The Color of Voice

 The Color of Voice 

1. Blue

I watch her lips curve upwards in a smile. She laughs, covering her mouth as she whispers to her friend. I’m aware of an uncomfortable stirring in my gut. Her friend speaks quickly, syllables indistinct. I tap Clara’s shoulder and she turns to look at me, a question in her gaze. 

I send her a text. 

What are you talking about? 

She grins, this time speaking slowly. I can tell she’s raised her voice by the way her mouth moves. 

I watch her lips and make out words I hate each time I hear them.

Nothing much, don’t worry about it. 

I nod. I even smile. Who knew smiling could be so difficult? 

Clara turns back to her friend and leaves me in a world of silence. I am always included. West makes sure of that. But if inclusion means always in a group but hardly spoken to, always invited but never wanted, then I’d rather be left alone. 

I turn. My world is made of colors. Bright colors that dazzle me, embracing me in a million emotions. I taste, touch, and feel. One idea sparks a million worlds. I soar on lands unknown; the realm of thought is my playground. 

I live. I feel.  

I am just like you. 

Yet when you look at me, you do not see the treasures of my mind or the colors of my heart. Like words inked across my forehead, branded against my flesh, you label me with one word. 

Deaf. 

The connotation is clear. Unwanted. Strange. Out of place. Pitiable. Yet, I do not see why being Deaf should warrant any of these things. 

To me, Deaf is a beautiful word. It takes brokenness and makes it beautiful, it turns weakness into strength, it shines with the light of a million suns. But to you, Deaf is the lonely girl standing on the outside. 

Deaf is me. 

My thoughts are interrupted by a criminally beautiful boy. He wraps his arm around my shoulder and grins. The action gains me several jealous looks. He waves enthusiastically, eyes bright. For a moment, everything slows and the only thing that fills my senses is his smiling lips that form one word. 

Hello. 

I feel my own lips echoing his smile, although it can never measure up to the beauty of his. I think he is like the moon. He makes the stars feel less lonely. 

I fumble for my phone and type quickly, correcting myself when I hit the wrong keys. 

Good morning. 

He responds quickly, fingers eager. 

Did you dye your hair again? It’s fire ;) 

He reaches forward and fingers a strand of my pale blue hair. My face turns red, eyes glued to his text. If I look up at him, I cannot hide the reason I dyed it. 

Everything I love is blue. Every happy memory is saturated in the color. Just like the day I met him. West’s eyes are the most dazzling blue. Pale, and bordering on grey, the rim of his pupil has a ring of navy blue that adds depth to his eyes. The moment I stared into those eyes, almost seven months ago, everything changed. And just like that, blue became my everything. 

Yeah, the roots started to grow in so I decided to dye it a new shade. 

I turn nervous eyes upwards to see his response. He smiles, and his eyes meet mine. They glow softly. 

As always, you have great taste, he winks after he sends the text, and adds, some of the seniors should take a page out of your book.

I scan the words, eager to look back up at his face. He waits for me to finish before motioning to his friends who have walked through the door. Everyone around me is already aware of them. I always have to remember that people make sounds just by walking.  

I hide a chuckle, suppressing the gurgle in my chest. What if my sound was strange?  

The senior boys are tall and lanky. With short, buzzed hair, they wear large grins and have mischievous, twinkling eyes. They sport large sweatshirts, shorts, and dirty tennis shoes.

I turn to West. His pants high water atrociously. The logo has faded on his baggy T-shirt. He proudly dons a baseball cap with spiderman’s face on it, his blonde locks curled beneath. Yet somehow the ridiculous clothing only makes him more endearing.

You aren’t much better, I type.

He reads the words, eyes widening. His lips move rapidly in objection, but before I can interpret, his head turns. Now I can’t read his lips. A riot starts as his friends find him. He shows them the offending text, waving to me in mock horror.  

His best friend, Eli, claps me on the back and says something enthusiastically. I can only assume it is to thank me for humbling West, who is fawned on by all girls. But I can’t be sure. 

The lips of Hearing People move so fast, it’s hard to keep up. They turn their heads from my view, cover their mouths, and laugh while talking. To make things worse, West puts Eli in a headlock. I know they both are speaking, but reading their lips is impossible. 

I swallow hard, drowning in all the things I want to say. Floating away on waves of isolation. I am watching a movie without subtitles, the volume muted. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to hear sounds. What are they like? My world is beautiful and full. But the hearing world tells me I am lacking. 

Their language is tangible. Able to be interpreted by the mysterious phenomenon called sounds. My language is visual. The hearing world and the deaf world are not meant to be reconciled. They are by nature, at odds with each other. 

I try to smile. I try to follow the conversation, but their whirlwind of faces, smiles, and moving lips obscure what they’re saying. I give up. Do they just want me to stand there and smile? Like a statue, pretty and neglected? Soon, vines will grow and choke me. 

