Sticky Fingers

Sticky Fingers The first time I knew I was stupid, I went to kindergarten and couldn’t figure out how to pronounce my name. Forced to sit on my hands, dirt caked the back of my throat and soon turned mud as tears slid down my cheeks. Who am I without my mother tongue pooling like honey in my palms? What will I learn to say when my fingers run dry and my voice begs to be used? In Sign Language, certain words do not exist. To, be, am, from, of, are empty shells in my brain. And like all little deaf girls, I was used to my hands molding vases to hold words my lips have not yet learned– I was a potter in a room full of musicians. When I was a kid, my mom told me if I grew enough leaves I’d touch the sun. In every new syllable that kissed my tongue, I grew branches and roots, bark, and sap. I fought through many winters, to live in this spring. And somehow the closer I get to the sun, the more I realize she burns too.