The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [97]
When I hear them gargling some name of Iberian origins, I ask, have they not heard of Anglice? Meaning that we say par riss instead of par ree, comme les français. The same way the French say Nouvelle Orleans instead of New Orleans or Les États Unis instead of the United States of America. We say Moscow instead of Moskva, which, in Russian, to be used correctly, would have to be inflected according to case, that is, the way it is used in a sentence. Of course not. But Kooba is starting to creep in along with Meheeko. Which raises another point. Should not those Latin American place-names derived from indigenous populations be pronounced in the original tongue rather than in Spanish, another imperial language? Talk about inconsistencies.
Mais, comme on dit, chacun à son goût.
I had become so distracted by this inner rant that I nearly burned the patties of ground beef. And nearly forgot that I would be on the news.
I picked up the remote and changed to Channel Five. For this I received two annoyed frowns and the sign, “What’s up?”
“Watch,” I said. Moments later, Ken and Baretta were back on with Jack and Lisette, as my interviewer was named. I have to confess I was satisfied that I looked good, poised and authoritative. I sounded urbane. Alphus and Ridley, not to mention a few friends who called later, were suitably impressed. But I heard nothing from Diantha.
While dining on my only slightly charred burger and drinking one of Alphus’s canned beers, I went over his latest literary effort. Again, I was moved and amused.
I will always be profoundly indebted to MM as I call Millicent Mulally. If there are saints, then she is one of them. I knew the moment I saw her at the bottom of the tree that I could trust her. Her sweet, pretty face and the way she moved her hands to the others told me that these people were different. I knew they didn’t want to kill me, to imprison me, to study me.
So, slowly, still fearful, looking all around me, I came down the trunk of the big maple. Millicent took my hand and together, surrounded by the rest of the group, we walked out of the park and into the sanctuary of Sign House.
I don’t want to sound all goody gooey about this, but people who cannot speak or hear or both strike me as “advantaged” rather than “disadvantaged.” There is the peace that comes with quietness. The constant yapping of people, especially these days with everyone walking around with a device stuck to the ear, is blissfully absent.
At the same time, there is no absence of communication. Aside from and part of signing, there are smiles, frowns, jokes, arguments and much that is left unsaid for the better. It reminded me of my childhood in the wild when a glance, a gesture, and intuition meant so much more.
My signing at first was rudimentary — the kind you see in old movies when the white man meets the Natives. Under the tutelage of Millicent and Ridley and a few others, I soon wouldn’t shut up. Because what an ecstatic liberation it was to use my arms, hands, and fingers as a voice! Most human beings don’t realize what a blessing it is to be able to take your thoughts, turn them into words, and speak them. And, it lets you watch other people and see what they are thinking and saying.
I learned not only how to say things, but also what not to say. Millicent taught me that words can be pernicious as well as beneficent. They can be used to stir envy, anger, distrust, hatred, and falsity. Of course, they can also be used to teach, to encourage, to tell things, even to love. As someone observed, human beings use words to groom each other, to make each other feel good.
My favorite place at Sign House was the library, a room lined with books and fitted out with comfortable armchairs and a couch. That’s were I spent most of my time. In the library I found what amounted to another kind of language. Signing and understanding it are one thing. But being able to read — that