Everything's Not Lost

Abstract

Everything's Not Lost Ross Showalter (bio) I only notice the two of them because they are the only people who don't raise their hands when I ask the question I always ask at the beginning: "How many of you know someone who is deaf?" They seem prepared to defend themselves, their being here. One of them folds his arms across his chest; the other one looks around, his lips slightly parted, as if searching for something. Other hands in laps, perhaps, instead of up in the air. They are both handsome, with symmetrical faces and identical shadows on their jaws. I catch flashes of gold bands on both their third fingers on their left hands; they are married to each other. Throughout that first class, as we introduce ourselves, it is hard to not wonder why they came here. Their names are Topher and Josh. Topher uncrosses his arms, points his thumb at Josh, and says his name for him. Josh grimaces at me. Josh's hair is blonde, Topher's is brown. I give Josh and Topher an encouraging smile. "Welcome." I outline the class details while we pass around the syllabus. The ASL interpreter, leaning against a wall in the room, speaks for me as I sign. Her name is Heather, and her voice echoes above the clank of the church heater. The course meets two nights a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, for eight weeks. We all sit in a circle, not unlike a support group, under flickering fluorescents. My sign language classes take place in a church basement because my supervisor doesn't want to pay for a better location. I remain convinced I smell mold despite running a flashlight beam over every corner, wall, and the expanse of ceiling and floor. In the three years teaching in this space, I have found nothing. When I sign, "Now, this doesn't apply to all of you . . ." it is normally meant as a cover, a way for students to not assume they are all here for the same reasons. In my head, I assume the reason is the same. My classes sell out in minutes, and my supervisor has complained of her website crashing. It fills me with both pride and terror, and I have seen many more hesitant hands rising into the air than ever before, ready to sign, to take on this new physical language. Those new hands shake, too. But this time, with Topher and Josh here, the warning holds an element of truth it didn't before. "We are here to learn sign language. We're not here to talk about people going deaf or not deaf," I sign. "This is a time of learning. The two [End Page 27] hours you sit in here, you learn. You don't gossip. You learn." _____ After the class, Heather approaches me. "Did I do okay?" she asks. "I worry that doing this class again and again is making me lazy." I shake my head. "You did great. Is the class okay for you?" Heather nods. "I have a feeling demand isn't going to slow down. It's going to escalate. Have you thought about adding another class?" I shake my head again. "That's not up to me. That's up to my supervisor." Nausea still churns in me whenever I think of her reasons; she wanted to keep classes sparse so she could hike up prices. High prices and low access promised exclusivity. Sign language classes outside a university, like mine, weren't common because there weren't enough deaf people with doctorates. There was only so much a private tutor could do. With sign language, you need other people to practice with, to learn. I'd dropped out of college after a year. What I remember of classes, classes from over a decade ago, is only dizziness from hangovers. I was a deaf person, but I wasn't worth a high cost. My pay hasn't changed. My supervisor keeps the extra income. Heather nods again, but I can tell she doesn't understand. I feel an urge to explain, but there would be follow-up questions, questions I do...