Polysyllabic Rants

by a deafie

If you are in Texas and you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras

— Theodore Woodward

My Father, King Charlemagne: A Hunchback’s Quarrel to Claim the Throne

I know what you’re thinking. You are not alone in this. Everyone else is thinking this as well, so I’ll boldly and gracefully step forward and say it; I, Pepin, the eldest son of King Charles the Great, should have been the heir to the throne.  It is only fair. What does my brother Charles the Younger have that I do not? Oh, yes—a straight back.

            I don’t know about you, but where was it printed that having a spinal deformity automatically disqualifies you for King? Ain’t I still a handsome fellow? Am I not well liked?  Do the ladies not fawn over me? You do not think I can be a visionary like my father, with a hankering for the bloodiest crusade known to man and mount a pile of decapitated heads under my feet? Come on. Not all of us hunchbacks are love-stricken pathetic Quasimodos.

            I know what you are thinking. What a poor guy, if only the Disability Descrimination Act of 1995 was around by then. I wholeheartedly agree with you. I was served injustice. I was discriminated by my own father. What a slap in the face it was! I remember the day vividly when my father King Charlemagne announced on his throne with that girlish voice of his (I’m not implying anything here okay?) that my younger, snot-faced brother Charles was the next heir to the Franks. Charles? That Charles!?  Didn’t my effeminate father (again, not implying anything here; I’m all about equality guys) remember the day he came home from a beheading session and found my brother playing with our sister’s dolls?  My father was so infuriated that he snatched up the dolls, and Charles, my loving stupid brother Charles, bawled, that’s right- bawled, like a big, blubbering baby! Then, my father glanced out the window and saw me, looking valiant as ever, practicing my sword fighting with one of the finest knights in his army – that’s right, ME! It was clear as day, I, Pepin, was meant to be the future King of the Franks.

            So, it should come as no surprise when I plotted the deaths of my father, his wife, Hildegarde, and my sniffling twit of a brother, Charles. I was not doing this out of selfishness; I did this to protect this country! I could care less about the jewels and the surge of horny delectable concubines. No, I did this to protect you people from the reign of my idiotic brother. This was an act of love for my country! Unfortunately, I hired incompetent murderers who failed to carry out their assignments and we were ultimately caught. The murderers were beheaded instantly, but I, on account of my father’s guilt, was spared.  But no one knew, and no one surmised, that I stand here tall (okay, not tall) and alive today because of my quick thinking blackmail.  When I stood before him in court, waiting to hear my sentence, I saw beads of sweat drip down my father’s face. He did not want to do this. I leered up at Charlemagne and told him if he were to sentence me to death, I would reveal to everyone in the court what was hidden under his bed. I have never seen my father’s eyeballs almost pop out with embarrassment. That’s right! He never knew that had I discovered the very same dolls that my younger brother Charles was playing with, hidden under his bed for his own enjoyment. Snatched out of my brother Charles’s hands for his own wants. The dolls, dressed up in the finest fabric glistening with emeralds, were wrapped neatly by a pink blanket, as if it was meant to bind a baby. Imagine my surprise! My father – a closeted doll lover. It is all starting to come together: that shrill voice, that neatly trimmed beard, his curious love of truffles, and now, this doll-playing. There it is! That’s your King!

            My father withdrew my death sentence and in attempt to save his own self from an lifetime of taunts, sent me over to a monastery in Lorraine, instead. I was kept away from him and his people. I am now out of their reach, except for weeks on horseback. But here I stand before you abbeys, my loving true brothers. I demand justice! Let’s go and take what is mine! Let’s fight for our country! Let’s go claim what is mine! Never mind your lack of fighting experience, our lack of weapons and, yes, I know our only attire is our robes. But God is with us! Is that not enough my brethren? God wants me to be King! Do you lament this King of yours?  Today, in the castle, this doll-playing King of yours and my Shirley Temple of a brother will be the future of our country? I’m telling you! Let’s go! Now! Yes! That’s good! Getting up now, I like that I’m seeing some action – Wha…Wait…What are you doing? Where are you guys taking me? No! Not to the bell tower again! Come on, abbeys. Can we talk this through again? No need for this. Please, stop shoving me. No, please, don’t lock me in here again.  Wait…Wa..Wait, please, don’t leave me in here.  Our country is in dire need of saving and you want me to ring this bell?  B…b…but why does it have to be me? Oh, the hunchback thing?  (Sigh) …fine, but I better get my Esmeralda. This is just not right.  

Lexy News.

TRAILER PARK COMMUNITY NAMES A HERON “GIL SCOTT-HERON” AFTER SEEING THAT BLACK GUY ON FOX.

FLORIDA - - The residents of Sunshine Estate trailer park community in Bithlo, Florida have their latest feathered mini celebrity, a heron named Gil Scott-Heron that habitats the community’s lake. Little did the residents know, that Gil Scott-Heron is the late jazz musician who passed away May 27, 2011.

Sunshine Estate’s resident and namer of the bird, Jarreth Huggins states “ I just thought every animal should have a name ya know?” Huggins whistled at the bird in the lake. The heron got startled and flapped his wings a few feet away. “Aw, I scared ‘im. I was just watching FOX while I was trying to think of a name for ‘im, and then this black guy comes on the tube and his name is Gil Scott-Heron. I thought it was a sign from God”.

Huggins told his neighbors that he named the bird, and the community took up the habit of calling the bird “Gil”. Word got around about this newly named bird, and the trailer park started to have unexpected frenzy of jazz fans visitors who came to see the bird themselves.

Prudence Honeycutt, another resident of Sunshine Estate shakes her head “They keep coming and coming, and they sayin’ that bird is that black guy’s soul come back to life”. Prudence’s sister, Hortense, also a resident of the estate is aghast at the overwhelming visitors to the park “ I ain’t putting up with it. I don’t know about you but that bird is a white bird if you get my drift? There ain’t no black man’s spirit living in that white bird, its just not possible”.

