ÿþ<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3c.org/TR/1999/REC-html401-19991224/loose.dtd"> <html> <head> <title>Emily Lund</title> <meta content="Disability, poetry, poets, cerebral palsy, journal, college, poetics, Hebrew, ASL, literature, writers" name="keywords"> <meta content="Wordgathering in an online journal of disability-related poetry, that seeks work from writers with and without disabilities. It also features comment, book reviews, essays and critiques of disability literature." name="description"> <meta http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; charset=windows-1252"> <link media="screen" href="../../wordgathering_lower.css" type="text/css" rel="stylesheet"> <script type="text/javascript"> (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){ (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o), m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m) })(window,document,'script','//www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga'); ga('create', 'UA-47050743-1', 'wordgathering.com'); ga('send', 'pageview'); </script></head> <body> <a name="top"></a> <table id="mainTable" cellspacing="1" cellpadding="35" width="100%" border="1"> <tbody> <tr> <td><h1>Emily Lund</h1> <h2 class="align_center">SCRIBBLES</h2> <p> I am probably the only person who still owns a typewriter. It is an old model that I bought from a charity shop for $5, and it isn't even that great. Some of the keys stick, and the ink is prone to smearing, but I keep it anyway because in the end, I have no other choice. My parents used to fill out these forms for me, but they always wanted answers, to know why I put this or if I was sure I really wanted to say that. The typewriter, on the other hand, doesn't care why I put an X next to &quot;General Interest&quot; instead of filling in the blank by &quot;Other. &quot; </p> <p> There was time when I would have gladly filled out &quot;Other&quot; and given them my whole story right then and there, but that got old pretty quickly. Now, I don't even bother to explain myself to the professor, much less an overworked and underpaid registrar. On the occasion the professor asks the class to explain their motives for enrolling, I give a short, evasive answer in the classroom tongue and eliminate any follow-up questions that way. I have, I realize, become rather good at evading the truth. </p> <p> I pull the flimsy blue form out of the typewriter and scan it. The information it contained is standard and dull: my name, my address, where I go to school& None of it is spectacular; none of it sets me apart, and for that, I am grateful. Sighing, I set the paper down on the table, pick up a black pen, and sign my name with careful precession. </p><p>&nbsp;</p> Ð<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> The class is held in an old community center on the south side of town. A few years ago, they tried to pass a bond to renovate the place but failed, leaving history intact and untouched. Rows of brown wooden desks run up and down the room, facing a dust-covered chalkboard. It looks almost quaint, so different from the classrooms at school with their plastic vanilla desks and shiny whiteboards. </p> <p> This place, I reflect as I take a seat near the middle of the room, seems not unlike my elementary school. That classroom, too, had been wooden, dusty, and small, the last vestige of a community that had not yet felt the tug of modernization. There had been problems with that kind of life to be sure, but time has since wiped out the memories of long commutes and boring Saturdays and left me with the faded, false recollections of an idyllic childhood that I almost believe to be true. It is a fitting place to start over. </p> <p> The other students come in not long after I do. Like usual, they are older than me, ranging from college students taking a summer course in an attempt to get a gen ed requirement out of way to middle aged men and women looking for a way to fill their time. There are about 20 or so of us all together, filling a majority of the desks. This surprises me slightly; the classes I flock to are rarely so popular. </p> <p> The professor is young as professors go, with short brown hair and an enigmatic smile. He walks to the front of the classroom and introduces himself in Hebrew. The students around me exchange glances of confusion and worry. I just sit back and smile. I love this type of class, the kind where you are just thrown straight into the language and forced to sort it out for yourself. Of course, I have a bit of unfair advantage. </p> <p> The rules will be strict, he announces, first in Hebrew then in English. There will be no speaking English for the first hour of class. If we have a question, you can ask--but in Hebrew. For the fifteen minute lunch break, we are free to speak whatever I want, but he, of course, encourages Hebrew. For the last half hour, the rules depend on what the class does. If we are studying grammar, the Hebrew-only rule still applies. If the assignment that day is translation, he will respond in English, but we have to ask in Hebrew. If the topic is writing, however, we are free to ask questions&mdash;and receive answers&mdash;in English. </p> <p> &quot;Does anyone have any questions?