Barrett

I absolutely hate groups. Even in a deaf crowd groups make me nervous, a few people at a time is where I do best. A hearing group while eating is torture for me. People pause, take a bite, talk, cover their mouth, talk. Eat and talk, look down and talk…you get the picture. Whoever decided that mealtimes are for polite conversation was obviously not deaf. Mealtimes for me are to eat, which is exactly what I do. As I look down to cut my meat, I miss so much of the conversation there is no figuring out what was said. However, reading body language and facial expressions tells me exactly what’s going on. Presley is being attacked. I nudge Randy with my arm.

“What happened?” Randy just nods his head sadly. And I sign it again. “Happened?”

“Parents not like S T O C K T O N. Think bad place, bad people…call us “T H E H E L P.” It stings. I’ve been called much worse, but of course I want her parents to accept me. I want them to see more than what everyone else sees, I want them to see what Presley sees. I move my hand, telling him to continue. “Think P job not M A T T E R. Want P move home.” That right there makes me snap. How can they think she doesn’t matter? Her job is what makes her, it’s who she is. I look over and watch my strong, amazing girl stand and wilt right before my eyes, and I’m on my feet before I even think this through.

“Voice please. P, voice.” She takes a deep breath, and I can tell this has her flustered. She’s never been an interpreter, and I’m asking a lot of her, but this needs to be said. I rarely curse my deafness. It’s who I am, and I try not to let it make me feel less. Sometimes however, I can’t help it. This is one of those times. There’s so much I wish I could say, do…but I can’t without the help of someone else. It’s terrifying to be at the mercy of others, but she’s worth it. I know she can see how hard it is for me to ask this of her because she straightens her spine and nods, at once ready to take on a responsibility she shouldn’t have to bear. As soon as my fingers move, she starts voicing. I keep my signing slow and precise, making it as easy on her as possible.

“Thank you for inviting me into your home, flying me out here, and sharing your daughter with us. I know I’m not who you picture for Presley. I’m poor, white—

“I won’t say that. Not you. Never,” she stops voicing to sign. Fiercely loyal as always, but I nod and sign back.

“Must, please, P.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, and I can see how hard it is for her to voice what I am asking. I watch as her lips move and her mouth quivers, but she does as I ask.

“I’m poor, white, trailer trash without a mother and nothing but a drunk for a father. You are right to think bad of me. That’s where it ends. You are very wrong about everything else. Best thing to ever happen to Presley is moving to Stockton. She’s found something she loves, and that brings everyone around her joy.” She bows her head and takes a moment. Then when she starts up again, she looks directly into my eyes, letting the tears fall down her cheek, showing me how much my words touch her. Even if her parents don’t hear them, it is worth it because she does. “She touches everyone she meets, gives a voice to those without one. You should be extremely proud of her and her accomplishments.” I pause for a minute while she swallows and breathes deep, so she can keep her tears at bay. Having to say such things about herself must be incredibly hard.

“I know you heal people for your job. All of you, and that you wanted that for Presley. But what you missed is that she does. You heal bodies, but Presley heals souls. There’s an autistic boy who had never spoken in his life. He is eight years old, and after a few months working with Presley, he is now singing. A boy they said would never utter one word, sings. She changed his life and his family. Children who never thought they’d ever experience music have been opened up to a new world, kids who only hear silence have found sound. Your daughter does that every day and never gets thanked or acknowledged by those she needs most.” I look around and see that everyone is looking at Presley except her father, who is looking directly at me. His face is blank and unreadable.

“She learned a new language for a guy she hardly knew so I wouldn’t feel so alone. She took my pain upon herself. That is the woman I know. Not the one you speak of. She is the only one I need to know, so I am done. Thank you for this amazing meal, but I think we are better off eating with the rest of the help. Merry Christmas.” As soon as I finish, Randy joins me standing, as if it was choreographed. We both place our napkins on the table, grab our plates, and walk into the kitchen. Pres doesn’t spare her family a single glance as she follows.

“So sorry,” she signs, but I grab her hands.

“No. Nothing sorry you. Nothing.” I then turn toward Marcela. “Food wonderful, thank you.” Leaning down, I give her a small kiss on her cheek, because if anyone is responsible for Presley, it is this woman. I grab Pres’s hand and nod at Randy, who is already heading toward the door. It’s a good thing her brother let us borrow a car.