Quadros
04-06-2009, 7:53 PM
Yeah, I've not written anything for months and I got the itch. This isn't anything like the finished copy, i think it's my second draft. I figured I'd try and stretch myself, but I have a nagging feeling it totally didn't work.
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But You Can't
The thing about being profoundly deaf is that it works both ways. People treat me like they can understand people just fine and that I’m the one being unreasonable, but hey, I feel like I’ve put more of myself into everything, more than they’ve put into anything. Once you've learnt to walk with cerebral palsy, and talk with acute deafness, A law degree from Oxford loses it's shine. No-one appreciates my achievements though. They hate me for making their mundane jobs just a tiny bit harder, then hate themselves for even thinking that, then subconsciously resent me for starting the little battle now raging across their shoulders as cliché caricatures duel for their self respect.
‘Look I have ID’ I say again, fumbling for the card in my wallet. It takes me four tries, but I eventually manage to drag it out and scrape it onto the counter. The guy behind it looks at me with a mix of surprise, agitation and supreme discomfort. I have no idea what he heard, but I imagine the Citizen Card made my message clear.
‘Nano, is now there’, his mouth illustrates in a pained manner.
Wait, that can’t be right, give me a second here. Got to think. Ah, got it. At least I hope I do.
‘No, no, it’s not that’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can sell these to someone like you’. Conversations are like jigsaws from Oxfam to me, never enough pieces and many seem to come from different boxes entirely. All I have as guidance is the context, and this one’s all too familiar. I never really thought it was an age issue of course. Nothing ages your body like pain. But it’s nice to pretend. Better to think that people see a young man. Not a spastic. Not a retarded cripple.
My indignation is always tempered by expectation and cynicism now, but it’s still there. I’ve never been one to just walk away. Pun intended.
‘I’m not mentally handicapped’ I stutter. Lord knows what he heard, but it probably didn’t help my argument. Not one bit. ‘I’m deaf and I have Cerebral Palsy, but that’s it. I’m all right up here!’ I explain, trying to gesture at my head. My right hand crutch violently bangs the counter separating the two of us in protest against my clumsy action, and the shop worker’s expression transforms into one of serious alarm. It seems he heard a rather more threatening message than the one I put across. ‘No, I didn’t mean-‘ I stammer, waving my hand and producing another attack on the fixture from my crutch, but it’s too late. He’s reached beneath the counter, and pressed something.
‘I would leave now if I were you’ he advises, with all the assertiveness his sad little backbone can muster.
‘What, out run the police with these?’ I spit at him, gesturing with my crutches, clashing them with the counter again and almost falling. The bastard doesn’t even try to help me, cowering back and half raising his arms to shield against the imaginary attack.
‘The police are on their way here mate, calm down yeah?’ he pleads in a voice so full of panic it’s actually cracked. I don’t know what my face looks like to him, but I find it hard to believe he can’t see my pity, or has mistaken it for anger. Although of course me, with my crutches and my clumsiness, my deafness and my speech impediment, I’m unpredictable, under-developed, not all there. He’s treating me like an animal, and he feels so sorry for himself and the situation he’s in that he can’t even see that. If he thought about it for even a second he’d probably realise that most of the misunderstandings come from my accent, not my disability. I never had half as many problems like this back home. Or is being Scottish a disability too now? But no, he’ll just stand there, in a permanent flinch, like he’s the one being put through an ordeal.
The police arrive in about five minutes, which I guess isn’t bad timing considering. They can’t understand me either, but they do me the decency of not arresting me until they have both sides to the story. I think it’s clear to them that I’m not being aggressive, although the way they talk to me I think they’ve assumed I have some kind of mental illness too. It’s the overuse of the words ‘ok’ and ‘alright’ that gives it away.
‘Ok mate, well we’re just going to pop you in the car, ok? And take you to the station, alright? You can talk to someone there, ok mate?’
‘Alright, theeeeere we go, ok mate? All alright, yeah?’
‘Ok mate, just a little bit further, we’re almost there, ok?’
‘Ok, and here we are, alright there mate?’
It’s like they think this is an entertainment I need a running commentary on. And that I’m three. That said, in some ways they probably do. Still, one of the officers gets me a Ribena from the vending machine (because retards don’t drink tea or coffee, obviously), which my clumsy ass manages to spill over the table. She even replaces it, and I think it’s clear that it wasn’t deliberate. It takes an hour and a half for a social carer to arrive and introduce himself as Gavin, and about ten minutes to relay to him my side of the story. I mention that he doesn’t seem to have the same problem understanding me and he explains that he’s from Birmingham and went to university in York, so he’s had his experience with accents. He even jokes that the shop keeper thought England was being invaded again which I have to laugh at despite the slight snub at my nation. Another twenty minutes is spent with an officer who’s doing a passable job at disguising his growing impatience as we hack out my statement with Gavin as my interpreter, and then I learn the shop keeper had decided not to press charges. I suspect the source of that decision is waiting for me in the station foyer, and my guess is bang on.