&quot; </p> <p>A women sitting near the back tentatively raises her hand. The professor points to her and smiles. </p> <p>&quot;Excuse me, but isn't this a beginner's class?&quot; she asks in English. </p> <p>The professor stares at her for a minute and then tells her to speak in Hebrew--in Hebrew. </p> <p>Realizing her error, the woman shrinks back sheepishly and mutters, &quot;Never mind.&quot; </p> <p>The professor repeats the phrase back to her in Hebrew. Learning it, he says, is our first assignment. </p> <p>My classmates look slightly terrified. I, on the other hand, just sit there and bask in the knowledge that, at least for this one hour, I m not the slow one in the class. </p> Ñ<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> &quot;How was class?&quot; Dad asks that night at dinner. </p> <p> &quot;Easy,&quot; I respond with a half grin on my face. </p> <p> I like saying that, like having it be true. Class had been easy, very easy, in fact, but then again, what did I expect? Dad had lived in Israel for six years working for a Judeo-Christian outreach program and had come back fluent in Modern Hebrew. It was one of the three tongues my parents had designated as my &quot;native languages&quot; &mdash;the other two being English and Swedish&mdash;and so I have heard it, literally, since the day I was born. Over the years, I have gained near-fluency in three more, functional proficiency in two, and passable conversation skills in four. What choice did I have? Language is in my blood. </p> <p> My parents are linguistics professors and born polyglots; both had been raised by globe-trotting parents and had spent much of their early professional years looking for jobs in this or that country until parenthood had forced them to establish roots. Language is the heart and hearth of their being; our house is always littered with foreign scripts, and I can often hear strains of unintelligible tongues coming from the phone. Not surprisingly, they had looked for every available opportunity to instill their love of languages in their only daughter, and, not surprisingly, it had worked. </p> <p> When I decided to take a beginning Japanese course four years ago, my parents had, for the first time in memory, questioned my motives in studying language. Why, they had asked, was I studying a language I was already totemo jouzu (very good) at? I had explained my answer that first time, very thoroughly, discussing it with them for hours until I was sure they saw my point. I had even sent in an explanatory letter to the professor, a friendof Mom's, detailing my case. As time went on, however, and the abovementioned situations got more and more common, my explanations became shorter and shorter. This time, in fact, I haven't even bothered to give one, and they haven't even bothered to ask. </p> <p> &quot;Do you want more soup?&quot; Mom asks me, shaking me out of my thoughts. </p> <p> I shake my head and stare down at my bowl. Tonight's entrée is a thick minestrone, not a favorite of mine. We eat a lot of soups and stews now, a holdover from those days when I couldn't manage a knife very well. In those early days, I would scream at them and cry if they tried to cut my food for me, so they just eliminated the problem. For years, I only ate ice cream in cones, after scooping proved relatively difficult. It was only two years ago, when I was fourteen, that I found I had the courage to tell them that I really hated the taste of cones, and asked if I could please use a spoon. It took a lot of courage I didn't have, and at 16, I still haven't worked up the nerve to tell them I'd like to try a steak. </p> Ò<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> The first week of class is all speaking practice. The professor adheres to the philosophy that we should learn it like children, becoming comfortable in the tongue before trying to put anything down on paper. When I first started taking these classes, I had been quick to speed ahead and impress the class (and professor) with my seemingly miraculous learning speed, but I soon learned my lesson. When we finally got around to writing, my classmates would petition me for help I couldn't give, and the professor would stare in puzzlement as my grade dropped like a stone. Now, I hold back, doing well enough to cushion my grade for what is to come but not so well as to attract attention. Or so I think. </p> <p> On Thursday, the professor announces that the first test is scheduled for tomorrow, an affair which I find inappropriately hilarious. There is always a certain degree of lag time between the professor saying something in Hebrew and class responding, and it is even more pronounced this time, for the class has not yet learned the Hebrew word for test. The collective flipping of dictionary pages is soon followed by panicked muttering as the class figures out what the announcement means. Meanwhile, I just sit back and swallow my laughter. </p> Ó<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> &quot;Hey, are you ready for the test?&quot; a girl named Miriam asks as she sees me slumped against the wall outside the testing room. </p> <p> &quot;I think I'll be okay. The stuff in class hasn't been too bad. You?&quot; I respond, making some effort to push myself upward. </p> <p> &quot;I studied a bit, but I'm not good with vocab at all. I always get words with totally different meanings mixed up.