On the Beat of Truth: A Hearing Daughter's Stories of Her Black Deaf Parents

6. Becoming Aware of Things, Part I

87 6 Becoming Aware of Things, Part I “How Nat King Cole’s voice sound?” I always knew Mama couldn’t hear me. But I am six years old when I finally realize that she has no notion of what a life with sounds is like. In private, she wants to know the meaning of sound, and she trusts me to explain without embarrassing her around other people. Her hands begin to probe, asking me several questions. “What mean—the birds sound sweet?” Her face is pensive and questioning. I wonder why she is asking me and where she has learned that phrase, when I remember the song “I Come to the Garden .” There is a line in the song, “The birds sound so sweet, the birds hush their singing.” Perhaps she saw an interpreter sign the song, or maybe she read it in a hymnal; I really don’t know. I do know I don’t have answers for her, only puzzled expressions on my face, as I grope for descriptive words to explain. Persistent, she sees that I am puzzled and unable to explain, so she puts the question in a different guise. “How Nat King Cole voice sound?” I feel helpless. How can I answer her? And then it happens. She helps me find the right answers by asking still another question. “Is his voice smooth?” On the Beat of Truth 88 I know instantly she must have read a description of his voice somewhere. “Yes, Mama, it is smooth—like your smooth silk material.” She stares at me, giving me a slow understanding smile as if she were now seeing sounds for the very first time. MAMA’S OVERRIDING objective is to make everything in her life revolve around precision, order, and her ultimate quest for immaculate certainty. Such precision is reflected in Mama and Daddy’s work, in my studies, and even in the way we dress. With extraordinary scrutiny, I am scanned to detect any mismatched , unkempt, ripped, or ruffled appearance of my clothing, which may not meet the rigorous standards of hearing people. “Hearing people sly . . . look you up, down, see if clothes neat . . . you not right, they laugh you . . . make fun you.” Every stitch of Mama’s sewing reflects that immaculate attention to detail. And that same penchant for precision is reflected in her mission to become proficient in understanding and writing the English language. She surrounds herself with books, crossword puzzles, word games—anything that will improve her language. “My language poor,” she sighs in frustration. “I work improve sentences all time.” Being able to skillfully express oneself, in Mama’s mind, is a true gauge of one’s intelligence. Daddy hurriedly comes home one day, after learning that a neighbor, Mr. Ricks, cannot read. My father is stunned. Evidently, Daddy had gone to Mr. Ricks’s home nearby on Fifty-Ninth Street seeking his help to make a telephone call. When he arrives at the house, Mr. Ricks answers the front door and looks at the note my father had printed before leaving home. He hands Mr. Ricks the note and is puzzled when Mr. Ricks gives the note to his little girl to Becoming Aware of Things, Part I 89 read. Daddy knows his own handwriting is very legible and concludes Mr. Ricks is unable to read, even when the writing is neatly printed. He leaves Mr. Ricks, practically hyperventilating to tell Mama what has happened: “He can’t read. He can’t read.” She responds aghast, “You sure? He can’t read, write? I shock. See, I deaf, I read, write. My language not good, but I read, write.” Gasping, she continues to express her amazement and shame for the neighbor’s shocking limitation. OUR OTHER neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Mills, who occasionally talk to us, live directly across from us on Clay Street. They have been there for as long as I can remember. Mrs. Mills is memorable for her fair complexion and honey-brown wavy hair, which falls down her back in naturally soft curls. It is her marriage to Mr. Mills, a stout man with a rich dark black complexion that makes me assume that she must be black, too. It is Sunday morning, the clock over the refrigerator ticks to 8:45 a.m. The doorbell is flashing while Mama and I are sitting in the kitchen...