OT

Down my street is a young hearing girl born to deaf parents. She is treated like the precious treasure she is by her parents who speak only in sign and half-formed grunts. She has had, I am sure, a lot of speech training to make sure she doesn't speak only like her parents. But she talks to herself more than I ever have, because there is no one to complain of her internal dialog escape. I listened in as she tromped by our house, abusing a flower and tossing the petals every where while she complained of a former friendship. "She's not an Angel, no matter what her name is, and I gave her a chance, and she abused that chance and I will not speak to her no more." And I felt the echoes in my own life ripple. But I did not swarm off my porch and let her know how damaging it can be to be overheard, to not give another chance ever, or even correct her grammar. I let her be. Sometimes that's for the best too.

I have the feeling that Angel is the Girl Scout I had to chase for my cookies. I followed her home, and her father argued on the stoop with other men about deliveries and other issues that I tried very hard not to pay attention to, while I was just waiting there for my cookies. I told them I just wanted my cookies. And Angel just stood on the porch and stared at the men, clutching my cookies. Finally, her father said, "Give her the cookies!" and our frozen tableau moved. I handed over money and she handed over the cookies. I marched, triumphant, away- the yelling began before I finished crossing the street. Again, I tried not to listen. None of my business.

Maybe I am better off hiding in my coccoon. I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing... I am nothing then.

Peek.  ¶ 10:37 AM