&quot; </p> <p> I smile in what I hope is an empathetic manner and commiserate on how alike words sound in Hebrew&mdash;even if they don't to me. I haven't talked to my fellow students much (they tend to have a lot of questions), but talking the actual subject matter isn't bad at all. If nothing else, it gives me less need to lie. </p> <p> For the next five minutes, we throw questions and words back and forth. I get a few wrong for show and correct Miriam here and there on her grammar and pronunciation. She's one of the younger college students at 20, and she's pretty good at grammar despite her weaknesses in vocabulary memorization. </p> <p> I tell her this, and her face glows just a little bit. &quot;Thanks. To be honest, I didn't really want to take this class; it was my aunt s idea. She s been 'encouraging' me to visit Israel--says it will help me 'reconnect with my roots.'&quot;</p> <p> &quot;You don't want to go?&quot; I ask, genuinely interested. </p> <p> She shakes her head. &quot;No, not really. I feel like I should, but to be honest, I m far more interested in the Swedish class I took last semester. I m thinking of majoring in Scandinavian studies, actually.&quot; </p> <p><em>The only girl I bother to talk to out of the entire class is majoring in my Mom's department? What were the odds of that? </em></p> <p> &quot;Really? Do I like it?&quot; I ask as nonchalantly as possible. </p> <p> &quot;Yeah, it's really interesting. I have no clue what I'll do with the degree in the long-run, but I'm enjoying it so far. Weird interest, right? I head off to college in Rhode Island and end up falling in love with random Northern European languages.&quot; She gives a little self-aware chuckle and smiles. </p> <p> I feel a warm laugh bubble to my lips as I think of my own home, where Hebrew can be answered in Hindi and falling in love with a language is about as normal as you can get. Better judgment, however, keeps my mouth shut, and I answer with only the tiniest hint of a nod. </p> <p> I ask Miriam if she has had any classes with my mother yet. I are careful to frame the question as small talk, as if I have no real connection to what I'm saying, much less to the woman of which I m speaking. In fact, I really want to know if she recognizes me, if Mom ever throws around anecdotes about her daughter&mdash;her crippled polyglot of a daughter&mdash;in class. I want to see if she already knows my secret. But I don't get a chance to hear her answer, for at that moment the professor opens to the door and calls Miriam in. I wish her good luck and pretend like I'm still studying. As soon as the door closes behind her, I put my things away and commence to standing. </p> Ô<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> &quot;You speak Hebrew,&quot; he says in Hebrew as I walk in. </p> <p> I wonder vaguely if this is a part of the test, if he's trying to see if I know which verb is &quot;speak&quot; and which is &quot;study.&quot; </p> <p> &quot;I study Hebrew,&quot; I respond in same language. </p> <p> &quot;No. You speak it. You're fluent; you understand me,&quot; he says, still in Hebrew. <p> He knows? How? Is he testing me? Can I still save myself? </p> <p> &quot;Uh&hellip;Shouldn't you be asking me the questions on the study sheet?&quot; I sputter in English. </p> <p> He looks at me and sighs, &quot;You know all the questions on the study sheet. You know every question I could ask you.&quot; </p> <p> &quot;So ask,&quot; I say, not because I want him to, but because I can think of nothing else to say. </p> <p> &quot;Where did I learn? You don't have an Israeli surname, and judging from that cross around my neck, you're not Jewish.&quot; </p> <p> &quot;My father worked in Israel for few years, okay? He taught me,&quot; I say evasively, my mind spinning. How did he know? </p> <p> &quot;In class, you never look lost. You never struggle to understand. That, and you don't seem shocked when I announce tests.&quot; </p> <p>I guess I wasn't as convincing as I thought. </p> <p>&quot;Why are you taking this class?&quot; </p> <p>I come up with a good half-truth. &quot;There aren't very many Modern Hebrew speakers around here, and I didn't want to lose my fluency.&quot; </p> <p>He has apparently thought the same thing before, and it gets me off the hook. He waves me away with a smile and tells me to get the next student from the hall. I wonder how long I have before my façade crumbles. </p> Õ<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Everyone else loves the writing sections. They banter back and forth in English, newly savoring fluency. The professor walks around and inspects their work, but it's not that bad. Every now and then, he'll correct a lopsided Ôor Ò, but for the first day, his emphasis seems to be more on legibility than eloquence. I suspect that in the coming days he'll be stricter, that he'll start pointing out the finer points of the writing scheme. For right now, however, we are children crafting my first &quot;A&quot; in kindergarten, and the standards are a bit lax. </p> <p>He doesn't check my work this first day, probably because he assumes that my hands are as fluent as my tongue. So far, he s kept my fluency secret, but every now and then he throws a hard word or two