suburb of Detroit during the Civil Rights movement, when there was much racial tension between black and white people. I lived in a white neighborhood. Many of our neighbors were racists. My dad didn’t approve of racism, and was strongly in favor of Civil Rights. He used to argue with neighbors over this. He did things other white people found intolerable– such as making friends with black people and inviting black coworkers to his cocktail parties. To a certain extent, I did understand the message of this book as a small child– that it was wrong to be unkind to someone because of how they looked. I could relate to the feeling of being left out. I also understood my dad was different from most our neighbors in that he wouldn’t allow racial slurs or jokes in our home.

Today, I was reading in one of my favorite bloggers sites. She’s oral-deaf, and made a comment about what it’s like.

“For a deaf chick that has a habit of running her mouth has grown up in what some people have called the “hearing world,” I never found a hearing person who could relate to me and my quirky ways of getting through the day. I have been called weird countless of times and I acknowledge that since I eat pizza with a fork, put potato chips on my hoagies, and I swallow gum. Ironically, I have almost NO experience with the “deaf world” and what little experience I did have I was shunned. When deaf people can talk, there seems to be a common theme that people like me are deaf to the “hearing world,” and hearing to the “deaf world.” Where do we fit in? We don’t. Personally, I feel that there is no such a thing as a “hearing world” and a “deaf world” because it implies that the world is divided by a common denominator, which is a contradiction unto itself. Last time I checked, we all walk on the same terra firma, witness the same solar rotation, and feel the same splash of rain on our face. I don’t define the world I live in as a white or black world, or a Christian or Jewish world, or a Wal-Mart or Target world, so why would I lend to reason that a hearing and deaf world exist? I feel the world is my oyster and I intend to crack it open.” http://contradica.blogspot.com/2007/12/greatest-moment-of-year.html

Lately I have been thinking the message of Dr. Suess could be applied to Deaf and deaf. From my perspective and many of us on the ‘d’ side of the fence, the d/Deaf distinction is about exclusion and disharmony within a community. We feel like a Sneetch without stars on our bellies wherever we go.

Here is the story of the Sneetches once again.

Bellies With Stars

THE SNEETCHES by Dr. Suess

Now the Star-bellied Sneetches had bellies with stars. The Plain-bellied Sneetches had none upon thars. The stars weren’t so big; they were really quite small. You would think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all. But because they had stars, all the Star-bellied Sneetches would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.”

With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort, ” We’ll have nothing to do with the plain-bellied sort.” And whenever they met some, when they were out walking, they’d hike right on past them without even talking.

When the Star-bellied children went out to play ball, could the Plain-bellies join in their game? Not at all! You could only play ball if your bellies had stars, and the Plain-bellied children had none upon thars.

When the Star-bellied Sneetches had frankfurter roasts, or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts, they never invited the Plain-bellied Sneetches. Left them out cold in the dark of the beaches. Kept them away; never let them come near, and that’s how they treated them year after year.

Then one day, it seems, while the Plain-bellied Sneetches were moping, just moping alone on the beaches, sitting there, wishing their bellies had stars, up zipped a stranger in the strangest of cars.

“My friends, ” he announced in a voice clear and keen, “My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean. I’ve heard of your troubles; I’ve heard you’re unhappy. But I can fix that; I’m the fix-it-up chappie. I’ve come here to help you; I have what you need. My prices are low, and I work with great speed, and my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed.”

Then quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean put together a very peculiar machine. Then he said, “You want stars like a Star-bellied Sneetch? My friends, you can have them . . . . for three dollars each. Just hand me your money and climb on aboard.”

They clambered inside and the big machine roared. It bonked. It clonked. It jerked. It berked. It bopped them around, but the thing really worked. When the Plain-bellied Sneetches popped out, they had stars! They actually did, they had stars upon thars!

Then they yelled at the ones who had stars from the start, “We’re exactly like you; you can’t tell us apart. We’re all just the same now, you snooty old smarties. Now we can come to your frankfurter parties!”

“Good grief!” groaned the one who had stars from the first. “We’re still the best Sneetches, and they are the worst. But how in the world will we know,” they all frowned, “if which kind is what or the other way ’round?”

Then up stepped McBean with a very sly wink, and he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think. You don’t know who’s who, that is perfectly true. But come with me, friends, do you know what I’ll do? I’ll make you again the best Sneetches on beaches, and all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.

Belly stars are no longer in style, ” said McBean. “What you need is a trip through my stars-off machine. This wondrous contraption will take off your stars, so you won’t look like Sneetches who have them on thars.”

That handy machine, working very precisely, removed all the stars from their bellies quite nicely. Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about. They opened their beaks and proceeded to shout, “We now know who’s who, and there isn’t a doubt, the best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without.”

Then, of course those with stars all got frightfully mad. To be wearing a star now was frightfully bad. Then, of course old Sylvester McMonkey McBean invited them into his stars-off machine. Then, of course from then on, you can probably guess, things really got into a horrible mess.
All the rest of the day on those wild screaming beaches, the Fix-it-up-Chappie was fixing up Sneetches. Off again, on again, in again, out again, through the machine and back round about again, still paying money, still running through, changing their stars every minute or two, until neither the Plain- nor the Star-bellies knew whether this one was that one or that one was this one or which one was what one or what one was who!

Then, when every last cent of their money was spent, the Fix-It-Up-Chappie packed up and he went. And he laughed as he drove in his car up the beach, “They never will learn; no, you can’t teach a Sneetch!”

But McBean was quite wrong, I’m quite happy to say, the Sneetches got quite a bit smarter that day. That day, they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches, and no kind of Sneetch is the BEST on the beaches. That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars, and whether they had one or not upon thars.

I have no use for labels. Thanks DAD!