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Rosa Lee Timm 225 Little Feet Fighting soldiers from the sky Fearless men who jump and die Men who mean just what they say The brave men of the Green Beret —from “The Ballad of the Green Beret” That was my father’s favorite song when I was a child. Now you should know: my father is deaf. And my father’s father: he was deaf. And my grandfather’s father, well, he was deaf too. This makes me a fourth generation deaf person who grew up in a large deaf family. As you’re probably aware, stories and jokes are an important aspect of deaf culture and are shared from generation to generation. My family, however, wasn’t big on jokes and stories—we shared music. I remember distinctly, as a little girl, watching my grandfather tap his pencil on the table—he had a very specific and particular musical rhythm to his tapping. This exact same rhythm was shared by my father, though he preferred to whistle it. Or sometimes, if he was comforting me when I was still an infant, he’d pat out the rhythm on my back with his palm. Whatever the method, the rhythm was always the same. As I grew older, I began to realize that I had inherited the same familial rhythm. While taking a stressful exam in school I caught myself tapping my pencil on the table—the tapping followed the same pattern my father had embodied and his father before him. When my grandfather became older and his health deteriorated, I went to see him in the nursing home before he passed away. I’m glad I went when I did; his health was worse than I expected. He didn’t recognize me by face and we had a hard time both relating and communicating. As I sat there with him, silently wondering what I could do, I noticed something: his fingers were tapping on his arm. And it was our family’s rhythm! I quickly reached over and touched his arm and repeated the same pattern for him, our hands resting side by side. At first he was puzzled but then he looked up and recognized who I was. He passed away only one week later. Now, for my father’s part, he had also branched out a little: his preference was military songs. Being deaf, he could not enlist but he did study their anthems—like “The Ballad of the Green Beret.” After he learned the words, he would sign the song with his own hands using his very own rhythm and style. Main_Pgs_1-330.indd 225 3/28/2012 10:24:57 AM 226 Rosa Lee Timm While the traditional family rhythm was important to me, I always aspired to be a little bit different. I wasn’t the type of child to fall in line with what everyone else had always done and didn’t necessarily want to embrace something that wasn’t uniquely mine. I wanted to be unique. I wanted my own rhythm. After years of watching my dad sign these songs, I turned to my favorite Christian songbooks and found a song called “Little Feet.” It went like this: Little feet, be careful, Where you take me to, Anything for Jesus, Only let me do. Oh, how I loved that song! Just like my father, I wanted to create my own rhythm and pace for how the song should go; but unlike my father, I preferred to sing it using my own voice. I sang until my tonsils were sore! I loved singing out loud! I would make my parents watch me sing (even though they’re both deaf). I’d sing and dance in front of them, using only my voice. My parents would just stare, with a blank and bemused look on their face, and pretend to enjoy it. My family and I went to church every Saturday. It was the highlight of the week for me and what I loved most was the choir. I loved to watch them and the congregation sing. I’d stand up on the bench with the hymn book in front of me holler in my own voice and, especially, in my own rhythm. I was terribly off-tune. Even though the hearing parishioners gave me cockeyed glares I always kept singing. I sang because I loved it. When the embarrassment became too much for my parents they’d try and get me to sit...

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