into his classroom banter. While the rest of the class scrambles with their dictionaries to divine the meaning of the strange new word, he'll catch my eye ever so slightly and smile, a little inside joke among the native speakers in the room. </p> <p>I've decided that he does not know my father, or if the professor does know him, he doesn't connect him with me. This isn't much of a surprise; they hold day jobs at different schools, and my father's fluency is not common knowledge. Dad is listed as a professor of linguistics, and while he teaches the occasional course in Chinese when the school needs it, he hasn't taught Hebrew formally for over three years. Every month or so, he takes one of the five million international phone cards my family owns and calls up a couple of friends from his days in the Israel, but that's as far as his speaking goes these days. </p> <p>On occasion, he'll talk to me in Hebrew just to keep my fluency up, but it feels different now than it did when I was a little kid. Back then, Mom and Dad would teach me any and every tongue they knew, all of us filled with a wide-eyed optimism and the belief that I really could do anything. Time and circumstances, however, can change a believer into a skeptic, and my parents were far from immune. Their offers are now less frequent and far less enthusiastic, as though they have come to realization that language is not the be-all and end-all of the world. I wish they would reconsider their great revelation and see that, for me, it still is. </p> <p>The voice of my professor rattles me out of my thoughts, and I look up from my paper. He announces that my homework for the night is to write five repetitions of the first 5 letters of the alphabet, to be turned in tomorrow. </p> <p><em>So</em>, I think, <em>it begins</em>. </p> Ö<p>&nbsp;</p> <p><em>It took them two days to notice what was wrong with me. The symptoms started with a headache and dizziness one Saturday morning while I was lying on the couch, reading a book. It wasn't pleasant, I remember, but it wasn't horrible either. It was brief, lasting maybe 10 minutes, and my ten year-old mind quickly pushed it aside to concentrate on the more important question of whether or not Helen would get away with cheating. Mom and Dad, of course, were more concerned, but the doctor's office was closed for the weekend, and the ER was a good 30 minutes away. They watched me carefully, and indeed, I seemed to get better. When Sunday went by uneventfully, Mom begrudgingly allowed me to go to school Monday as long as I went to my doctor's appointment right afterwards. </em></p> <p><em>Other people have since described what happened, but I tend not to give their stories all that much credence. What they say sounds too easy and too simple to be true. To my fourth grade teacher, for example, I seemed to simply crumple to the floor as my leg gave way. I'd like to think it was more dramatic than that, however, so in my mind, I tumble to ground in a manner befitting a Shakespearean actor. Why not, I figure, have a bit of fun with it? It's the only part of this I can control, anyway, and the end result is always the same. </em></p> <p><em>The first thing I really remember seeing clearly was Dr. Byran's eyes. They was a steely gray, distinctive and piercing, like something out of a special effects department. The image of those eyes has stayed with me all these years, and every unfortunate time Mom and Dad drag me into see him, I scan the room for those silver orbs. They take me right back, remind of me of why I am here. I hate it, but I hate it with necessity because remembering keeps me from giving up. </em></p> <p><em>In those first days, my parents did all the talking for me&mdash;all the crying, all the begging of doctors&mdash;while I just laid there on the ER bed and waited. I wasn't scared at first, just confused, trying to figure out why my right hand didn't quite close when it was supposed to. I listened only when spoken to, as the medical staff explained the MRI, the CAT scan, or some other piece of equipment or complicated-sounding test. The nurses and techs were nice, I suppose&mdash;who won't be nice to a child who could only half nod her head? &mdash;but I don't remember them much. It would not be until later that other people would really come into play. </em></p> <p><em>For a place that takes in trauma cases and generates enough drama to produce several television shows, the ER can get boring. In the long stretches between the tests, the results, and my official admittance to the hospital, I often had little to do. I may have been partially paralyzed, but the part of me that was still ten&mdash;the part of me that had yet to go into shock, sadness, and panic&mdash;was miserably restless. I remember one instance when Mom and Dad were out in the hall talking to some doctor, and I was so bored, so tired of lying there doing nothing, that tears literally welled up in my eyes. It was then, when I was at my breaking point, that he came. </em></p> <p><em>His name was Chris, a tall, solid 20-something wearing a Batman shirt and a huge, toothy grin. He greeted me by name and asked me what I wanted to do. He showed me playing cards, offered me board games, and suggested video games. He didn't poke, prod, or take my blood pressure; in fact, he didn't even ask the token &quot;how are you feeling?