U.S. FRATERNITY INSPIRED BY “VIRGINITY CHECKS” IN EGYPT

NORTH CAROLINA - - When “Virginity Checks” in Egypt headlined the media, Pi Kappa Phi frat boy college student of University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill Chad Mullins was inspired to make a difference. Mullins’ fraternity was the first to organize their own Virginity Check movement at their University.

“Dude, we want to stop the terrorism because terrorism is whack” Mullins speaks, “What we do is we perform the virginity checks on the the college chicks here, and then we teach ‘em and make it better.”

Standing behind Mullins is a group of his fraternity brothers sporting their matching Virginity Checks shirts. Tents are scattered around campus by the Pi Kappa Phi. Local college girls are lining up at the tent, waiting to be checked.

“I had no idea we’d make such a difference, I’m stoked” Mullins said. He got teary eyed, “It is just so sad, to see so many girls who are lost to this terrorism, and man, its great that we can help them fight their virginities”

Joe Petroski, another member of the Pi Kappa Phi, stands tall in his Virginity Checks shirt “I’ve helped so many chicks overcome this virginity terrorism, being part of this movement helped me become a better man” Petroski slapped Mullins on his back, “This dude is our hero”. Mullins blushes, “Aw, shucks, I ain’t no hero, I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for Egypt”.

COMIC NERD GETS SUPER POWERS VIA CELL PHONE RADIATION, NOT AS COOL AS HE’D THOUGHT IT’D BE.

TEXAS - - A San Marcos resident, Stanley Harding’s persistence with overexposure of cell phones radiation finally paid off after gaining a super power. His super powers?; he can change people’s ring tones by pointing at people’s phones.

“I can point at people’s phones and change their ring tones” He pointed to the cameraman’s iPhone. Beyonce’s hit single “Single Ladies” blared out from the cameraman’s cell phone. “I was hoping for something cooler” Harding sighed.

According to Harding’s mother, Sharon whom he still lives with, is relieved Harding is no longer taping his cell phone to his head. “I’m just glad he didn’t get cancer. He would spend all day with that stupid phone taped to his head. He read something about radiation from a Spider Man comic book. It was embarrassing, and now he got that silly useless super power! That what he gets!”

However, there are some amusement factors for Harding’s new powers. “I can mess around with people, say a man is bullying me, I can change his ring tone to a Village People song and he wouldn’t know it until someone calls him in front of his poker buddies”. Harding is interrupted by his mother’s berating. Harding furrowed his brows and pointed to his mother’s phone while she had her head turned.

“I just changed it to that new Cee-lo Greene song” he whispered.

The Final Resting Place

Nani came back to us one morning in my mother’s arm. My sister and I gathered around in amazement at the five small golden urns. There was no way our grandmother could fit in there. We examined the urns, feeling quite perplexed at the lightness of it. Nani had a presence of a charging rhino. People were afraid of her and duck out of sight. She would stand outside on our driveway in her floral house dress, her breasts unsupported by a bra yelling at the mentally challenged neighbor for gawking.

“I clearly said I wanted no bacon on my potato, did you not hear me or understand me?” she’d scold the waitress at our local diner, handing her back the bacon sprinkled dish. The waitress soon returned along with the manager with a fresh new bacon-free plate, trying to hold back her sniffles. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again” she forked the potato into her mouth and then lit up a cigarette. “Ma’am, this is a smoking free facility” the manager said to our grandmother. “Oh is it really?” she said. Her nostrils flared out two lines of smokes, she took another whiff of her Misty Light and dabbed the butt on the ring of her plate. The manager remained silent and we never dined there again.

My sister and I eventually gave up on trying to bring our friends over. Our friends were too scared to step into Nani’s territory. They wanted to avoid Nani’s bluntness about their eyebrows being too thin, their voices are annoying, or that they dressed like little baby hookers. In other words, I did not blame them.

But little did the outsiders know, that inside the walls of our home, Nani had a secret weakness; us, granddaughters. Nani would wait up for us as we’d step off the school bus with an article in her hand. Did you know that NASA had been secretly building a bionic cat? Isn’t that a hoot? She used to say. Or that there is a federal prison facility camp in the Philippines that rehabilitates their prisoners to perform the Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance as part of therapy?

One ordinary afternoon, when Nani was folding our laundry, she explained to me about the satellites. Did you know that there are satellites in space that orbits the earth? The satellites take pictures of everything. They can see everything we are doing. Think about that. Everything! She took her extra large white panties from the laundry pile and waved it outside the window. “Yoohoo!”she shook her delicates looking up at the sky.

She would rock herself in her recliner, reading the articles to us over our bowl of strawberries. We listened, laughed, and talked about our day. Sometimes she’d let us sit on her lap and rest our heads on her breasts. We’d stay positioned there until she’d tell us we were too heavy for this. There was love in the air and we felt it.

So there was Nani, in my palm, shielded by a golden urn. “Where are we going to spread her ashes?” I asked my mother and aunt. They looked at each other as if the thought did not occur to them before.

“Nani loved that cabin we used to live in when we were teenagers in upstate New York” my aunt said. This was a difficult task for us since we lived in Florida and had no financial means to do this. We agreed we’d hold on to her urns until we had an opportunity to go back to their hometown to do the departure of a loved one ceremony. But where would we keep Nani during this time? We asked ourselves. Mounting her on top of the fireplace seemed a little weird and asinine. We did not want to look at her urns on daily basis as if she was a prized possession on the same wavelength of a buck’s head. Keeping her boxed up in a garage also felt a little too discarded and disrespectful. We did not want her dead remains in the house, but we did not want her out of the house either. We had to keep her close by.