West catches my gaze as it wanders away. He frowns, and releases his friend. Turning to the group, he speaks rapidly. His lips are soft and expressive. Big in their smiles, and big in their frowns, they tell a million stories. I quench the sadness that rises. They are stories I will never know. 

His friends nod and pull out their phones. My own buzzes with notifications, apologies burning their finger tips. 

Sorry Birdie, they all type, West reminded us how hard it must be for you to follow the conversation, so we’ll just text on the group chat. 

My eyes shoot up to West as he pulls off his cap, running a hand through his golden hair, with a sheepish smile. 

Sorry, his lips form the words slowly and clearly.  

West is the sort of person that doesn’t just make you feel included. But wanted by everyone, even if you aren’t. Especially if you aren’t. 

My fingers itch to sign the words that are signing through my mind. 

I wish he wasn’t like this. I wish he was mean, or cruel, or a bully. Because maybe then I wouldn’t like him so much. 

Maybe then, my heart would stay safe. 

But as it is, he carries my bleeding heart in two dense hands. But West is known to be clumsy. 

It is only a matter of time before he drops it. 

1. Red. 

I stare at myself in the mirror. I barely recognize my reflection. I look at a girl with dark eyes, round cheeks, and full lips. Freckles dust my pale complexion. My hair, the same pale blue with navy tips, falls to my waist in thick waves. My arm hurts from curling my hair. Normally, I don’t do much to it. But today is different. 

Today is bright and colorful, like the rising of the sun.

Today is special. 

That’s why gold eyeshadow flickers on my eyelids. I put lipgloss on and smile. Nerves make my hands shake. But a phrase my best friend always reminds me of pushes its way through my mind.

DEAF CAN! I sign confidently, the words comforting me as I straighten my shoulder’s with determination. I’m ready. 

At school, time passes slowly. My teacher’s try to speak facing the class, but for a hearing person, that’s as difficult as reading lips is for me. At this point, I don’t learn from the teacher’s. I glean knowledge from the textbooks, and the google doc full of notes that West shares with me. 

The name sends shivers down my spine. I watch as a boy in class asks a girl to prom. Or at least, that’s what I assume they’re doing. 

I raise my hand, passing a note to my teacher for permission to use the bathroom. I check to make sure the stalls are empty before turning to the mirror. I press my hand against my throat, following my speech teacher’s instructions. 

My lips form the words as I push out air, fingers feeling the vibrations of my vocal cords. I can’t confess to West via text. No, I need to tell him through his language. I need to enter his world. I need to speak. 

I stop, hand falling to my side. Am I doing it right? Will he understand? What if it sounds strange and he is disgusted? No, I told myself, West is not the type of person to be disgusted. Instead, he would feel bad for me. 

A part of me hopes that even if I don’t sound right, he will just be happy to hear my voice. But even I know that won’t happen. 

Straightening my shoulders, I leave the bathroom. But before I can get back to class, students swarm the halls. Their lips move quickly, some are laughing, others arguing, and a few crying because of their grades. The overwhelming amount of chaos shrouded in a language and world not my own makes my head ache. 

The lunch bell must have rung. My eyes brighten and I check my phone involuntarily just as it buzzes with notifications. 

Meeting in British Lit? Weston asks. I smile because it shows he remembers. I hate eating in the crowded cafeteria. 

Yeah, just give me a minute. I slip my phone in my pocket. 

Slipping through the doorway to the classroom, Clara grabs my arm, making me jump. 

She pulls out her phone, telling me to check the group chat. I look down, the letters on the screen swimming in my vision. 

West asked Clara to prom! Congrats you two!

You go boiiii 

A million other responses congratulate West and unknowingly condemn me. They are the perfect match. I keep back the tears that sting my eyes, taking a deep breath. I look up from the text to smile at Clara. To tell her I am happy for her, even if the words taste bitter. But my eyes do not lock with her green ones. 

Instead, I am confronted with ocean blue eyes, a warm smile and golden locks. 

I can’t do this. I turn, feet flying as if they had wings. 

I don’t know if he’s following me. All I know is I have to get away. I only stop running until I find the shade in an alley between two buildings. I press my back against the wall, my chest heaving, begging for air. 

The air feels cold on my skin, the clouds from overhead darken my horizon. Like a flash of light, West dashes into view, concern on his face. He fumbles for his phone, fingers stumbling over each other. 

My phone vibrates in my hand, but I don’t have the energy to check.  

The clouds weep upon the ground as their tears soak my skin, and blur my view. West’s eyes are clouded with distress and I can see he’s speaking, motioning to my phone. 

I’m deaf. You’re hearing. Who am I fooling, thinking we could be together? The word's are only unwritten thoughts, but I feel them echoing in my core with every fiber of my being. 

West takes a step forward. He’s soaked. His blonde hair is plastered to his face as rivers of rain fall down his skin, down his nose onto his lips. He looks confused, maybe even a little angry. 

But I can’t speak. I never can when I have important things to say. 

