This piece deals with the sensitive subject of language deprivation - basically, when kids are raised without any sort of language or linguistic communication. This can happen when a child is born Deaf to parents who don't bother to learn sign language, when a child is abandoned or simply ignored, or when an experiment is designed to test the results. (Luckily, this hasn't happened for several centuries, as the experiments are incredibly cruel.)
When a child is raised without hearing spoken word, they will become mute; and when a child is raised without sign language, they will not know how to sign. Thus, Deaf children who are raised by parents who cannot speak sign language will be completely cut off from the worlds of the hearing and of communication. They will have no concept of language. Breaking these barriers is incredibly difficult.
However, as in the case of Helen Keller - the Deaf-blind girl educated in the nineteenth century - overcoming those walls and teaching children how to understand their world and communicate fully. It's a very important mission; a difficult one, but a possible one!
On that note, please enjoy the piece! Please review if you loved it, hated it, or had mixed emotions. I'm always looking to grow as a writer!
Jack Kelly has gone through a lot in his short life - abuse and neglect high on the list - but he cannot imagine the horrors that this little boy must have suffered.
The child is currently curled in the corner, his arms around his knees and his head tucked into his lap, blocking out the world. His mess of sandy blond hair is barely visible above his shaking arms. A tiny crutch lies haphazardly by his side, totally abandoned. Jack just sits there, watching him desperately, his heart breaking every time the boy lets out a strangled gasp.
Jack wants nothing more than to be able to calm the kid down, tell him that everything's going to be all right. But there's no way he can reach out to the boy, no way any of them can. They can do nothing but let the child sit there and cry his tears of pain and fear; and it's crushing all of their hearts.
Jack met - or perhaps found is a more accurate description - the boy earlier that day. He was huddling in a bleak alley, pressing himself against a crumbling brick wall and curled in on his own body to try to block out the cold. And even though Jack had promised not to let any more stray children into the Lodging House in the dead of winter, he couldn't possibly just let this boy freeze to death. He was hardly more than a baby; he would die by himself. He honestly couldn't have been more than four or five.
So Jack squatted down next to the boy and murmured a soft "Hey." The child didn't respond, not even turning his head to look at Jack. Brow furrowing, the older boy repeated himself twice to no avail, before finally reaching out to touch the boy's shoulder.
The kid jumped a mile when Jack touched him, whirling around and backing into himself defensively. It shattered Jack's heart. Swallowing the sorrow and anger that rose in the back of his throat, he managed to smile weakly at the boy. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.
Wetness rose in the kid's bright green eyes, and he just stared helplessly back at Jack, not responding at all. He gazed horribly into Jack's face, tears now leaving watermarks on his tiny cheeks as they dripped from his eyes. Jack swore he could see deep-rooted frustration etched on the kid's tiny face, too. Finally, after an eternity of silent staring, the boy reached up a tiny, trembling hand to touch his ear, as if to say, I can't hear you.
Deaf.
The word swum instantly into Jack's mind. The boy couldn't hear him.
But even that wasn't a problem, was it? Jack's heart began to pound and a smile overtook his face as he remembered Jerry. The older newsboy had left the Lodging House the year before, taking a job as a streetsweeper. But Jerry had also been Deaf - and, consequently, all the Manhattan newsboys knew rudimentary American sign language.
Jack raised his hand to his forehead and gave the boy what looked like a small salute. Hello. The rest of the signs flowed smoothly from his practiced fingers. My name is J-A-C-K. He gave the kid a winning smile, hoping to inspire trust in him, get him to open up.
But the child's blank look didn't change. He just stared back, the confusion and vulnerability in his eyes deepening. And Jack felt his heart pang as he realized the problem.
You don't even know how to sign?
The kid's blank stare was all the answer that Jack needed. He'd heard of this happening before, but had never thought any parents could be so heartbreakingly cruel. The story was always the same, and always awful: Deaf kid is born to hearing parents; hearing parents don't bother to learn how to sign; so, kid grows up totally unable to communicate and cut off from language.