“Why not keep her in a flower pot? She always loved roses” My mother proposed. We all agreed and thought there could not be a lovelier idea. We went out that day and brought home a giant beautiful Terra Cotta flower pot and planted white roses in it. We dug holes in the soil and buried the urns inside. We sighed with relief that we finally had a temporary resting place for Nani. The Terra Cotta pot was lined up against the other smaller pots by the entrance to the house.

Three years passed by and Nani still rested under the roses. I had moved out and lived across town to attend a local college. My mother and aunt lived together and were still struggling with their financial debts. They decided the only decision that made sense and to help themselves from falling into a descent of bill collectors is to move to a smaller place and have a garage sale. A week later, I paid a visit right before they moved. The house seemed a lot less cluttered and there was moving boxes lined up in the living room. My mother came out of the kitchen and hugged me.

“We made four hundred dollars!” She exclaimed excitedly.

“Thats awesome” I said, “What did you sell?”

“Oh we got rid of that couch, the pool table, some kitchen appliances, and a whole bunch of flower pots”

I stood still. My mother fixated on me, unsuspecting of my bewildered look. I raced outside to the front entrance, and opened the door. My eyes desperately searching for Nani. There was only two remaining pots, the wishbones and the impatiens.

“Mom, where is that big Terra Cotta pot?” I turned to her, astounded. I was not going to panic yet.

My mother, still clueless, told me they had sold the white roses for a good ten bucks.

“Mom, do you remember what was inside that pot?”

After a few seconds, her face went from serene to a state of distress.

“You sold grandma?!” I raised my voice at her. My mother placed her hands over her mouth, in pure shock at her absent mind.

We could not retrieve Nani back from the buyer, since she was a stranger in a passing. My mother eventually went into denial, not recollecting any of this anymore and I don’t bring it up for the sake of her mentality. I go on with life, imaging that somewhere in this city, a woman is cleaning out her flower pot and discovering five small urns. Unaware of what it is, the buyer will discard the urn into the trash bin, eventually leading Nani to the landfill, her final resting place. I imagine the woman admiring the urns, and hoisting them above her own fireplace. Isn’t it beautiful? They’re antique. She’d tell her husband as he arrives home from work. I try to find the humor in this, as I imagine stepping off the school bus again, with Nani in her house dress holding up a newspaper. Did you hear about this family who sold their grandmother’s ashes? Isn’t that a hoot?

The Dodo never had a chance. He seems to have been invented for the sole purpose of becoming extinct and that was all he was good for.