&quot; Figuring that anything involving hand control was a little out of my ability at the time, I opted for a movie, the 1998 remake of Parent Trap. It isn't really that great of a move in hindsight, but it did the trick then, so much so that it was the only thing I asked for on my tenth Christmas. Sometimes when I am lying around, practically drowning in boredom, I will pop in the old tape and watch it for the hundredth time. And when I do, I thank God for Chris. </em></p> <p><em>Over the next few days, I received a certain medical education, most likely a dumbed-down version of what they told my parents out of my hearing. What happened to me was called a hemorrhagic stroke in five-dollar terms basically, a burst blood vessel in my brain. I listened but at the time, I didn't really care that much. It was only later that I would look up &quot;hemorrhagic stroke&quot; on the internet, hungry for answers, or survey the brain diagram in my biology bock, trying to figure out where mine went wrong. Back then, I felt only the symptoms and had faith that medicine knew how to heal them, that this was just as impermanent as broken leg. I, I assumed, did not really need to know this&mdash;after all, this was only temporary, right? </em></p> <p><em>The next few days were at once frantic and dull. A whole new cast of characters came into my life, some who I remember and some who I don't. I met with a physical therapist, who I despised for her condescending attitude, and an occupational therapist who was nicer than the former but who still managed to earn my hatred by constantly asking me to try tasks I could never do. A therapist of a different type, a psychologist who referred herself as a &quot;talking doctor,&quot; met with me once or twice, but I can remember little of it. I was not filled with sadness, anger, or even frustration; after all, I had yet to realize the extent of what I could not do. The nurses proved more memorable, if only because they was more involved. They were nice, chatty folks who always stopped to talk for a moment after they finished with whatever medical business they had with me. I realize now how stupid those conversations must have been, but, as with Parent Trap, I still remember them with a bit of nostalgic gratitude. </em></p> <p><em>But most of the time, I was left alone with no way to pass the time. Sometimes, I watched TV, specifically really bad made-for-TV movies or the looping headline news channel, but those was quick to lose their appeal. I might have preferred reading had my one arm not been immobile and my other hand not been unresponsive and shaky. It made it impossible to hold a book, to write, to knit, to draw, or to take up any other traditional past-time of the invalid. The void was filled mostly by my parents who took time off from work and came by whenever they could. True to form, they read to me not from storybooks but from language textbooks, giving me phrases in Hindi or Japanese and then having I repeat them back to them. Had I been anyone else, I might have been confused or even offended, but as it was, I was grateful, grateful that they tried so hard to give me something new when so much of what I had always taken for granted was being taken away. </em></p> <p><em>I was in many ways both very lucky and very unlucky. Despite some initial problems, for example, my ability to speak and understand language was relatively unscathed. In addition, although this was not immediately clear, the damage done to my right leg and face was relatively mild. This is hardly to say it wasn't there&mdash;my smile is still a bit lopsided, and it took about a year before I could rid myself of a cane&mdash;but simply that they seemed show more improvement than in a lot of stroke victims. To this day, I still walk with a bit of limp and have problems going to and from sitting, but the limp, as far I can tell, can only be noticed if someone is looking for it. Of course, this is only relative luck; I would have been far happier had my leg remained strong and my smile even, but it always seems just a little comforting to remind myself that it could have been worse. </em></p> <p><em>The unluckiest thing about the whole ordeal was, quite obviously, the stroke itself. It is rare i n children, especially ones as old as me, but not entirely unheard of. I are part of an almost neglible statistic, one never quoted and unknown to all but the misfortunate few who make it up. The other half of my misfortune came in the form of my weakened left hand. Usually, strokes like mine only affect one side of the body, but for some reason, another smaller stroke or simply a spread of damage no one was ever really sure my left hand had been damaged as well. The damage wasn't as severe as that done to my right side, but it still took countless hours of therapy before it became of any real use to me again. </em></p> <p><em>The university was wonderful to my family through all this. They let my parents stay in the school's guest house for free while I was in the hospital so they wouldn't have to make the half-hour commute each day from my home. When I was released from the hospital, my parents offered to rent an apartment instead, but they insisted we stay, charging us only half rent