Though nothing is disturbed the atmosphere in the room is that usually found in the wake of a tornado and the desk clerk is wearing the same terrified look the shop worker painted his face with, although this time for good reason. She’s stood at the centre of it all, but the moment she sees me anger leaves her face and relief floods in.
‘Oh Alexander, there you are! Are you ok? Did they treat you alright?’
‘My name’s Alex mum, and I’m fine’ I whisper sulkily, though the reactions around the room hint that it wasn’t a whisper at all. Only Gavin and my mother understand what I said though it seems, as he whispers ‘good luck’ and winks at me. I smile but make sure I don’t reply. She’d get involved. She chats away as I drag myself to the car, explaining how she wound up at the station.
‘…And so of course when you didn’t come back I went looking for you didn’t I? Only you weren’t at the shop and when I asked after you that idiot behind the desk thingy told me you’d lost it and attacked him! You should have heard me go at him, he’s been attacked now, that’s for sure! Eventually I find out he had you arrested and after dealing with him I manage to find the station. I was so worried love, thought you’d be charged and everything! These English, well they don’t have a bloody clue, do they? Not a bloody clue!’
‘If they don’t have a clue, why did we move here?’ I want to scream at her, ignoring the fact that it was me that forced us to give up our quiet, idyllic life and hunt better treatment in the filth of urban living. Besides, I’m trying not to think about the repercussions of what she’s saying. The local shop, just a fifteen minute walk down the road, and I can’t ever go back. I don’t think I would have out of principle, but now the embarrassment has banned me. I try not to think about how arduous the journey to the next closest ‘convenience’ store will be. However, I know worse is to come.
We’ve been driving for ten minutes before she catches my eye in the rear-view mirror like hers are hooked, and says the three words she’s been saving since the station.
‘I told you-'
‘Mum I just want-'
‘A few weeks! That’s all I asked, a few weeks to settle in, and to let people know you, before you went haring about on your own! A few weeks to let people understand! We’re not in Aberfeldy anymore, people don’t know you! It’s a big city, these things take time!’
Her ability to plough though the conversation of others like they were never even there is breathtaking. All my struggles and she still acts like she’s the one with deaf ears. She’s even angled her mirror down so I can see her mouth, so nothing is missed. My indignation, my anger, my desperation, my discomfort and my frustration have been stewing, and the weight of today finally hits me, now that the façade of resilience can be dropped. I feel all the emotions well up behind my face, my composure a dam just about ready to burst.
‘I just want to do things myself’ I finally choke out. ‘I just want to be normal’. I can’t see her eyes through the angle of the rear-view, which is a mercy because I need her to be strong right now.
‘I know son’ her mouth whispers in the glass.
‘But you can’t’ didn’t need to be said.
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But You Can't
The thing about being profoundly deaf is that it works both ways. People treat me like they can understand people just fine and that I’m the one being unreasonable, but hey, I feel like I’ve put more of myself into everything, more than they’ve put into anything. Once you've learnt to walk with cerebral palsy, and talk with acute deafness, A law degree from Oxford loses it's shine. No-one appreciates my achievements though. They hate me for making their mundane jobs just a tiny bit harder, then hate themselves for even thinking that, then subconsciously resent me for starting the little battle now raging across their shoulders as cliché caricatures duel for their self respect.
‘Look I have ID’ I say again, fumbling for the card in my wallet. It takes me four tries, but I eventually manage to drag it out and scrape it onto the counter. The guy behind it looks at me with a mix of surprise, agitation and supreme discomfort. I have no idea what he heard, but I imagine the Citizen Card made my message clear.
‘Nano, is now there’, his mouth illustrates in a pained manner.
Wait, that can’t be right, give me a second here. Got to think. Ah, got it. At least I hope I do.
‘No, no, it’s not that’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can sell these to someone like you’. Conversations are like jigsaws from Oxfam to me, never enough pieces and many seem to come from different boxes entirely. All I have as guidance is the context, and this one’s all too familiar. I never really thought it was an age issue of course. Nothing ages your body like pain. But it’s nice to pretend. Better to think that people see a young man. Not a spastic. Not a retarded cripple.
My indignation is always tempered by expectation and cynicism now, but it’s still there. I’ve never been one to just walk away. Pun intended.
‘I’m not mentally handicapped’ I stutter. Lord knows what he heard, but it probably didn’t help my argument. Not one bit. ‘I’m deaf and I have Cerebral Palsy, but that’s it. I’m all right up here!’ I explain, trying to gesture at my head. My right hand crutch violently bangs the counter separating the two of us in protest against my clumsy action, and the shop worker’s expression transforms into one of serious alarm. It seems he heard a rather more threatening message than the one I put across. ‘No, I didn’t mean-‘ I stammer, waving my hand and producing another attack on the fixture from my crutch, but it’s too late. He’s reached beneath the counter, and pressed something.
‘I would leave now if I were you’ he advises, with all the assertiveness his sad little backbone can muster.
‘What, out run the police with these?’ I spit at him, gesturing with my crutches, clashing them with the counter again and almost falling. The bastard doesn’t even try to help me, cowering back and half raising his arms to shield against the imaginary attack.