—Will Cuppy

Brand New Ears I was vexed by that tissue box sitting suspiciously close to me. The Laura Ashley designed box sprouting its labia pink tissue taunted me. I looked away as Dr. Grey walked in. She was tall, lanky, what you’d call the mousy type perhaps, but there was something graceful in her manners. She was seemingly content with herself, as if she just came back from a three-hour massage session by the bare hands of the Dalai Lama.  “Today is the big day!” she grinned at me. My mother, who sat across me in the room, smiled even wider. I bobbed my head up and down. Dr. Grey greeted my mother and turned to me.  “How was the surgery? Was it okay? No pain?”  “Nah, it wasn’t painful at all, they gave me enough drugs to knock me out for a week. The only annoying thing was dealing with the bandages and my hair” I laughed as I thought about waking up from surgery to find my head poorly bandaged, my hair pitifully sticking out between the folds of the bandages. I resembled the wild woman of Borneo. Dr. Grey chuckled, “Well, you do have a lot of hair.” I nodded at her. At this point, I was ready to hear. I was ready to get this over with. I had been without my hearing aids for more than two weeks. Once the surgeons crack your skull and plant the cochlear implant in you, the hearing aids are forever gone. It was fortunate that I am  an excellent lip reader and could still communicate with my peers. I had spent the last two weeks daydreaming about the new sounds I’d be hearing. The chirping of the birds from the water fountains, the humming of the bees over the hibiscus, and the snoring of the Golden Retriever puppy nestling into his mother’s tummy. As hokey as it sounded, I wanted these Kodak moments. I had carefully planned out my CD collection of songs I was going to listen to with my new ears. But what was going to be my first song? Whose melodic voice should be the first one to penetrate my ear, giving me that awakening after a lifelong silence? Should it be the likes of Karen Carpenter or Joni Mitchell with their powerful feminist voices, welcoming me to their world of healthy lungs? Or should the thrash metal band, Slayer do the honor? How many people will be able to say they lost their ear virginity to Slayer? After two weeks, I finally decided on “Let it Be” by The Beatles. Choosing The Beatles just made sense. “Before we start…” Dr. Grey said as she pulled her chair up closer to me and the computer next to me, “lets talk about you, why did you want this cochlear implant?” Why? What is it to you? You do NOT know what it is like to not hear. “Well, as I got older, my hearing was gradually declining. I couldn’t hear very well, and it was very frustrating for me. It’s hard for me to communicate with people, often I get left out when it comes to a large group of people talking…” I felt my eyes water. I now understood the presence of the hideous tissue box, as Dr. Grey pushed it closer to me. Damn you, Dr. Grey. I took a tissue, sobbed and dabbed with it under my nose. “I’m just tired” I whispered through my soupy sob. Dr. Grey seemed pleased with herself. I could not help but wonder if this was her routine, to see how many patients she could crack? Was she taking cue notes from James Lipton? Dr. Grey cocked her head to the side as if this meant she was letting me know she was listening to my pain, and that she was the one who was going to be my savior. She was going to be the who will erase my silence and give the world a voice. “Are you ready for this?” She stared at me. Oh boy, was I? I let her put the device behind my ear, the magnet of the implant latched onto my head. It felt foreign in a funny R2D2 kind of way, I was now 1/16th of a robot. She attached a long cord to the implant and connected it to the computer. I braced myself, watching her fickle around the keyboard. She held up three fingers. I lip read her, “I’m going to count from three to one, once I say ‘one’ I will turn it on, okay?” I nodded nervously, staring at the wall ahead of me. What was I to expect? Clarity? From the corner of my eye, I could see her three fingers reducing to two, and then, finally to… one. * * *  I was sitting on the corner of my chair, half dangling out. I could not stop blinking. I had almost fallen out of my chair. I could not think. Every molecule in my body is trembling. “I can’t…” I stopped mid sentence. Even my own voice hurts. Every sound is jolting my brain while I twitched in a mild seizure. “Alexis, I turned it off” the doctor looked worried. I was speechless at this point. The doctor turned to my mother “I think I might have adjusted the volume a little too loud for her first time.” You think? I waited another minute for Dr. Grey to adjust the volume to a more appropriate level. She nodded her head, and once again, held up three of her fingers. I make a face. Three. Two. One. * * * “Alexis, can you hear my voice?” I heard my mother. I gulped for second, and then smiled at her. She sounded strange. This was not my mother’s voice I recognized from my hearing aids. I was used to her muffled sweet maternal undertones, but this woman sounded like Darth Vadar. My eyes widened. What is that? I felt disgusted as I listened to my own breathing. I heard Dr. Grey nudging me to talk. “Umm…” I stopped myself. This is my own voice. “My name is Alexis and ummm” I tested my voice. My voice was clearly different than theirs. I sounded deaf. “This is what I sound like? All those years mom, I’ve been talking like this, and you let me?” I joked. HAW HAW HAW! I jerked my head toward the closed door, following the sound. What was that? I raise my eyes. “Did you hear that?” My mom was excited. Dr. Grey chimed in. “That was a woman laughing down the hallway, but she is very far away, and it is very low” I was floored. I could now hear people in hallways. Was that a good thing? Do I want to hear people in hallways? * * * My mother would not take her eyes off me. We are walking through the hospital on our way out. She is pointing at everything. “Do you hear that?” she said, shifting her finger at the vending machine. The obnoxious Coca-Cola vertical sign let out it’s brainwashing hum. “I need to go to the bathroom.” I turned to my mother, I was still not used to my voice. I waltzed into the bathroom, hearing strange warbling sounds everywhere. My heart raced. I got in one of the stalls and had one of the biggest scare of my life; a woman in the next stall flushed her toilet. For a millisecond there, I actually thought this was a bomb going off. The whooshing of the toilet made it sound like there was a nuclear war between the stalls. There is nothing more demeaning than sitting on a toilet with your pants around your ankles, and being horrified for your life. I might as well get gobbled up by a tyrannosaurus sitting here. I came out of the stalls, approached the sink, and had the second biggest scare of my life; I turned on the water faucet. * * * The Beatles were waiting for me in my mother’s car. I was excited by the thought of de-virgnizing my ears with Paul McCartney circa 1969. My mother and I walked through the lobby. I felt a tug on my arm. “Listen” she pointed to the air as if she could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. I shook my head. I did not hear that specific sound. I was too distracted by passerby’s voices and the clippty clopping of their shoes. I was too distracted by the air vents and my own breathing. It never occurred to me thateverything made noise. She ushered me closer to the sound she wanted me to hear. I followed her lead. There was an elderly woman standing in the corner of the lobby. She had a viola in her feeble hand, and rested her chin on the base of it. Oscillating the stick on the strings of her viola, the people gathered around her in silence, and I — standing among them, listened. The elderly lady wrapped up her song and bowed down to the clapping crowd. “Did you hear what tune she was playing?” She asked excitedly. I shook my head. “She was playing ‘Yes Jesus Loves Me’” I stared long and hard at my Jewish mother. She did not understand my irritated look. She did not understand what she did to me, and that she had ear-blocked me on Paul McCartney with this viola playing Sophia Petrillo . The Christians will have a field day with this. Oy vey. * * * I finally understood why people complain about the show The Nanny. I definitely was not missing out on Fran Drescher’s nasal voice. I still improvise; I leave the television on mute with closed captions. * * * My musical taste changed drastically. I plopped my once favorite band Jack Off Jill’s CD into the stereo and was mortified. It was bad. The screeching of Jessicka’s voice was not comforting anymore, but rather, just an annoyance. Jessicka cannot sing, which explains the band’s lack of popularity. I found myself leaning toward more popular music. I had a newfound love for folk music and psychedelic rock. I had an epiphany, this was the greatest gift I have ever received. Music. No one can take that away from me now. No one. * * * There is a downfall to the implant; I can hear people. * * * No matter how hard I have tried, I cannot for the life of me, get rid of this deaf voice. I have been talking like this my entire life. It is like trying to learn how to change your breathing rhythm. You just cannot just snap out of it and magically start talking like a “hearing person.” However, I do not sound as deaf anymore since the implant. People often mistake me for having a cold, or as a foreigner. Worst comment on my voice I’ve ever heard was, “Are you numb from the Novocaine?” * * * The chirping of a bird is not all that great. Nor is the snoring of a sleeping puppy. I still cannot hear the bees hum. This could be a good thing. * * * My cat is now more successful with her manipulative crying. * * * I still struggle with self identity, living between the parallel of both the deaf and hearing worlds. I consider myself deaf, and I consider myself hearing. Deaf people consider me hearing, and hearing people consider me deaf. I do not really care as long as I have my rock n’ roll. * * *  At nights, I take off my brand new ears and relax peacefully. What they do not realize, is that I have best of both worlds. I have my sounds, and my silence.

