School for the DeafBy Adam Pottle
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You gasp, awakened by
a bucket of cold water. A gauzy autumn morning. A drained sunrise. You shiver, strain to see the house parent’s fingers whipping & flicking in the fibrous grey light—wordless yet communicative fingers. You wipe your face with your sheet, bite back a sob. The teachers always tell you to use your voice even though you already have one. When you speak or try to speak, it’s like laying an egg through your mouth, like balancing a tire on your throat, like lifting a barbell with your tongue, hoping it doesn’t tip or catch on a corner. You must hoist your voice. Right now you can’t lift it. It’s too heavy. From what you can see on the house parent’s lips, you can’t use your fingers. When another boy picked his nose, the principal tied his hands with rope. Could do the same for signing. You watch your dorm mates whose names you don’t know, even though you’ve been here two weeks. In the cold dorm you watch their mouths, hoping to find seething shapes, hoping their teeth will strain whatever vapour words are made of, hoping their tongues will lift & toss their words, hoping their words will clench before you. Their words slide like arrogant ghosts through the fibrous dormitory air. After class, you practice mouth movements before the mirror, trying to build your voice’s muscle, pushing against the words, as though they might bury you alive. You see the house parent’s thick digits— knuckles furred like a tarantula’s knees, the shrill dorm light fattening the fat hairs, spidery hands seeking to measure, seize, grasp, coax, convince. The house parent a dull husky man who laughs like a wolverine, toothy laughter carried by a thrusting jaw meant to ward you off. Speaking in class is
chewing vegetables grown in a cave: the words clack against your teeth— filthy fossilized turnips, canvas lettuce, concrete carrots leaving a flinty taste in your mouth. The teacher is a strict sonneteer slotting his students’ unwieldy syllables into place, giving them enjambments, iambs, spondees. He shows you a poem, pointing to the last two lines: “Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm; So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.” The teacher’s cleanshaven lips crisply emit the words. “Go ahead.” “Thoo the moaning” The teacher’s hand chops the air. “Though. Though the morning.” You make a fist & look at your classmates; your hands are bound & gagged. “Though” “Good.” “Though the moaning” “Morning. Mor. Mor-ning.” “Moaning” “You’re not saying the R sound. Ar. Ar. Arrrr.” You smile at the teacher’s teeth, make the sign for “Funny.” The teacher slaps your hand & you drop the poem. The teacher points & tells you to sit down. At night, in the dark, in the quiet, you carefully fold down your sheet & sign to the ceiling. An invisible radius encircles your hands, stifling your movements. You sign in quick tight motions, whisper your signs. don’t care
poetry go hell go hell teacher hate you teacher stupid bastard As the weeks drain away, your signs become
marginal, little finger flicks to fill the silent gaps. “Their voices clatter harshly. Ugly, deformed
voices. No accent: the raw material from which an accent, a voice, might be formed. A harsh bark, or an odd ethereal effect, like the hiccup of a lost soul. And their diction. The phrases they use. Embarrassing. They tumble instead of roll off the tongue. ‘Underibewatewy.’ Obtuse. You’d think they’re totally illiterate. They always forget whatever came before. ‘Again. Again!’ Their mouths goad, irritate. But then, isn’t that what we’re paid for, to teach the kids grammar and poetry and rectify their verbal poverty?” One night before bed, before the house parent
arrives, you & your dorm mates make handshapes on the wall. The others make rabbits & geese; you make a gorilla, a reindeer &, with the help of a headless stuffed elephant, a lion, using the stuffing as a snarled mane, its grizzled snout nearly lifelike in shadow. lion pig rat monster
teacher goblin house parent dick bastard fuck him You don’t stop,
you can’t stop laughing— your retracted laughter, your leashed laughter has like a starved bat left dents in the walls of your mouth. The church is full of mottled light.
You finger a chip in the pew, watch the tall priest, read his lips as best you can, adjust your clunky hearing aid. It’s like trying to trap echoes in a box. The priest waves his hands but doesn’t sign; thankfully he has a mouth like a whale shark.
The priest beams but doesn’t say
how St. Francis educated the deaf man, leaving you to imagine ropes cold water raw red hands speaking exercises that loosened Martin’s teeth. You wonder why the patron saint of the deaf isn’t deaf, wonder if there are any deaf saints, if a deaf person can achieve sainthood, if a deaf person can properly receive the word of God. At night, you decide to become a saint. At night, beneath the sheets, within the ropes forming in your mind, you whisper with your hands. Adam Pottle’s writing explores the dynamic and philosophical aspects of Deafness and disability. His 2011 poetry collection Beautiful Mutants was shortlisted for two Saskatchewan Book Awards and the Acorn-Plantos Prize. His 2013 novel Mantis Dreams: The Journal of Dr. Dexter Ripley won the 2014 Saskatoon Book Award, and his 2016 novella The Bus won the Ken Klonsky Award. The Bus was also shortlisted for two Saskatchewan Book Awards and the ReLit Award. He lives in Saskatoon.
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