The boy just kept staring, and Jack, starting helplessly back, felt like he wanted to cry.
Now, back in the Lodging House, Jack contemplates the child again, still curled up and sobbing his heart out. Getting the kid back home had been one of the hardest things of Jack's life. The boy was crippled, his left leg horribly twisted beyond use, and he couldn't even stand without his crutch. To make matters worse, the kid didn't understand what was happening as Jack shepherded him home; all he knew was that Jack, able to communicate with him only through a few sad smiles, was picking him up and dragging him through the streets to a building he'd never been before. The boy fought hard every step of the way, but Jack didn't let him escape, knowing that he had to get the boy to safety. Once they'd gotten inside the Lodging House and Jack let him go, the boy stumbled to a corner and broke down in tears.
It is hurting all of them, seeing the boy like that. And it hurts more to know that they can't talk to him or sign to him; they have no way to calm him down. The minute the boy got inside, Specs had tried to have a conversation with him, the older boy's signs deliberate and clear. But the kid just wrenched himself away and collapsed on the ground, unable to understand what Specs was trying to do.
Jack is worried sick. The kid has never had a conversation in his life. He doesn't understand the simplest words; he is completely cut off. Jack is sure he doesn't think in language; after all, he's never talked to anybody in his life. Jack isn't even sure if the kid understands the concept of words at all, if the kid understands that there's something called language.
Poor kid. Jack is completely genuine when he thinks it.
The second thought comes just as naturally, but it's much more worrisome: I have no idea how we're going to help him. How can he possibly begin to talk to a kid who can't understand any form of language?
The newsies are getting a bit restless now, without anything they can do to help the boy. Nobody quite wants to kick him out onto the hostile streets (although there is some bitterness hanging in the air from the older boys; Jack can feel it). Yet they can't communicate with the kid; he just sits there and cries. Nobody knows how to reach out to him.
Jack is still sitting on the couch, contemplating the boy with his own eyes watering. He feels a slight pressure on the other end of the cushion, and it's Specs again, sitting down contemplatively and keeping his dark eyes fixed on the sobbing child. Jack can see an idea growing in the back of his mind.
"You tried writin' ta him?" Specs said softly. "He might be able ta read a bit."
Jack looks up, eyes brightening with optimism for the first time in half an hour. "That's a thought," he muses softly, hardly daring to hope. If this works, it'll be an incredible breakthrough. "Ya think he can?"
Specs doesn't answer for a moment, and when he does, his words are carefully measured. "I'm not sure," he says slowly, "but better to try than to not, wouldn'tcha say?"
It makes sense, at least. Jack knows that he shouldn't allow himself to hope so much, but hopeful he is. He has one more shot to have a conversation with this child; he has to try.
Jack stands, taking the paper and the pencil that Specs offers him. He makes his cautious way back over to the kid, trying not to startle him, knowing all too well how badly that can end.
Jack slowly squats next to the sobbing child. The boy doesn't register his presence until Jack touches his shoulder, and then he nearly jumps out of his skin, his throat choking out a raw cry (the first sound Jack has heard him make, besides gasps). Just like before, he curls defensively in on himself; and just like before, it breaks Jack's heart.
But Jack keeps his own blue eyes fixed on the boy's green ones, and slowly shows him the paper. He writes slowly and carefully, aware that his handwriting (and spelling, too, for that matter) are mediocre at the best of times. The block letters that appear on the paper are the clearest Jack has ever written.
Hello, they read. My name is Jack. What is your name?
Jack can't breathe as the kid's blue eyes take in the paper, and his heart pounds, waiting for a reaction.
He gets a reaction, all right; but it is nothing at all like what Jack had hoped for.