Brand New Ears


I was vexed by that tissue box sitting suspiciously close to me. The Laura Ashley designed box sprouting its labia pink tissue taunted me. I looked away as Dr. Grey walked in. She was tall, lanky, what you’d call the mousy type perhaps, but there was something graceful in her manners. She was seemingly content with herself, as if she just came back from a three-hour massage session by the bare hands of the Dalai Lama.

 “Today is the big day!” she grinned at me. My mother, who sat across me in the room, smiled even wider. I bobbed my head up and down. Dr. Grey greeted my mother and turned to me.

 “How was the surgery? Was it okay? No pain?”

 “Nah, it wasn’t painful at all, they gave me enough drugs to knock me out for a week. The only annoying thing was dealing with the bandages and my hair” I laughed as I thought about waking up from surgery to find my head poorly bandaged, my hair pitifully sticking out between the folds of the bandages. I resembled the wild woman of Borneo.

Dr. Grey chuckled, “Well, you do have a lot of hair.”

I nodded at her. At this point, I was ready to hear. I was ready to get this over with. I had been without my hearing aids for more than two weeks. Once the surgeons crack your skull and plant the cochlear implant in you, the hearing aids are forever gone. It was fortunate that I am  an excellent lip reader and could still communicate with my peers.

I had spent the last two weeks daydreaming about the new sounds I’d be hearing. The chirping of the birds from the water fountains, the humming of the bees over the hibiscus, and the snoring of the Golden Retriever puppy nestling into his mother’s tummy. As hokey as it sounded, I wanted these Kodak moments. I had carefully planned out my CD collection of songs I was going to listen to with my new ears. But what was going to be my first song? Whose melodic voice should be the first one to penetrate my ear, giving me that awakening after a lifelong silence? Should it be the likes of Karen Carpenter or Joni Mitchell with their powerful feminist voices, welcoming me to their world of healthy lungs? Or should the thrash metal band, Slayer do the honor? How many people will be able to say they lost their ear virginity to Slayer? After two weeks, I finally decided on “Let it Be” by The Beatles. Choosing The Beatles just made sense.

“Before we start…” Dr. Grey said as she pulled her chair up closer to me and the computer next to me, “lets talk about you, why did you want this cochlear implant?”

Why? What is it to you? You do NOT know what it is like to not hear.

“Well, as I got older, my hearing was gradually declining. I couldn’t hear very well, and it was very frustrating for me. It’s hard for me to communicate with people, often I get left out when it comes to a large group of people talking…” I felt my eyes water. I now understood the presence of the hideous tissue box, as Dr. Grey pushed it closer to me. Damn you, Dr. Grey. I took a tissue, sobbed and dabbed with it under my nose. “I’m just tired” I whispered through my soupy sob.

Dr. Grey seemed pleased with herself. I could not help but wonder if this was her routine, to see how many patients she could crack? Was she taking cue notes from James Lipton? Dr. Grey cocked her head to the side as if this meant she was letting me know she was listening to my pain, and that she was the one who was going to be my savior. She was going to be the who will erase my silence and give the world a voice.

“Are you ready for this?” She stared at me. Oh boy, was I? I let her put the device behind my ear, the magnet of the implant latched onto my head. It felt foreign in a funny R2D2 kind of way, I was now 1/16th of a robot. She attached a long cord to the implant and connected it to the computer. I braced myself, watching her fickle around the keyboard. She held up three fingers. I lip read her, “I’m going to count from three to one, once I say ‘one’ I will turn it on, okay?” I nodded nervously, staring at the wall ahead of me. What was I to expect? Clarity?

From the corner of my eye, I could see her three fingers reducing to two, and then, finally to… one.

* * *

 I was sitting on the corner of my chair, half dangling out. I could not stop blinking. I had almost fallen out of my chair. I could not think. Every molecule in my body is trembling. “I can’t…” I stopped mid sentence. Even my own voice hurts. Every sound is jolting my brain while I twitched in a mild seizure.

“Alexis, I turned it off” the doctor looked worried. I was speechless at this point. The doctor turned to my mother “I think I might have adjusted the volume a little too loud for her first time.” You think? I waited another minute for Dr. Grey to adjust the volume to a more appropriate level. She nodded her head, and once again, held up three of her fingers. I make a face. Three. Two.

One.

* * *

“Alexis, can you hear my voice?” I heard my mother. I gulped for second, and then smiled at her. She sounded strange. This was not my mother’s voice I recognized from my hearing aids. I was used to her muffled sweet maternal undertones, but this woman sounded like Darth Vadar. My eyes widened. What is that? I felt disgusted as I listened to my own breathing. I heard Dr. Grey nudging me to talk.

“Umm…” I stopped myself. This is my own voice. “My name is Alexis and ummm” I tested my voice. My voice was clearly different than theirs. I sounded deaf.

“This is what I sound like? All those years mom, I’ve been talking like this, and you let me?” I joked.

HAW HAW HAW! I jerked my head toward the closed door, following the sound. What was that? I raise my eyes.

“Did you hear that?” My mom was excited. Dr. Grey chimed in. “That was a woman laughing down the hallway, but she is very far away, and it is very low” I was floored. I could now hear people in hallways. Was that a good thing? Do I want to hear people in hallways?

* * *

My mother would not take her eyes off me. We are walking through the hospital on our way out. She is pointing at everything. “Do you hear that?” she said, shifting her finger at the vending machine. The obnoxious Coca-Cola vertical sign let out it’s brainwashing hum.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” I turned to my mother, I was still not used to my voice. I waltzed into the bathroom, hearing strange warbling sounds everywhere. My heart raced. I got in one of the stalls and had one of the biggest scare of my life; a woman in the next stall flushed her toilet. For a millisecond there, I actually thought this was a bomb going off. The whooshing of the toilet made it sound like there was a nuclear war between the stalls. There is nothing more demeaning than sitting on a toilet with your pants around your ankles, and being horrified for your life. I might as well get gobbled up by a tyrannosaurus sitting here. I came out of the stalls, approached the sink, and had the second biggest scare of my life; I turned on the water faucet.

