Brief Humor & Check-Ins, Deaf culture

Deaf Culture & Volunteering: An INTJ Story

This little cowgirl is starting to volunteer at a local Deaf resource center. I have a high goal (as we INTJs do) to become fluent in American Sign Language (ASL). I took a year of ASL classes in college and continued learning through online resources. Today, I took a giant step and started interacting with the local Deaf community. I volunteered to assist with an Easter celebration and watched Deaf and Hard of Hearing (HOH) children run happily amok. Some Children of Deaf Adults (CODAs) attended, along with hearing parents and siblings. I was in bliss as we dyed eggs, held egg relays, saw eggs crack, tossed eggs, decorated eggs and hunted for eggs. I definitely learned the sign for eggs. ASL is like magic to me–I’m transfixed by it always. It’s a beautiful language.

Then a deaf woman began signing to me. We had a brief conversation and I understood most of it, enough to get the jist. Joy and rapture— I was learning! I was contributing to society and children hunted eggs happily around me, safe and secure. Then the sweet woman asked me a question: “Would you interpret for me and ask a question about that baby?”

I think I may have peed a little.

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Writing: I've Got Gadgets and Gizmos a Plenty...

Peanut Butter & The Brontës

There are certain things in life especially comforting to me. These things change over time, cycle out and some return like chickadees bobbing in flight to the bird feeder. Peanut butter, the staple of many an American kid’s lunch pail, has been such a thing. I’ve discovered peanut butter filled pretzels and have not returned from the land of joy and rapture yet. Here and there I frolic, stepping in time with my Labrador, plucking away at my Nintendo DS and say hello to Charlotte, Emily and Anne in their land of Gondal. Heathcliff glowers nearby, Jane gives little Adèle her next English lesson and Mr. Rochester quietly pets Pilot, smiling. These are the elements refueling me lately, giving organic fertilizer and rest to my mind. That and the 18th century horses milling about don’t hurt either.

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