One Sentence Binds Me

Mom and I had a tumultuous relationship. Life was difficult learning how to balance her narcissism and her Deaf self. I didn’t often succeed. Love was not mentioned in our lives, so I didn’t know how to give love.

As an adult, I learned more about my dual identity as a Coda¹ and discovered ways to search for, and remember, the Deaf parts of her I could love. One of those parts was her tendency to ask me to look at her writing and fix the grammar, or to ask me how she should write something she wanted to say. Many of our interactions annoyed me, yet this request never did. I always felt willing and happy to make English corrections to her Deaf writing. It gave me a way to help her manage the hearing world. She was smart-I knew that-but sometimes the words on paper made her appear ignorant. I never wanted that for her, no matter how much we fought.

Writing provided a thread that wove us together. Mom passed on March 22, 2020. She was 96 years old.

Winter 2014. Mom on a Vintage Train.

Recently, a dear Deaf friend of mine called me on facetime. We chatted for a while, catching up on the details of how we were, what we were doing, and what our plans for the future were. Getting to the point, she said she called to ask me how to write something in English.

I’m certain my heart skipped a beat as the memories of writing sentences for Mom rushed through me. “Yes, yes,” I assured her.

She spent the next five minutes explaining what she needed. I knew at once what I would do for her. I got her email address and told her I’d send her my suggestion that evening.

Her Deaf five minutes came to be one English sentence. One sentence that threw me back in time where Mom and I embraced our differences for a common goal. One sentence to warm my heart. One sentence tying me to my Deaf self.

I am grateful for the call refreshing memories of love. I am grateful for one sentence that binds me.

Fondly, Allyne

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