He sits in the corner shaking, trying to forget where he is, but he can't. The image of the place he has been taken is firmly impressed in his mind: the big room, with all the big boys in it. He's scared. It reminds him of the Other Place. That one had lots of big boys, too. That one had hundreds of children with no parents.
That place still gives him nightmares to think about.
It has been a crazy day. He wishes the big boy, the one with the green eyes, had just left him alone, let him be. He wishes the boy with green eyes hadn't dragged him out of his alley.
The boy with green eyes came up to him on the street that day and did the Mouth Thing. It's so confusing. Everybody does the Mouth Thing and expects him to understand, but he doesn't. He doesn't know what it means. They all seem to, though - they all seem to think it's the most intuitive thing in the world - and it's making him believe that there is something badly wrong with him.
He has been dragged here, to this room with all the big boys, and he doesn't know what to think. At least the others are leaving him alone for now; but he's sure that at some point they will start tormenting him. It is inevitable. At the Other Place, they started after a couple hours. It will certainly be the same here.
Why didn't they just let him be?
Suddenly there is something on his shoulder, and he whirls. It is the boy with green eyes again. He flinches, recoiling. The boy with green eyes looks concerned for a minute, and he shies away more. He is on edge, terror of what is to come underscored by the dreadful resignation. Whenever he is in a room with lots of big boys, pain happens.
The boy with green eyes doesn't hit him yet, though. He cautiously opens his eyes a bit more, and the white in front of him slides slowly into focus. It is a sheet of some kind. Blank. He isn't sure what it means. He isn't sure what the boy with green eyes wants from him.
The boy with green eyes smiles slightly, and then he moves his hand over the sheet. Behind the hand strokes, drawings materialize. Symbols, of some sort. They are all the same dull shade of gray, hard and uniform, incredibly different but somehow all the same. It unsettles him.
The boy with green eyes looks at him expectantly, as if the symbols are supposed to mean something. That's when it hits him. This is another trick, another thing that's wrong with him, another thing he should know but can't. There is the Mouth Thing and the Hands Thing and now this.
They mean something to everybody else, but not him. Clearly, there is something wrong with him.
He doesn't like it. It hurts. He wants to understand, but it is complete gibberish. He doesn't know why people keep tricking him. He doesn't know why people keep trying. Don't they know there is something wrong with him? Don't they know it won't work?
He wants to understand. He wants to understand so very badly. He wants to know the Mouth Thing and the Hands Thing and the Symbols Thing. But he just can't.
There is something so, so wrong with him.
He lashes out with his frustration. His feet kick and his arms start to thrash. Soon his whole body is spasming wildly, out of control. He feels something in his neck, and the entire inside of his throat feels raw as something tears out from inside of him. He is kicking madly now. The boy with green eyes is trying to hold him back, but he can't stop.
He wants to know. He wants to understand.
Why can't he? What is wrong with him?
The frustration, the anger, the pain rips through him wildly. He keeps fighting. The boy with green eyes is holding him down. He doesn't care. He keeps struggling and kicking and hitting. Now his cheeks are wet again and he cannot stop. He cannot calm himself down.
The boy with green eyes touches his cheek, and it feels good. He spasms, trembling, feeling the roughness in his throat slowly subside, the seizures in his neck grow slower. The hand doesn't leave his face. It feels nice. It is like nothing he has ever felt before.
The hand runs softly over his cheek and it is comforting. It stops the fighting. It stops the shaking.
He is better. He is back in control. That's good. When he is out of control, bad things happen.
He is ashamed now. He cannot look at the boy with green eyes. But slowly, a finger is under his chin, turning his face so he must look up. He is still quaking slightly.
The boy with green eyes gives him a sad smile and brushes a tear away from his face. His gaze slowly meets the green eyes. They are calm.
He likes it.
He doesn't smile, but he doesn't look away either.