‘The police are on their way here mate, calm down yeah?’ he pleads in a voice so full of panic it’s actually cracked. I don’t know what my face looks like to him, but I find it hard to believe he can’t see my pity, or has mistaken it for anger. Although of course me, with my crutches and my clumsiness, my deafness and my speech impediment, I’m unpredictable, under-developed, not all there. He’s treating me like an animal, and he feels so sorry for himself and the situation he’s in that he can’t even see that. If he thought about it for even a second he’d probably realise that most of the misunderstandings come from my accent, not my disability. I never had half as many problems like this back home. Or is being Scottish a disability too now? But no, he’ll just stand there, in a permanent flinch, like he’s the one being put through an ordeal.
The police arrive in about five minutes, which I guess isn’t bad timing considering. They can’t understand me either, but they do me the decency of not arresting me until they have both sides to the story. I think it’s clear to them that I’m not being aggressive, although the way they talk to me I think they’ve assumed I have some kind of mental illness too. It’s the overuse of the words ‘ok’ and ‘alright’ that gives it away.
‘Ok mate, well we’re just going to pop you in the car, ok? And take you to the station, alright? You can talk to someone there, ok mate?’
‘Alright, theeeeere we go, ok mate? All alright, yeah?’
‘Ok mate, just a little bit further, we’re almost there, ok?’
‘Ok, and here we are, alright there mate?’
It’s like they think this is an entertainment I need a running commentary on. And that I’m three. That said, in some ways they probably do. Still, one of the officers gets me a Ribena from the vending machine (because retards don’t drink tea or coffee, obviously), which my clumsy ass manages to spill over the table. She even replaces it, and I think it’s clear that it wasn’t deliberate. It takes an hour and a half for a social carer to arrive and introduce himself as Gavin, and about ten minutes to relay to him my side of the story. I mention that he doesn’t seem to have the same problem understanding me and he explains that he’s from Birmingham and went to university in York, so he’s had his experience with accents. He even jokes that the shop keeper thought England was being invaded again which I have to laugh at despite the slight snub at my nation. Another twenty minutes is spent with an officer who’s doing a passable job at disguising his growing impatience as we hack out my statement with Gavin as my interpreter, and then I learn the shop keeper had decided not to press charges. I suspect the source of that decision is waiting for me in the station foyer, and my guess is bang on.
Though nothing is disturbed the atmosphere in the room is that usually found in the wake of a tornado and the desk clerk is wearing the same terrified look the shop worker painted his face with, although this time for good reason. She’s stood at the centre of it all, but the moment she sees me anger leaves her face and relief floods in.
‘Oh Alexander, there you are! Are you ok? Did they treat you alright?’
‘My name’s Alex mum, and I’m fine’ I whisper sulkily, though the reactions around the room hint that it wasn’t a whisper at all. Only Gavin and my mother understand what I said though it seems, as he whispers ‘good luck’ and winks at me. I smile but make sure I don’t reply. She’d get involved. She chats away as I drag myself to the car, explaining how she wound up at the station.
‘…And so of course when you didn’t come back I went looking for you didn’t I? Only you weren’t at the shop and when I asked after you that idiot behind the desk thingy told me you’d lost it and attacked him! You should have heard me go at him, he’s been attacked now, that’s for sure! Eventually I find out he had you arrested and after dealing with him I manage to find the station. I was so worried love, thought you’d be charged and everything! These English, well they don’t have a bloody clue, do they? Not a bloody clue!’
‘If they don’t have a clue, why did we move here?’ I want to scream at her, ignoring the fact that it was me that forced us to give up our quiet, idyllic life and hunt better treatment in the filth of urban living. Besides, I’m trying not to think about the repercussions of what she’s saying. The local shop, just a fifteen minute walk down the road, and I can’t ever go back. I don’t think I would have out of principle, but now the embarrassment has banned me. I try not to think about how arduous the journey to the next closest ‘convenience’ store will be. However, I know worse is to come.
We’ve been driving for ten minutes before she catches my eye in the rear-view mirror like hers are hooked, and says the three words she’s been saving since the station.
‘I told you-'
‘Mum I just want-'
‘A few weeks! That’s all I asked, a few weeks to settle in, and to let people know you, before you went haring about on your own! A few weeks to let people understand! We’re not in Aberfeldy anymore, people don’t know you! It’s a big city, these things take time!’
Her ability to plough though the conversation of others like they were never even there is breathtaking. All my struggles and she still acts like she’s the one with deaf ears. She’s even angled her mirror down so I can see her mouth, so nothing is missed. My indignation, my anger, my desperation, my discomfort and my frustration have been stewing, and the weight of today finally hits me, now that the façade of resilience can be dropped. I feel all the emotions well up behind my face, my composure a dam just about ready to burst.
‘I just want to do things myself’ I finally choke out. ‘I just want to be normal’. I can’t see her eyes through the angle of the rear-view, which is a mercy because I need her to be strong right now.
‘I know son’ her mouth whispers in the glass.
‘But you can’t’ didn’t need to be said.