* * *

The Beatles were waiting for me in my mother’s car. I was excited by the thought of de-virgnizing my ears with Paul McCartney circa 1969. My mother and I walked through the lobby. I felt a tug on my arm. “Listen” she pointed to the air as if she could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. I shook my head. I did not hear that specific sound. I was too distracted by passerby’s voices and the clippty clopping of their shoes. I was too distracted by the air vents and my own breathing. It never occurred to me thateverything made noise. She ushered me closer to the sound she wanted me to hear. I followed her lead.

There was an elderly woman standing in the corner of the lobby. She had a viola in her feeble hand, and rested her chin on the base of it. Oscillating the stick on the strings of her viola, the people gathered around her in silence, and I — standing among them, listened. The elderly lady wrapped up her song and bowed down to the clapping crowd.

“Did you hear what tune she was playing?” She asked excitedly. I shook my head.

“She was playing ‘Yes Jesus Loves Me’”

I stared long and hard at my Jewish mother. She did not understand my irritated look. She did not understand what she did to me, and that she had ear-blocked me on Paul McCartney with this viola playing Sophia Petrillo . The Christians will have a field day with this. Oy vey.

* * *

I finally understood why people complain about the show The Nanny. I definitely was not missing out on Fran Drescher’s nasal voice. I still improvise; I leave the television on mute with closed captions.

* * *

My musical taste changed drastically. I plopped my once favorite band Jack Off Jill’s CD into the stereo and was mortified. It was bad. The screeching of Jessicka’s voice was not comforting anymore, but rather, just an annoyance. Jessicka cannot sing, which explains the band’s lack of popularity. I found myself leaning toward more popular music. I had a newfound love for folk music and psychedelic rock. I had an epiphany, this was the greatest gift I have ever received. Music. No one can take that away from me now. No one.

* * *

There is a downfall to the implant; I can hear people.

* * *

No matter how hard I have tried, I cannot for the life of me, get rid of this deaf voice. I have been talking like this my entire life. It is like trying to learn how to change your breathing rhythm. You just cannot just snap out of it and magically start talking like a “hearing person.” However, I do not sound as deaf anymore since the implant. People often mistake me for having a cold, or as a foreigner. Worst comment on my voice I’ve ever heard was, “Are you numb from the Novocaine?”

* * *

The chirping of a bird is not all that great. Nor is the snoring of a sleeping puppy. I still cannot hear the bees hum. This could be a good thing.

* * *

My cat is now more successful with her manipulative crying.

* * *

I still struggle with self identity, living between the parallel of both the deaf and hearing worlds. I consider myself deaf, and I consider myself hearing. Deaf people consider me hearing, and hearing people consider me deaf. I do not really care as long as I have my rock n’ roll.

* * *

 At nights, I take off my brand new ears and relax peacefully. What they do not realize, is that I have best of both worlds. I have my sounds, and my silence.

I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed

—David Benioff (City of Thieves)

