No Words Required

“But Professor, if you’re not in class on Wednesday, you’ll miss the interpretive dance I’ve prepared for everyone.” I signed jokingly to my ASL class. The hearing students chuckled. My Deaf professor did not.

“Do you perform with the college dance team?” He asked, sincere desire to support me in my extracurriculars, glinting in his attentive eyes.

“Oh, no.” I signed. I’d have averted my eyes if I could, but held his gaze for the sake of the language, “I was joking.”

My professor nodded his head, “I understand,” he signed back.

But I knew he didn’t. I sat silently with my brow furrowed in the back of class for the last ten minutes of class. Not that the silence was unusual. And there wasn’t really a back of the class; we sat in a semicircle. It’s hard to see what each other is saying if we can only see the backs of heads. Regardless of the seating situation, I debated over what had gone wrong. My comedic timing was alright, my setup had been okay, and the punchline good enough, as evidenced by my classmates laughing. I had been attempting to charm my professor by using good ol’ tried and true sarcasm, but that clearly wasn’t working. It’s time I accepted the truth.

I’m not funny in ASL.

For a long time I thought it was my language proficiency. Not that I’ve become the most fluent signer in the world, but as my knowledge of ASL increased, my jokes hadn’t landed any better. At least for a Deaf audience. No. It’s not my fluency, it’s the fact that my humor doesn’t fit very well in Deaf culture. For a visual and literal people, puns and hyperbole were not easily appreciated, though I had gotten some confused pity laughs in my attempts. These pity laughs left me troubled and reflective. I wasn’t just out of my element, I was out of my selfhood.

Priorities had quickly been established when I learned a second language. Would I first learn words to explain my hobbies, or common small talk? Would I first learn about the topics of political interest to the Deaf community, or the basic history of the culture? Would I first learn how to describe my experiences, or express information? Because I chose the latter in all cases, whoever was talking with me in my second language was left with the impression of a hobbyless, opinionless, and generally uninteresting girl who could tell them where to find the nearest bathroom with moderate skill. Not quite the version of myself I hoped to be.

But I found that ASL didn’t strip me of my identity; it helped me narrowly define it. When trapped within the confines of a language barrier, who did I become? I guarantee you that my Deaf friends will tell you a version of myself that is very different from my hearing ones. Who is more correct?

Neither.

Both.

The silent parts of me are what remain congruent in whatever version of myself you learn about. My congruent self is my accepted identity.

When my language skills collapse and I’m left helpless to communicate with a language I can hardly tell the time in, what muted parts of me manifest? I could flee. I could isolate. I could stew. I could scream. I could cry. I could punch. I could push. I could slam the door.

I could.

But I don’t do those things in my native language.

When speech is void and words are null, what can I do?

I can show up. I can smile. I can listen. I can react with patience. I can forgive. I can walk. I can dance. I can clean. And I can do these things with you.

That’s who I try to be.

No words required.