Without Words

I could have cried with all my strength but neither my mother nor my father would have been able to hear. They were both deaf and mute

I grew up in a silent house.

When I was born my parents installed an alarm system for when I cried — a light would flash beside my mother’s bed waking her up. I could have cried with all my strength but neither my mother nor my father would have been able to hear. They were both deaf and mute.

My mother would make some noises but she could not sing me lullabies. She could not encourage me to make my first sounds: the only indication she had that I was babbling was that I was moving my mouth.

When I was four I was sent to a special preschool where I learned how to sign. I know this but I don’t remember it. My memories of young childhood are patchy. Everything had another gesture: there was a movement for chocolate and cake for example but there were times I didn’t know the correct movement for that word and then I would spell out the word using sign ABCs. I’d also read my parents’ facial expressions. The meaning of their words was affected by the place and direction of their signing so I had to pay attention to that too.

When my brother was born he joined our little signing community but I finally had a playmate with whom I could share words.