no matter how many times Dad offered to pay in full. Even after we sold my old house and found one closer to the hospital, they kept helping. For the reminder of fourth grade, I was a homebound student, and I finished my work quickly, free from the social hubbub of actual school. To distract me from the mind-numbing monotony of things, my parents called in favors from their colleagues who gave no-cost language tutorials or explained my math homework with an amazing show of interest. Some days, when I stop by campus to ask something of Mom or Dad, I'll run into one of my old benefactors; We'll both smile and wave, and they will ask I if I need anything, still offering their help after all these years. If I ever become rich and famous, I swear I'll find a way to pay the university back. It saved my life in more ways than one. </em></p> <p><em>The next year, I enrolled at a new school, a huge building that was all plastic and brick and as different from my old one, as could be. The other kids was always nice to me; my story was well enough known around town that any malicious thoughts was drowned out by waves of helpful sympathy. Still, I never quite liked my new school as much as I had my old one, and I always held a bit of quiet resentment that I never got to go and back and say good-bye. </em></p> ×<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The pen moves across the paper in zigs and zags. I know this; I've seen these letters since I was four. I never learned to write them, sure, but I've seen them enough that it should be second nature. Unfortunately, the illegible mess of lines on my paper says otherwise. </p> <p>The thing is, I used to have good handwriting. When I was in third grade, my teacher would hold all these stupid&mdash;in retrospect&mdash;cursive handwriting contests. Whenever I was judged to have the loopiest Q's or the most stunning K's, I would rush home, overcome with happiness, and show Mom the big blue ribbon attached to my paper. Three years ago, I found those papers in a box in the attic, blue ribbons tattered but still intact. At first, I had been surprised that she had kept them, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. They are like photographs or gravestones, memories of a person who no long exists. They are reminders of her first daughter, <em>memento moris </em> of me. </p> Ø<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Mom comes in to see me struggling over a piece of notebook paper a week later. I haven't gotten much better; the papers I've turned in class look like things I may have scribbled in five minutes, not things that took hours. Yesterday, the professor asked I why I was being so lax in my work all of the sudden, wondering if boredom or maybe even arrogance had finally caught up with me. I told him I would try harder, as though this class wasn t already consuming my soul. </p> <p> &quot;You can type it, you know,&quot; my mom says softly. &quot;I'm sure Daddy has a program you can use.&quot; </p> <p> &quot;Daddy,&quot; like &quot;Honey,&quot; is new term in my family, only 6 years old. I'm not quite sure why they crept in the way they did, but I don't like it. They, like the soup, the ice cream cones, and the computer I use at school, feel clumsily grafted on to my life, like second choice gifts. I smile, nod, and say thank you, but oh, what I wouldn't give for another dollar store blue ribbon some days. </p> <p> &quot;I'm fine, Mom,&quot; I say. &quot;It's okay, really.&quot; </p> <p> She walks over and sits at the table beside me. Looking at her, I think about how similar we look. I used to have her gait, long and smooth, and I still have her golden brown hair, hair that people always think is highlighted but it's really not. I have her eyes, too, a little blue that contrasts sharply with Dad's deep, dark orbs. I wonder if Miriam noticed any similarities, if she caught on to what I was asking. I am about to ask my mother about Miriam when my eyes fall downward, and I remember that our personalities are as different as our looks are alike. </p> <p> On her paper, my mother has absent mindedly drawn a pitch perfect Ð, the same symbol I had been trying to draw for weeks with no success. She must have seen it on study sheet and unwittingly started copying it, I realize bitterly. That is my mother, a person who excels at things without thinking, who write poems while she is dusting the mantel. Dad and I are different, more deliberate, more careful. He would have never drawn that Ð if he knew I couldn't, and he would have known perfectly well that I ran away to my room to keep from crying, instead of just staring, dumbfounded, and asking if I was okay. In my anger, I think that that's a stupid question because I haven't been okay for the past six years. </p> Ù<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> Sometime later, when the end of class is drawing ominously near, I run into Miriam again. I haven't talked to her since that first test, but she comes over to talk anyway. I'm standing by a wall outside the classroom and eating a Greek salad, something I fell in love with while futilely trying to learn to draw a ¨. As hard as it is on my leg, I prefer it this way, if just because I won t have to explain why I struggle to my feet. </p> <p> &quot;How are you?