Silenced Abilities

There are so few stories about kids that are deaf/blind, so I wanted to change that. Unfortunately! I have had no time since my wave of depression came late and smacked the fuck out of me so I'll pass the challenge onto you. I just looked at Behind the Name for the names (enter shameless plug about how I love the variety and breadth of culture that the names the site has) and let my mind go wild with this. Godspeed, oceanelsie! (And whoever else takes up this challenge. It's not very easy to do this narrative style but that's why no one has attempted to do this). I tried to leave leeway for you to make them your own but yeah, here are the products of my many random mental questions

One: "Does being disabled automatically make you a good person?"

Product: Clarence Martin of Liverpool, England (9) [as described by his 15-year-old babysitter]

I watched as Clarence marched up the stairs, grunting as he pretended to roar like a dinosaur. His little sister, Elsie, watched happily beside me as her brother knocked a kid out of the way and proclaimed with excited fingers that he was king of the world. If his parents were here, they'd ignore his antics and act like he was the best thing Liverpool produced since The Beatles. I could see why. It was easy to fall into those big baby-blue eyes and those large pinchable cheeks. People always saw him and thought the world of him, especially since his physical disabilities make him victimized since birth. Andrew and Kiera Martin would often say that he was bullied a lot, but that was not the kid I saw stomping around the playground.

Clarence was that snot-nosed brat that I would've kicked down the slide if we were the same age. His parents coddled him since birth and only seemed to tighten their wings when they found out their baby would be deaf. I don't believe that any kid should have been dealt a bad hand in life, but if he was reincarnated, he was a real jackass in his former life. I sat on the bench, treating myself to one of Donita's famous potato and egg breakfast sandwiches and watched him kick his poor little brother, Georgie, down the slide. George got up, sniffling, and ran over to me. I shrugged him off. There was a time when I would try to tell Clarence to stop, signing as best as I could for him to be nice and to treat his brother and sister with respect, but I could only be blackmailed so many times before I didn't care anymore. I just looked at my phone, waiting for the minutes to pass so I could take them home and hopefully get them to sleep.

Two: "How do blind people navigate the world if they do not have traditional medical care and familiar support?"

Product: Clara Fulgencio of New York City, New York (18) [self-narrated]

I could feel the pimp coming back, and curled into a ball on my bed. He acted like I couldn't tell how much money I was given and how much I gave him. He was just trying to short me since he thought that because he thought he could. Well, he was in for a rude awakening. After an hour of him smacking bitches and yelling at anyone he saw, he kicked into my door. I jumped despite my efforts to stay calm. I could hear his shoes inching closer, and bit my lip. I knew he was going to hit me. It was never a question of if, but I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't let him hit me again.

Mickey was a man of few words. I looked at where his footsteps stopped. I could hear his raspy breath and smell the blood on his lips. He was angry. I could hear his right foot first, pushing the rest of his body forward. I pulled the shank I had crafted and hooked it towards him. The hot blood hit me first, then he landed heavily on my cot. I could smell death when he hit, though he was still talking, berating me as if he wasn't going to die.

"Blind bitch," he snarled. "I knew your ass was lying. Where you do think you're going to go? What other pimp wants a blind bitch. I made you."

His voice was dying down. His heartbeat was slowing. I quickly sifted through his heavy wallet. He was still talking, grabbing for me though I could hear him missing. His shadow was dancing before me, the same way my mother's did before she died. I pulled a wad of bills from his pocket then took the keys. My fingers going quickly, I felt out the key slot on the shackled windows and found the key that matched. I flung the cold heavy bars open and pulled myself up and out of the window. I could hear his voice clear as day as I crawled down the fire escape.

"You're really going to leave me here to die alone?" It almost made me go back. Almost.

Three: "How do you explain what happened to you when you are a paraplegic?"

Product: Shane (13ish) [my narration]

I don't know if Shane was real or not, but if he was, I met him when I was in second grade at Mt. Airy. Shane was a white kid, a seemingly rare sight in my school, and was much older than me. He was a tall skinny kid who skateboarded and had swoopy brown hair. I don't know if he had friends. I just know I was fascinated by the fact that his left arm ended about half-way down in a nub. Other than that, he was a completely normal kid.

He would never tell us why he had no arm. Well, he would never tell us the real story. A part of me liked to make up stories because of Shane. We would be at the playground, and it became customary to ask Shane what happened to his arm. He would always laugh at first, not in the rude obnoxious older kid way, but because he seemed to think we were adorable. There was always a barrage of different answers. "I fell on a lawnmower." "I was fighting a shark, and he snuck me." "An alien needed a backscratcher." "I was tired of being left-handed." "I was in an arm-wrestling contest to the death."

I wish I could remember more about Shane than the fact that he had no left arm. I wish I could tell you for certain what he looked like or how he was, but I can't. My second-grade brain tossed him out and there's just a ghost of who I remember him as. But, whether he was real or not, I can say that he inspired me. I love to watch medical shows about people who are disabled now because my natural curiosity about his situation and others like him was never stepped on. I now ask questions and explore them instead of finding out and moving on. In a way, Shane inspired this whole post, so if you ever see this, thank you, Shane, from the little black girl who was always asking you dumb shit for not telling me what happened to your arm. More of you than just your disability stuck in my mind, though your name may not have... Shitballs, I hope your name is actually Shane. >.<