Our Language

In the stroller you would sit very still. Your face concerned and cautious. Do you remember this? On our twenty minute walk I would point out letters along the way, like ATM and CVS, and say them and sign them. I would point out numbers also. Shiny big numbers on doors and windows. Those we would say and use our hands to show what is two, and three and five. Never four. You didn’t like four and would count one, two, three, five. Do you remember what was wrong with four?

At Gymboree you would sit quietly in my lap and watch while the other children sang and danced. You never jumped into things, you always hung back, watching, sussing out the situation. Eventually you would join in but that would be weeks down the road. You were the favorite of the instructors. The easily affable little ones were a dime a dozen, but you? You were different, unique, and you were the one they all tried to win over. Songs were sung directly to you. Extra cookies and candy saved for you. When finally you would join in on the fun it was only with the adults, and only on your terms. Jumping in and out from under the parachute was not your thing. Lying down on the ground under it and having it go up and down over you, now that was your thing. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t smile. You signed. You would lie under that parachute and sign the alphabet and words you knew like elephant and umbrella, cat and dog, key and gate, worm and monkey. And you would sit on the laps of the instructors and hold their faces in your hands. You did not speak. You did not want to sound wrong. You waited until you had command of the language, not just the letters and words, but whole sentences. In the quiet of your room you would whisper to your plastic turtle in Mandarin. The turtle named Turtle did not judge. He was your safe place. You sometimes spoke Mandarin in your sleep. And laughed in your sleep. Were you dreaming of the orphanage? The people you knew? Were you letting them go? Or hanging on? 

At home you would nap while I wrote or read, or cleaned or sat quietly with my cold coffee, and listened to your breathing, amazed that I was your mother and you my child. 

After the nap it was time to walk our dog Tucker. You and Tucker owned the streets of the West Village. Everyone stopped to say hello to you and pat him on the head. You stared at them. No smile, no greeting, no nothing, just the stare. Some of them, mothers mostly, older mothers, would put out their hands to shake yours. They would not speak, just the hand out there waiting patiently. And you would shake. How did they know? Did they have the same child? When you would see them again and again on the street your hand would go out. Neither of you ever uttered a sound. Often they would then bow their head to you. Thanking you for the shake. For the small gesture of friendship. 

Later we would go to the diner. A coffee for me and slice of cake, or appetizer of calamari, or french fries for you. We would sit by the window. You would bring your coloring book and color, careful to stay in the lines. You would often add to the pictures in the book. Drawing a dog in the corner, or flowers, or something you felt was missing. I would sit and sip and watch you, or watch the people outside making their way to and from. People with children, with packages, with dogs. Couples holding hands laughing. Older ones with canes and the one blind neighbor who every day, every time, had a friend’s arm as his guide. You paid them no mind. They meant nothing . Except for the children in strollers. Those you would watch. Following closely with your eyes until they were well out of sight. What did you think of those other children so small like you? In strollers like you? 

You made up your own sign language. I would watch as your hands would dance a dance only you understood. And you would nod, nod in silent agreement at your hands. Were you signing in Mandarin? In English? A combination of the two?

At night when I read to you your bedtime stories about green eggs and hungry caterpillars, about snowy days and pigeons who should never be allowed to drive, you would sign the alphabet as I read or point to the picture of the pigeon, the snow, the eggs and we would look up how to sign those words. 

Those were our early days. They were quiet and busy. Our hands the busiest of them. It was your journey to words. And you have words now. Your command of them well beyond your twelve years of age. Teachers are astounded by your writing. They send emails praising you. You waited until you understood the words. The English words. The Mandarin gone almost but for the words for thank you. And for now you have no words for me just sighs and grunts and groans. 

You are the middle-schooler. And painful as it is I know this is the start of you moving away, creating your own space.

Yesterday we were at the diner. Parents in one booth, and you and friends in the other. You pulled out of your bag the chocolate I had put there for you to share. You looked up and signed, “Thank you.” I smiled and put my head down. The small gesture from our long ago life struck a chord. I put my head down just for a moment, when I looked up to sign, “No problem,” you had moved on. The moment lost.