&quot; she asks dutifully. </p> <p> &quot;Alright,&quot; I respond and deflect the question back to her. </p> <p> &quot;Decent,&quot; she says, shrugging. Then, after a brief pause, she ventures, &quot;What are you eating, if you don't mind me asking?&quot; </p> <p> I laugh. &quot;Greek salad. The only lettuce-free salad I've found thus far. You should try it sometime.&quot; She looks at me, oddly, a why-are-you-eating-a-Greek-Salad-and-taking-Hebrew? look. I almost want to tell her who I am, but at the last second, I reconsider. I can t let my lies unravel, at least not yet. </p> <p> &quot;Ready for the final?&quot; I offer, desperate for a change in subject. <p> &quot;Yeah, more or less. I've done well with the writing so far. It's easier than the speaking, I think.&quot; </p> <p> &quot;Really? I'm kind of struggling with writing,&quot; I say innocently and then bid her parting and walk away, feeling as though I have just dodged a bullet. </p> Ú<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> I sit at my desk, six sharpened pencils in hand, and wait. All around me, my classmates scurry to put away last minute study guides and verb charts before the professor passes out the exams. I envy them in a way, these people who are just studying a language, not flying far too close to the sun. </p> <p> I studied last night from 6 pm to whenever I happened to fall asleep at my desk, pencil in hand. I know this because I woke up to my father carrying me bed, just like he did in the months following the stroke, before I could manage the stairs. The first time I tried to run upstairs on my own, I fell and just barely missed cracking my head open on the wooden floor. Then, as in now, I was always trying the impossible. </p> <p> I've pretty much failed at Hebrew, I know. My Hebrew script isn't any more legible than the good old Roman alphabet, nor my Japanese hiragana for that matter. I still haven't found that magical alphabet that will click with my hands and brain and give me back the gift of writing. I'm taking the final out of sheer, hopeless determination, appeasing the crazy part of my damaged brain that thinks that somehow, in some way, Hebrew might still work out. Hope can, indeed, be both futile and false. </p> Û<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> The first two sections are multiple choice and matching, covering basic grammar and reading comprehension. I finish them in a matter of minutes and take a moment to breathe before moving on. It's fun to get everything right, for my brain to work without a moment's hesitation, and I savor it, like I might savor the thick, rich steak I probably couldn't cut. For a minute, I feel like the kid I once was, the one who believed that all defeat was passing. The sound of the professor telling us to please turn to the writing section snaps me right back to reality, a place where some battles are never won. </p> Ü<p>&nbsp;</p> <p> I can't do this. I know the prompt, I understand the prompt, but I just can't physically do it. I look back down at my paper and consider the cruel irony of the situation. </p> <p><em>Write about your childhood. </em><br> <p> There are so many ways I could answer that, so many stories could tell. I could evoke the countless hours I have spent at the kitchen table, going over verb forms with Mom and Dad. I could talk about the &quot;Thank God You're Alive&quot; trip I took to Denmark (my choice) the summer after I finally got rid of my cane, or about the day I learned to cook double chocolate brownies in fifth grade and how it's still the only the recipe I know. I could, if I was so inclined, even mention the stroke. I have so many stories to tell, and I even know how to tel l them in Hebrew. The problem is simply that I can't write them down. To conjure up a whole paragraph would take hours more than I have, and it would be illegible anyway. </p> <p> Defeated, I set down my pencil and raise my hand. I will tell the professor everything, throw off any illusion I have built around me. This my reality, and I give up. <p> The professor walks toward my desk, and I prepare for my confession, hands trembling and lips dry. </p> <p> Even now, however, I find myself wondering in the back of my mind if Korean just might be easier. Hope can be an incredibly cruel delusion. </p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p class="author">Emily Lund is a doctoral student in the Department of Special Education and Rehabilitation at Utah State University. She holds bachelor s degrees from the University of Montana and a master s degree from Texas A&M University. Her primary research interests involve violence against people with disabilities, including interpersonal violence, trauma, bullying, and peer victimization. Her work has been published in numerous scholarly journals, including <strong>Rehabilitation Psychology, Journal of School Violence</strong>, and <strong>Behavior and Social Issues</strong>. She has cerebral palsy. </p> </td> </tr> </tbody> </table> <div id="footer"> <p><a href="#top">Return to Top</a> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;|&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="../../index.html">Return to Home Page</a></p> <p><em>This site is maintained by Michael Northen and Eliot Spindel.</em></p> </div> </body> </html>