Reading SkyMall Magazines with a Peruvian Girl One of the most nerve wracking scenarios a single airline passenger will face is the moment when you see the person. What person? The person who will take up the empty seat next to you, stealing your air. This person will determine what your life will be like for the next three hours. Because I often fly alone, I have to deal with an empty seat next to me, and that makes me anxious. Yesterday, on my flight to New York, I scanned the potential neighbors as they walk by with their heavy luggage. No, please not him. Dear God! Not that tired mother with the screaming snot ridden baby either! Wait I take it back! I’ll take anybody but that man in the Mickey Mouse ears hat. A pang of relief as each horrible potential waltzed past me. My heart raced, the plane was almost full. I started to let my guard down, thinking maybe and perhaps no one was going to sit next to me after all. I was getting giddy over the idea of more leg room was overshadowed when it finally happened. This small girl was ushered toward my direction by a stewardess with the sprayed on tan. I started to have second thoughts about the man in the Mickey Mouse ears hat. There was no way I was going to have to deal with an unattended child. There was a lump in my throat as I felt the cold seat next to me take up space. I glanced at her shirt. Justin Bieber’s polished smile stared back at me as I fought back my obvious attempt not to gag. The stewardess with her forced smile fastened the seatbelt tightly around the girl’s pelvis. The girl looked to be about seven years of age to me with her Dora the Explorer haircut. The stewardess held her thumbs up in the air and spoke in a deliberate slow and loud voice. “Feeeeeel good? Yes. Si? Call me. Need amigaaaa? Call me. I’ll be….riiiiight here! Gracias! Buh byeeee” she bobbed her head up and down looking puffed up from her botched attempt to speak Spanish. I wanted to strangle her. The stewardess trotted away and the girl sat motionlessly, staring at the back of the seat in front of her. I buried my nose in my book, hoping that this will all somehow go away. After a few pages, I retired my eyes and saw the girl in the exact same position, staring blankly into the seat in front of her. She did not have a book with her. She did not have a coloring book to scribble on or an MP3 player to listen to Justin Bieber’s whiney serenades. I found myself feeling sorry for the girl who was deprived of any source of entertainment except for the fabric pattern in front of her. Her long lifeless silence staring out into the cosmic world of tweed in front of us, and it was driving me insane. Even I wanted Justin Bieber to save her from this silence. I could not stand it any longer. I had to do something. “Aren’t you bored?” I asked her. The girl looked at me blankly, obviously not picking up a word I was saying. I reached toward the seat in front of her, and pulled out a SkyMall magazine and handed it to her. She took the magazine, and stared up at me with a wide smile, as if I had just awarded her with a Shetland pony. She skimmed through the pages, placed the magazine on her lap, and resumed staring at the tweed pattern. I took out a different copy of a SkyMall magazine, motioning her to look at it at well. She received them from me, this time with an even bigger smile, as if now I had just given her a small pink barn to go with her Shetland pony. This time, she did not bother to even open the pages. The stewardess with the sprayed on tan swung by with a bag of pretzels and a cart full of drinks, she spoke to me while I had my head down. “Oh I’m sorry” I raised my head. “I’m hearing impaired and I read lips, do you have any coffee?” I quickly learned that it was a mistake to reveal my deafness so soon to this stewardess with her very puny little brain. Dumbfounded, the woman looked at me, and then again, with the forced smile, made wide gestures with her hands that resembled David Helfgott’s shakes. “YES. I HAVE COFFEE. BLACK? CREAMER? SUGAR? ONE? TWO?” “Just black” I gave her my phoniest smile possible. The girl next to me shot me a look. The connection began. The ninny with the same exaggerated tone spoke to the girl. “YOU. COCA COLA?” she made a drinking gesture to the girl. The girl gave a slight head nod. The stewardess handed us our drinks. “Your madre in Peru riiiiiight?” She gave her obnoxious smile. The girl did not attempt to respond back. I loved her for it. After seeing no progress, she moved on to the passengers in the next row. This Peruvian child and I locked eyes. We were related now. We were on the same boat, surrounded by ignorance. She gave me her copy of the SkyMall. I flipped through the pages with her staring at the images next to me. Curious eyes explored the series of photographs of matching luggage, binoculars, and tracking keys. She rested her head on my arm. Was this getting a little too creepy? I flipped the next page, and a pitiful picture of a kitty hovering over a toilet seat was advertised for the cat toilet training kit. The girl let out a gleeful chortle pointing to the kitty. I let out riotious laugh as well. Seeing this, the girl laughed harder. No language barrier kept us from understanding the comical aspect of a kitty sitting on a toilet seat. Our bond became stronger. She sipped her coca cola to relieve her dry throat. We continued the next several minutes pointing to more images of clean shaven males with fanny packs, and step ladders for dogs that are clearly past their expiration dates. “Heeeey, cute girl!” a man walked by. He tussled the girl’s hair vigorously. Get your filthy hands off my daughter! I shot him with a look that clearly said; I know you, pedophile. The world started to look dangerous. Anything could ruin this girl, and I was responsible to protect this temporary daughter of mine from harm. She let out a sleepy yawn, and rested her head once again on my arm. I felt her warmth. I folded the magazine, and put it back into the pocket of the seat. Outside of the window, I could see below us is a huge body of water. We were high above the pink clouds. My mind drifted afar. What if this plane were to crash right now? At any moment, this plane could dive its nose straight down, and plunge us into the ocean. My first priority will be to save this girl before myself. I will grab the seat that doubles as a flotation device underneath us, throw her over the seat. The two of us will float away in this endless ocean for hours. We’d be afraid, but at least we’d have each other. After a tedious day, we will be washed up onto a dessert island. This land that not another single human soul breathes beside us will be foliaged with ripe fruits and plenty of wood for us to build shelter. We will feel safe here, away from the harms of the mundane world. The world that teaches us all the wrong things from generations to generations, and I will be the one to start a new generation on this island. Me. I will show my Peruvian girl the true meaning of kindness, to be a person without hatred. To be free of a world without the sprayed on tans, phoniness, and Justin Bieber. We will gather around the fire, where I will fill up her head with my literary knowledge and philosophy. Munching on our coconuts, the air filled with our affluent language, the part Spanish and Sign Language lexicon. “Why?” she will sign in Spanish, pointing at the seagull. “Because, the birds are curious about our perfect world” I will answer. The plane landed without even touching the water. The fasten your seatbelts lights turned off. The girl, now awake, looked cautiously around the plane as the other passengers hurriedly grabbed their luggage, trying to be the first one to step out of the claustrophobia. I got up. Melancholy is shown on my face. We locked eyes once again. The stewardess with her Vaseline smile swung by, took the girl by the hand, and guided her out of my life. I felt cradle robbed. The stewardess was the dingo that ate my baby. I, in my Meryl Streep form stopped myself. Maybe I was the crazy one here after all. Yes. It was better off this way. I slung my luggage over my shoulder, and walked out of the plane without my child, my protégé, and my silent friend. I was not ready anyway; I still had a lot to learn.

Reading SkyMall Magazines with a Peruvian Girl

One of the most nerve wracking scenarios a single airline passenger will face is the moment when you see the person. What person? The person who will take up the empty seat next to you, stealing your air. This person will determine what your life will be like for the next three hours. Because I often fly alone, I have to deal with an empty seat next to me, and that makes me anxious. Yesterday, on my flight to New York, I scanned the potential neighbors as they walk by with their heavy luggage. No, please not him. Dear God! Not that tired mother with the screaming snot ridden baby either! Wait I take it back! I’ll take anybody but that man in the Mickey Mouse ears hat.

A pang of relief as each horrible potential waltzed past me. My heart raced, the plane was almost full. I started to let my guard down, thinking maybe and perhaps no one was going to sit next to me after all. I was getting giddy over the idea of more leg room was overshadowed when it finally happened. This small girl was ushered toward my direction by a stewardess with the sprayed on tan. I started to have second thoughts about the man in the Mickey Mouse ears hat. There was no way I was going to have to deal with an unattended child. There was a lump in my throat as I felt the cold seat next to me take up space. I glanced at her shirt. Justin Bieber’s polished smile stared back at me as I fought back my obvious attempt not to gag. The stewardess with her forced smile fastened the seatbelt tightly around the girl’s pelvis. The girl looked to be about seven years of age to me with her Dora the Explorer haircut. The stewardess held her thumbs up in the air and spoke in a deliberate slow and loud voice.

