In Silence: Growing Up Hearing in a Deaf World

8. Benny and Ruthie

8 Benny and Ruthie Smoother than cream were the speeches of his mouth . . . —Psalms : In winter, when the icy air hit my lungs and I gasped for breath, when the air was clean, when the snow fell on my face turning my clear cheeks red, my father took the sled from its corner in the closet and announced, half signing, half speaking,“We go for a ride in snow, before it melt, before it become black, dirty with people overshoes and gas from cars that fart on snow.” “Daddy, don’t say that, not nice words.” “But real talk, hurry up. We have a Saturday snow, Ben not work today, we must go now. Early morning best time.” Benny was rushing again, generating excitement, his power unmistakable. “Mary,” he signed,“leave laundry, we go out now, breathe winter sun air.” She smiled at him, touched his shoulder. “Who will make breakfast foods for you and children? You will come up hungry. And I must finish to wash clothes. Go take children, go play in snow. Save a little snow for me when I go out later.” He touched her shoulder in return, chuckled and shouted to me, “Dress up now, we go.” It was a command from Benny, a command to savor life.  The snow was locked in absolute whiteness. Nothing moved. There were no footprints scarring the pristine city snow. It was very early in the morning. The cars were tunneled in, their tires invisible. The building superintendents were still in their beds. They hadn’t dribbled the residue of ashes left by the night’s coal on the sacred white coat covering the street. It lay untouched. “You want to be first to step in snow, leave small footprint with Daddy’s big print from man’s shoe?” I looked at him wordlessly. “You go alone, you young girl, you make own path, own way in white land!” I set off to mar the snow, to leave my mark before another entered this pure realm. I walked the length of the virgin street alone. It was my twelfth winter. The sun lifted from the east. It was a February morning. The Bronx was white. I tromped in the snow; I slid across the crunchy wetness; I listened for the sound of snow under my overshoes . I was too warm, over-sweatered, layered lest I catch cold. The hair clung to the back of my neck, damp with heat. I heard the clang of the ashcans as the first superintendent came out of his basement apartment, tucked away in the alley, dropping the coal’s excrement on my snow. I turned and saw my father waiting patiently for me at the end of the street. I ran to him, heart beating hard, slithering across the snow, stumbling in my race to reach him, to feel his love. He carried a piece of my soul in his hands. When I reached him, he pulled me up into his arms, slobbered a kiss on my warm face and insisted,“Take off hat, take off gloves, too many clothings, not good. Give me hand, touch snow, soft, soft before another man spoils good snow. Taste snow. Stick tongue out.” Mocking him, I refused. Benny and Ruthie   The World of My Parents “Open wide mouth!” he said as he swept snow into his hand from the car fender he was leaning on. “This better than candy bars, Baby Ruth!” I laughed at his play on words and opened wide and I heard the crystalline snow melt in my mouth. “Now,” he said, “now we ready to go for sleigh ride. We go to park, ride down hill. We go fast, faster than Steeplechase horses in Coney Island.” I remembered the winters before and knew my father could be reckless. I was afraid of his speed, but knew if I clung to his neck I would be safe. I said,“You and Freddie go first, I watch you fall down a hill faster.” My syntax had become his again. It was easier to speak that way; it conveyed a more direct meaning. My father handed me the worn rope tied to our old sled and said, “You pull sled, watch tracks it make in a white ground.” My nine-year-old brother sat on the sled and waited for me to pull him along. The sled careened at my first tug and...