Sometimes I get pissed: I’m too nice
I don’t like it
because
I smile
nod
say:

“Yes, I’m deaf. No, not hard of hearing. Deaf. Yes, I use hearing aids. Yes, I read lips but don’t make me. Yes, I speak sometimes.”

And I stand
passive
look into eyes
of various colors
some real, some fake
the wheels turn, coins drop
neatly into their slotted categories with each answer.

“Yes, my parents - my whole family - are hearing. No, my husband’s Deaf. And my daughter too. No, I’m not happy or sad about it. It just is.”

I’m
too nice
submissive
with silence
voicing what they
want to hear or even see
watching as they form
stories onto my bodies
they think my face, my breasts, my mind
with their questions and my answers and their truths

“No, I didn’t sign until later. No, my family doesn’t sign. I cued. Yes, cued. Well, no, I don’t think it’s weird. Yes, it works. No, it’s not just for hearing people.”

If I really
had ovaries
or was proud
of the Deaf woman I am
I would speak, sign, shake my head, deny, seize.
This is my day. This is my life. I shall overcome and they shall pay.

“No, I don’t have an implant. Yes, I cue. No, not all cuers have implants. Um, obviously. No, I’m profoundly deaf. No, cueing doesn’t make my speech better.”

I’d forget
power is
an illusion like truth
and my truth and theirs are equally valued
mine by me and theirs by the world at large.
And sometimes even I forget my own economy.

“I teach English. No, I told you I was Deaf. Yes, I said English. No, really, I’m Deaf. Yes, I really am!”

If I
had really big ovaries
and they didn’t induce giggles
but reverent gasps like balls
inconstant penises,

I would stop their inquiries with my own coins
slotted into my own categories.

I would sheath my own intentions
and not worry, for once, about protection,
for my sake or for theirs.
I would gaze into
their face,
name,
brain
say:

My name is Alli. I’m a lover, a sister, a teacher, a student, a writer, a blogger, a reader, a slob, a procrastinator, a dreamer in no particular order. Pick a number. I hate pink because it reminds me of what that demonized thing called ’society’ uses pink for, but I still wear it because a magazine with a coupon for a free bikini told me it went well with my skin tone. I believe - like most people pretend at faith - that this country is going to hell even though there is no hell because too many people are preoccupied with going to hell. When I was little my mother told me there was no God so now I spend my days looking for Her. I have a sneaking feeling She’s hiding behind a corner laughing Her size sixteen ass off at us and me and all the capital letters I want to give Her. But it pisses me off when people and things hide or cower or deceive so I look and look. When I remember that I have a job to do and mouths to feed and cliches to abuse, I stop looking and I go home and dry-hump my government-sanctioned husband and hope that’ll get him to stop pestering me about the bills. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. When it does we turn the lights off and do tandem tactile from breastbone to pelvis but then we turn them back on to see what the hell we’re saying. Then he rolls over and I get a book and fall asleep with my teeth unbrushed and dream guiltily of flying away from my own body because it lives in this fucked-up world that tells me who I am. And then I wake up and think about how good I have it.

I really would.
But their categories
are foreign to me
just like their coins
I think they’re Euros
or maybe they’re just dimes
I don’t really know.
And if I inserted into their slot
my two-cent pennies
I’m pretty sure, pretty…
the machine would break
and it’d be my fault.
You break it, you buy it.

Me, the
Deaf
militant
cuer
radical
woman
whitetrash
uppity
whore
out-of-control
PMSing
heathen
ungrateful
lazyass
ball-buster
who doesn’t know shit.

That’s non-refundable, by the way, ma’am.