I was not borndeaf.

I was born withthree things wrong with me:

1^st Iwas born with an Auditory Processing Disorder

2^ndADHD

3^rdLearning Disability.

The problem isn’tthat I can’t hear,

It’s that I hearmuch more then I want.

In footballfields,

in libraries,

in classrooms,

in dance clubs.

I started to learnSign Language

because it was the only language

I could touch.

I sometimes wish Iwas deaf.

So that I wouldnot hear words.

Words

sometimes become acrowd,

and I can’t bealone inside words.

I get stuck.

I imagine I couldlive in silence (peace)

in football fields,

silence (peace) in libraries,

silence (peace) in dance clubs,

— feeling the music.

I work withchildren now,

with long longlists of things wrong with them.

I work withchildren now that have Autism.

Hearing fine.

Speech fine.

But the two can’t connect.

Sign can create a bridge.

I see silence inside them, we areconnected.

Sometimes, I’m theonly one that sees.

Communication ismore than words;

communication is in everything we do.

There is culture in every language.

There are cities inside small actions.

There are countries inside ME that wordscannot capture. 

(SIGN  – NO TRANSLATION)

Communicationbreaks down.

Communicationbreaks down.

Communicationbreaks down,

                 —if we stop paying attention.

I wish I could swiminside silence (peace)

Touch, texture,time/history are all different

in silence(peace).

I learned signlanguage because it’s easier

for me to think

(process) when I’m —moving.

LittleBuddhas

I have never let my schoolinginterfere with my education.

I am humbledby children.

Every time Ithink I know something

I’m reminded Iam just a student.

James –large pink-lipped smile.

“AAA” he sayspointing to the air duct. I pause.

“Yeah! Air!”and he repeats: “Yeah! Air!”

He squeals andplaces his face as close

To the vent aspossible. His cheeks

Squeezingbetween the metal.

If I told youhis diagnosis

it wouldn’ttell you anything.

I didn’t bringan agenda with me so I

Brought myface… next to his.

Where you hearthe word air. I felt it.

The invisiblecity of currents,

cold curtainsfluttering on my face.

There is afine line between simple and profound.

We spend toomuch time thinking we forget to feel.

And there’sJames, feeling to the fullest tilt of human capacity.

We call himspecial but not because of his talents.

It’s absurd… asingle language, black and white words, and numbers

Can createmeasurements for the solar systems rotating inside us.

David takes myhead in his hands.

Pulls me tohis face, brown eyes with long eyelashes.

He taps hisforehead to mine…slowly.

I think itmeans “I love you.”

They say he’snon-verbal,

But he getshis point across just fine.

Language ismore then just words or spelling.

Communicationis in everything we do.

Our actionsare communicating, what have you communicated today?

There is afine line between thinking and feeling.

Diagnoses areproblems, conflicts – stubborn definitions –

Too oftencreated from books that don’t know any better than to

givedefinitions.

I can’tpretend that prisms only bleed rainbows from a single direction.

Lighttraveling doesn’t stop to ask permission

doesn’t getdirections on where normal is,

does not slidacross bell curves with ease.

I haven’tforgotten what it felt like to be

a child —–told she was a problem.

Swallowingdictionaries for the sake of

Someone else’scurriculum.

If I told youmy diagnosis it wouldn’t tell you anything.

I’ve come tolove the gaps inside me for all the possibilities

They gave me.

The best classI’ve ever taken, run by children.

Whose names were:behavior issue,

non-compliance,

and physicallyaggressive.

Thesewarriors, these activists protesting with blunt objects,

With teeth,with socially unacceptable behavior.

They are myjourneymen,

                                                     and they’ve kept me honest.

Remind me theyare the experts,

and I shouldjust

                                           try to keep up.

TarotReader / The Moon Jumped Over the Trigger

It’s terrifying,

a psychiccommitting suicide.

Then laughable,as if death is a ridiculous

Yellowinflatable slide

that stretchesout into darkness.

As if death wasa painful orgasm,

twitching with asmile.

You were bitterherb tea.

You were ascaled harpy.

You were more ofa woman

Than a witch.

Ten years later.

I sleep withtarot cards.

It is the samedeck you used.

The colorfulcrosses on the back spread out

Look like thewallpaper from a house I once lived in. 

When I pull outmy cards, I feel you smile.

I’m writing apoem about you,

but you knowthat.

You sleep withme, now,

tell me tospread out

your deck on mybed.

Send me dreamsto hint,

When I’m notsure what to do.

When I was alittle girl,

going to yourapartment

was like goingto church.

I could always

see thecathedral glass,

tiled along yournest

where others sawan apartment

cluttered withknickknacks.

Did you wake upone day knowing

Without everconsulting your cards?

You were tooproud,

too much likesmoke rising to stay.

You ended itwhile you could still lift up a gun.

I think aboutthe hands

that could havebeen mine.

How theycollected your body parts.

Signed yourpaperwork, oh,

how they lovedyou.

I wasn’t worriedabout you.

Never angryenough

to stop you fromcoming or going.

I didn’tremember your

body gettingworse.

I didn’tremember you

walking with acane.

But if you hadasked me to,

I would havedone it.

I would havepulled the trigger.

You knew betterthan us,

What was coming,and you

Swan dove intoit.

I imagine younow,

floating on yourback.

I was enviousthen,

of how it mustof have felt

to move withoutskin.

I wanted to meltaway,

flow out of my15-year-old self

into ribbons,but I never felt ready or brave enough

to trigger slingshots through my body.

Your bodysplitting sounded like a flock of birds.

You shook yourbody off

like Mary Poppinsshook her umbrella

beforelevitating. 

How brave youwhere, how brave you are.