Deaf and Dumb

The Deaf man in the waiting room
asks me how long I’ve been working
as an interpreter. I tell him
many years. “Awesome,” he says.
We sit there chatting, waiting
for the doctor to come.

He tells me a little about himself.
His parents and grandparents are Deaf.
His siblings are Deaf. His two young children
are fourth generation Deaf. The hereditary
master status of a kind of Deaf nobility
in the Deaf world. And I am duly
impressed. My turn to say, “Awesome.”

He is getting his Ph.D. in sociolinguistics.
His signing is graceful, fluid, symphonic—
like water everywhere seeking
its own. Chatting him up in the waiting room
is a pure joy, one of the perks
of my profession.

But the doctor is dumb about Deaf people.
In the little examining room
he doesn’t address the Deaf man directly
but tells me to “tell him” this, “ask him” that.
The Deaf man notices, tells the doctor
to tell him himself, in the second person.
But the doctor doesn’t know what the second person is.

He examines the Deaf man but he doesn’t
see him. He doesn’t look in his eyes.
He says to say “Ahh,” but the Deaf man
refuses to vocalize, mouth wide open,
fists forming at his sides, uvula
hanging there like a punching bag,
silent and motionless,
while we wait.

Paul Hostovsky’s latest book of poems is MOSTLY (Future Cycle Press, 2021). He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter.

Photo: Lucy Vincent Beach Marthas Vineyard by Jim Wojno