Laura EmersonUNDERSTANDNG PETERI looked forward to the Therapeutic Recreation Playground group every summer, and the summer of 1984 was no different. When I walked into the gym that day, I was delighted to see plenty of old friends and counselors, but I also noticed someone new – a tall boy about my age, maybe a little older. He was standing with his Mom, who was talking to Program Director Mildred Spicer. Even without anybody telling me, I realized that he was deaf because his Mom was signing to him. I walked over and introduced myself. His mother interpreted my words to him, and he responded by saying that his name was Peter and that he was twelve years old. His Mom explained that my guess had been right – Peter was indeed deaf, and he used sign language to communicate. Maybe I shouldn't have asked, but like all young children, I was curious and before my father could stop me, I had asked Peter's mother what had made him deaf. She smiled and gently explained that Peter had contracted a series of very severe ear infections when he was a baby. I remember being very surprised by that. I knew I'd had ear infections in the past, but they hadn't made me deaf. Whenever I'd had ear infections, the doctor had always given me medicine to make them better. Why couldn't they help Peter that way, too? His Mom explained that his doctors had tried to help him for a very long time, but that in the end, he had lost his hearing anyway. She went on to say that sometimes Peter was very sad because he couldn't hear. I nodded, I kind of knew how that felt… I got extremely frustrated when I couldn't do certain activities because I couldn't walk. I wanted to be Peter's friend, but there was a big problem. While my mind and my spirit willed me to sign, my body most certainly did not. Try as I might, my body refused to let me master the complex system of intricate movements and gestures. My face fell. How could I possibly be Peter's friend if I couldn't talk to him? His mom saw my sad face and said that I could write things down for Peter if I wanted. It was a good suggestion, but it wasn't very practical. I could write, but it was very slow and very few people could read it. His mom patted my shoulder and told me she thought I was a very good friend already. Nobody else had come up to Peter just because they wanted to. She said they weren't being mean; they probably felt awkward, just like Peter did. I asked her how it felt to be deaf. She reminded me gently that she didn't know because she and Peter's dad could hear. "Ask Peter," she said. "You ask, I'll sign." Peter was sitting with his back to us, so she tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. When he turned around, she pointed to me so that he knew to look at my face, and then asked me to repeat my question. "How does it feel to be deaf?" I asked. Without a word to his mother, he reached over and put his hands tightly over my ears. There was no sound. I couldn't hear anything. After a minute, he took his hands away and I returned to the hearing world. Later, when we gathered for morning group and went over the camp rules, I asked Mary Alice (also known as M.A.) how Peter would know the rules if he couldn't hear them. She pointed to a large piece of paper taped to the wall and indicated that the rules had been written down specifically so that Peter could see them. "Just because he can't hear doesn't mean he can't read," she admonished me. Even that day, I knew Peter was going to have a rough time. There were a couple of people who took the time to talk to him, but not many. Most of the time, he sat by himself. I wanted so badly to talk to him. I thought about how scary it must be to live in a world without sound. Now I have many other friends who are deaf and hearing impaired and I know this isn't so, but at the time I felt very badly for him. M. A. interpreted for me as much as she could, but she had other people to work with and couldn't stay with Peter and me all day. Sometimes, he would look at books or half-heartedly play a game, but he seemed lonely. I hate to admit it, but I felt that way at the camp sometimes, too. One of the criticisms in my camp evaluation was that I talked too much to grown-ups and not enough to people my own age. Paul, Kelly and Martin talked to me a lot, but the rest of the kids were busy being kids. One day, Mildred's boss, Gene German, came to sing and play the guitar. It was a beautiful summer day, and we were all in front of the building under a tree listening to the music. Peter got upset because he couldn't hear and ran inside. M. A. followed him. I was worried about him, so when nobody was looking, I peered into the darkened gym through the opened door. Peter and MA were sitting on the bleachers. Peter was sobbing and MA was trying her best to comfort him. I sat there watching their shadows for a moment. Then, with tears streaming down my own face, I beat a hasty retreat. At rest hour the next day, I took the picture that I had colored at art time and asked Chris, a counselor who I really trusted, to add a note. He agreed to on the condition that I sign it myself. The note read, "Dear Peter, I love you. Please don't be sad." I signed my name and stuck it under his lunch bag. The next day, his mother held our camp picnic at their house. Peter seemed much more comfortable in his own the movement until I picked it up. When he left the room, his mom reached into a drawer. There sat the note I'd written him the day before, vase of flowers and all. She said he'd come home with it in his back pocket. Several weeks later, Mildred and the rest of the staff took us to the park around the corner for an afternoon under the sprinklers. I loved the sprinkler jets that ran along the outside of the sprinkler system. They were soft and gentle, and I could really enjoy the water. I liked to look down and see the rings of rainbows that the splashes of water made on the concrete. It didn't take Peter long to figure out that I liked to go under the sprinklers just as much as he did. That day, trying to be helpful, he pushed me head on into the center sprinkler. My left foot struck the metal bar full force. At first, it hurt a lot, but I knew Peter hadn't meant to be rough and everything was all right between us anyway. He apologized for hurting my foot, and that was the end of that. I never really got to know how Peter felt about things because nobody had the time to sit down and interpret a long conversation. It bothered me that while I learned to interpret dozens of signs, I couldn't sign myself. Surprisingly, the one thing I did learn to sign and sign well was his name. Even today, I'm surprised at how much I automatically make the sign when I'm talking about him. As I've gotten older, I've made many friends that are deaf and hearing-impaired. I've taken many sign language classes – not to learn to sign, but to learn what the signs mean. The fact that I can't sign still bothers me some, and every time it comes up, I can't help thinking about Peter. I hope that he would be pleased that I try to see beyond the fact that many of my friends can't hear. Instead, I try to focus on the people they are inside. I know that's what Peter would want me to do.
First published in I Could Feel My Stomanch Doing the Lambada (Inglis House, 2006). |