“Feeeeeel good? Yes. Si? Call me. Need amigaaaa? Call me. I’ll be….riiiiight here! Gracias! Buh byeeee” she bobbed her head up and down looking puffed up from her botched attempt to speak Spanish. I wanted to strangle her. The stewardess trotted away and the girl sat motionlessly, staring at the back of the seat in front of her. I buried my nose in my book, hoping that this will all somehow go away. After a few pages, I retired my eyes and saw the girl in the exact same position, staring blankly into the seat in front of her. She did not have a book with her. She did not have a coloring book to scribble on or an MP3 player to listen to Justin Bieber’s whiney serenades. I found myself feeling sorry for the girl who was deprived of any source of entertainment except for the fabric pattern in front of her. Her long lifeless silence staring out into the cosmic world of tweed in front of us, and it was driving me insane. Even I wanted Justin Bieber to save her from this silence. I could not stand it any longer. I had to do something.

“Aren’t you bored?” I asked her. The girl looked at me blankly, obviously not picking up a word I was saying. I reached toward the seat in front of her, and pulled out a SkyMall magazine and handed it to her. She took the magazine, and stared up at me with a wide smile, as if I had just awarded her with a Shetland pony. She skimmed through the pages, placed the magazine on her lap, and resumed staring at the tweed pattern. I took out a different copy of a SkyMall magazine, motioning her to look at it at well. She received them from me, this time with an even bigger smile, as if now I had just given her a small pink barn to go with her Shetland pony. This time, she did not bother to even open the pages. The stewardess with the sprayed on tan swung by with a bag of pretzels and a cart full of drinks, she spoke to me while I had my head down.

“Oh I’m sorry” I raised my head. “I’m hearing impaired and I read lips, do you have any coffee?”

I quickly learned that it was a mistake to reveal my deafness so soon to this stewardess with her very puny little brain. Dumbfounded, the woman looked at me, and then again, with the forced smile, made wide gestures with her hands that resembled David Helfgott’s shakes.

“YES. I HAVE COFFEE. BLACK? CREAMER? SUGAR? ONE? TWO?”

“Just black” I gave her my phoniest smile possible. The girl next to me shot me a look. The connection began. The ninny with the same exaggerated tone spoke to the girl.

“YOU. COCA COLA?” she made a drinking gesture to the girl. The girl gave a slight head nod. The stewardess handed us our drinks.

“Your madre in Peru riiiiiight?” She gave her obnoxious smile. The girl did not attempt to respond back. I loved her for it. After seeing no progress, she moved on to the passengers in the next row. This Peruvian child and I locked eyes. We were related now. We were on the same boat, surrounded by ignorance. She gave me her copy of the SkyMall. I flipped through the pages with her staring at the images next to me. Curious eyes explored the series of photographs of matching luggage, binoculars, and tracking keys. She rested her head on my arm. Was this getting a little too creepy? I flipped the next page, and a pitiful picture of a kitty hovering over a toilet seat was advertised for the cat toilet training kit.

The girl let out a gleeful chortle pointing to the kitty. I let out riotious laugh as well. Seeing this, the girl laughed harder. No language barrier kept us from understanding the comical aspect of a kitty sitting on a toilet seat. Our bond became stronger. She sipped her coca cola to relieve her dry throat. We continued the next several minutes pointing to more images of clean shaven males with fanny packs, and step ladders for dogs that are clearly past their expiration dates.

“Heeeey, cute girl!” a man walked by. He tussled the girl’s hair vigorously.

Get your filthy hands off my daughter! I shot him with a look that clearly said; I know you, pedophile. The world started to look dangerous. Anything could ruin this girl, and I was responsible to protect this temporary daughter of mine from harm. She let out a sleepy yawn, and rested her head once again on my arm. I felt her warmth. I folded the magazine, and put it back into the pocket of the seat. Outside of the window, I could see below us is a huge body of water. We were high above the pink clouds. My mind drifted afar.

What if this plane were to crash right now? At any moment, this plane could dive its nose straight down, and plunge us into the ocean. My first priority will be to save this girl before myself. I will grab the seat that doubles as a flotation device underneath us, throw her over the seat. The two of us will float away in this endless ocean for hours. We’d be afraid, but at least we’d have each other. After a tedious day, we will be washed up onto a dessert island. This land that not another single human soul breathes beside us will be foliaged with ripe fruits and plenty of wood for us to build shelter. We will feel safe here, away from the harms of the mundane world. The world that teaches us all the wrong things from generations to generations, and I will be the one to start a new generation on this island. Me. I will show my Peruvian girl the true meaning of kindness, to be a person without hatred. To be free of a world without the sprayed on tans, phoniness, and Justin Bieber. We will gather around the fire, where I will fill up her head with my literary knowledge and philosophy. Munching on our coconuts, the air filled with our affluent language, the part Spanish and Sign Language lexicon. “Why?” she will sign in Spanish, pointing at the seagull. “Because, the birds are curious about our perfect world” I will answer.

The plane landed without even touching the water. The fasten your seatbelts lights turned off. The girl, now awake, looked cautiously around the plane as the other passengers hurriedly grabbed their luggage, trying to be the first one to step out of the claustrophobia. I got up. Melancholy is shown on my face. We locked eyes once again. The stewardess with her Vaseline smile swung by, took the girl by the hand, and guided her out of my life. I felt cradle robbed. The stewardess was the dingo that ate my baby. I, in my Meryl Streep form stopped myself. Maybe I was the crazy one here after all. Yes. It was better off this way. I slung my luggage over my shoulder, and walked out of the plane without my child, my protégé, and my silent friend. I was not ready anyway; I still had a lot to learn.

I am the King of Rome, and above grammar

—Emperor Sigismund