I press my hand against my throat, and for the first time, I try to speak in front of someone else. 

“I–” I force out, hesitating when I see his blue eyes widen. His lips part in shock, brows raised. I take a step forward. “I like you–okay?” I have no idea if I sound strange, but the expression on his face doesn’t give me a clue if he understands. Without realizing, my hands are moving on their own, speaking in another language along with my lips. “I want to be okay, to be happy for you, but I can’t pretend!” He steps forward, and I see confusion in his gaze. It hits me then. 

He doesn’t understand. 

But I won't stop. I’ve already started so I have to finish. “I just, you were too kind!” I feel my vocal cords shaking, and I realize I am crying. “I was stupid to think you would like a deaf person. You were just kind, and that’s okay.” 

It’s clear West doesn’t know what I’m saying. But I can tell he’s upset. He reaches forward and catches my wrist. 

I shake him away, hands still signing in desperation. I imagine my voice sounds sad, or he wouldn’t look at me that way. 

“So you don’t have to feel bad,” I’m sobbing now, and my finger’s are carrying most of the conversation. “Because I’m Deaf, and sometimes Deaf can’t.” I turn away, leaving, before I have to see his face one more moment. My vision is blurred by the rain, and all I see is red. The color of love. 

And the color of pain. To West, my voice must be red. 

1. Yellow.

When I get home, it hits me. What I’ve done. A sense of shame and stupidity bowls me over. Poor West. What must he think of me? I bury my head in my arms, too embarrassed to wonder. 

The next day at school, he acts as if nothing happened. He smiles, waves, and texts me.. But when I look at his eyes, I see concern wavering in them. Weeks pass with no response, but West becomes more serious. His eyes grow darker until I believe there is a weight on his shoulders pulling him down. His smile seems burdened. 

And then one day, on a saturday, someone knocks on my door. I open it to see the one person I thought least likely to be there. 

West. 

He’s nervous. I can see it in the way he clutches a book between his hands. Fear lurks in his eyes, while the corners of his lips smile sheepishly. I motion for him to come in. My Mom sees him and looks at me in surprise. 

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” her lips move while signing. 

West nods, “I won’t be here too long, I just want to talk to Birdie.” He speaks slowly so I can understand, and it’s clear he wants to talk alone. 

Mom’s eyes twinkle. “Just get me if you need anything,” she says, and then turns to me to sign, KEEP THE DOOR OPEN. 

My face flushes, but I feel grateful West doesn’t know sign. OF COURSE, my fingers say before I lead the way to my room. 

When we get to my room, I pull out my phone when West takes three steps forward and gently pulls it out of my hands. 

I look at him, surprised.

Does he just want me to read lips? 

But as I prepare to watch his lips, his hands began to move. Slowly and hesitantly at first, as if not sure he’s saying the right thing. 

My heart freezes, tears welling up as I watch him clumsily stumble his way through sign. 

BIRDIE, he starts, THE FIRST THING I THOUGHT WHEN I HEARD YOUR VOICE WAS HOW BEAUTIFUL IT WAS. His grammar is atrocious, but his signing makes my heart beat harder. He continues, YOU’VE WORKED SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND THE HEARING WORLD YOU EVEN TRIED TO TELL ME SOMETHING IN MY LANGUAGE– 

YOU DIDN’T UNDERSTAND, DID YOU? I interrupt with my hands. 

It takes him a moment to process, but he nods sheepishly. I’M SORRY. BUT YOU SEE, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. YOU WORKED TO LEARN MY LANGUAGE. THE WORDS OF THE HEARING WORLD. BUT WE’VE NEVER TRIED TO LEARN YOUR LANGUAGE. THE SIGNS OF THE DEAF WORLD. I KEPT TRYING TO CONSOLE MYSELF WITH BEING KIND. BUT KINDNESS CAN BE CRUELTY AT TIMES. WHEN YOU CRIED THAT DAY, I KNEW YOU WERE TELLING ME SOMETHING CLOSE TO YOUR HEART. BUT I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT YOUR FINGERTIPS WERE SAYING. AND THAT’S MY FAULT. 

His hands shake, eyes eager and face warm. Warm like sunlight. 

BIRDIE, YOU WERE CRYING, AND I DIDN’T KNOW WHY. HOW MESSED UP IS THAT? SO I PROMISED MYSELF I WOULD FIND OUT WHAT YOU WERE TRYING TO SAY, AND THAT I WOULD RESPOND IN YOUR OWN LANGUAGE. He smiles, I’M LEARNING ASL AND–his brow furrows and he looks down at his little book, which I see is an American Sign Language Dictionary. I FINALLY FOUND OUT WHAT YOU MEANT, AND BIRDIE– he pauses, and I see his eyes really are like the ocean. He wipes away the tears and collects himself before looking me in the eyes and signing confidently. The motions are a happy yellow as he says with a smile that lights up the world, DEAF CAN.