Deaf American Poetry: An Anthology

The Crucifixion

Raymond Luczak 234 The Crucifixion I was only an innocent boy at the time. My parents tried to explain to me what the word “crucifixion” meant, but I could not lipread them. As I trailed after them for Jerusalem, they chatted amiably with each other, and met a caravan of speech therapists who chatted amiably too. They frowned on every gesture I made when I tried to speak more clearly. My voice was not good enough. I turned my hearing aids, but all I heard was their seamless chatter. Ravens leaped from their olive trees, wings spreading wide for the winds. They were also coming to Jerusalem. My parents always covered their ears when they let out a series of caw-caws. I loved them because they were so loud. And their wings! They were a joy to watch, their chest-beating show of power. Some distance behind us there were people laughing and pointing at the ravens. They did not talk, but their bodies sang with their hands: the most beautiful caw-caw. My parents saw them too, and promptly turned me around to the front. I imagined speech therapists whispering to them: He must learn to speak right. I practiced Raymond Luczak 235 my st’s, r’s, and w’s with fervor. They clapped hands whenever I got them right. You’re saved from those barbarian hands. My parents’ eyes had never been so full of relief they almost cried. Over the last hill before Jerusalem, I saw the smooth mound of Calvary Hill rise high. While my parents pointed at it, I stole a glance back at those weird people. They must be gypsies, I thought. There, an older man winked at me, his gnarly hands gesturing I should throw away my hearing aids. I riveted my eyes back to the road. My father tousled my hair, for I now knew better than to stare; he’d said gypsies always kidnapped children like me, and they never saw their parents again. As I scampered down the dusty road, I tripped and knocked a boy down. Our hearing aids clashed like jolts of volts: We got up and looked at each other. I pointed to his hearing aid, wondering why he had one when I had two. He pointed to his empty ear and shook his head. He turned abruptly still when our parents stood behind us. I looked up at the angry faces of our speech therapists. My mother compared notes with my friend’s mother while we hungered after each other’s hands. Finally—and suddenly—my father said, “We mustn’t be late.” We hurried on, before the gypsies could come close. They became quiet when they recognized our speech therapists surrounding the two of us. I gave them a smile: Their hands flurried suddenly into wings. We doubled our pace, and so gained quick Raymond Luczak 236 admission into the city. I looked behind and saw the gates closing on them. My friend and I looked at each other, suddenly lost. Huge ravens alighted on the eaves of roofs and clotheslines buoying on the wind. My caravan melted into the crowd’s clamor for the death of Laurent Clerc, the gypsy who’d claimed to be the king of us all. As we pushed our way closer, the road became covered with broken shrapnel pieces of hearing aids. They smoked like burnt cinders. My parents didn’t even notice, they were too busy chanting. I looked around and caught a woman whose mouthing didn’t fit in with the crowd’s chants. Then I saw there were many of them, mouthing without a sound. My friend’s eyes also blinked: There were gypsies right in our midst! The crowd’s electricity changed when the Roman soldiers shoved to clear the way for Clerc. I bent low and followed my friend to the forefront where we could see him better. There he was: dragging along a cross made of piano boards. Sweat dripped from his chubby body, soaking his loincloth of a hearing aid harness. His double chin sagged from awkward speech, his throat swelled from a thousand therapists’ hands, his naked feet bled from the sharp metallic cinders. Right behind his heels was King Alexander Graham Bell.* I quaked in his stern presence, his long gray beard flapping in the wind. Ravens stretched their claws back and forth while...