Jack finally can breathe a sigh of relief when the kid looks up at him. The child's outburst was terrifying. One moment, Jack was sitting there and extending a note to the boy; the next, the kid had exploded into a fitful tantrum, screaming and sobbing and yelling gibberish. Jack hadn't expected to see such an intense fight from a child so tiny.
Now, though, the kid's calmer. His face is flooded in tears, but he's stopped fighting. He's peering up at Jack with terrified, hopeless eyes, but at least the fighting has subsided.
Jack has no idea what he did to get the kid so upset. Could the boy possibly have a negative mental association with writing? Jack's not sure, but it worries him. Plus, clearly, the boy can't read. So that's another mode of communication rendered worthless - and Jack can't help but feel disappointed.
And right now, he has no idea what to do. He's kneeling next to the boy, keeping a gentle hand stroking his cheek softly. The boy seems to trust him now, at least a little, and that's encouraging. But Jack knows that trust can shatter in a heartbeat.
And with a kid this fragile and this confused, it wouldn't take much.
Jack slowly inches back from the kid, who whimpers and tries to grab him as he moves away. The child is terrified that he's being abandoned, and it breaks Jack's heart. Slowly, though, Jack gets to his feet and offers a hand out to the younger boy, gesturing that he should do the same.
Jack can feel the stunned eyes of the other newsboys. They've been staring - painfully obviously - since the kid's outburst. Jack attacks them all with a harsh glare and they look away sheepishly. The boy doesn't even notice.
He struggles to his feet, groping around for his crutch. Race - who's swooped in from who-knows-where - offers it to him gently. Wide-eyed, the boy takes it, shying away from Race. Jack notices the hurt look in the newsie's blue eyes, but he shakes his head slightly: it's not your fault.
The Deaf boy stumbles confusedly through the halls of the Lodging House, guided by Jack's arm around his neck. He presses himself into the older child, hiding from the others; they look, pained, after him. The kid just keeps his eyes downcast and straight ahead, not breaking his gaze for anything.
Finally, they arrive at the dormitory, if such a fancy word could be applied to such a plain room. It's filled with simple, utilitarian bunk beds of hard wood, stark but sturdy. It's not fancy, but it's warm and dry and neat.
The kid sways on his feet when he sees it, peering up at Jack with such sadly hopeful eyes. Jack feels tears in his own eyes. "Come on, kid," he murmures, knowing the boy can't hear him. The boy flinches slightly but follows just the same.
Jack lets the boy sit on one of the back bunks, as far as he can get from the rest of the energetic boys. The boy is looking up in total confusion, and Jack does his best to reassure him without words. All he can do is smile slightly.
The boy whimpers and curls away from Jack and into the bed. He snuggles under the thick wool blanket and pulls the pillow over his head, burrowing deeper into the sheets and totally blocking out the world. The message is clear enough: Leave me alone. And in just a couple of seconds, Jack can tell from the rise and fall of the boy's impression that he's fast asleep.
Jack swallows hard, just staring at the boy for a few moments. This poor kid… Jack isn't at all sure how he'll teach him to be able to converse. He can't read, he can't hear, he can't sign, and he has zero concept of language. It will be ridiculously challenging to make him understand.
I will, though, Jack pledges to the boy's quiet form. I will. I promise I will.
A tiny hand is curled around the edge of the blanket. A sudden urge filling him, Jack grabs the hand and plants a soft kiss on it. Then he sets the still limb back down. It latches onto the blanket again.
A small smile creeps onto Jack's face. He's watched countless other kids sleep like this, clutching onto their blanket just like this boy is. The child may be crippled, Deaf, mute, and illiterate, but he's far from a lost case, and he's far more similar to most children than he might think he is. Jack is sure of that. And by the time he's been with the newsies for a few months, Jack is certain that he'll be chattering away as much as any five-year-old, albeit with his hands.
I'll make sure of it, Jack promises gently. I promise.
So... there you go!
If we have any Deaf readers on this site, please, please, please give me feedback. Since Crutchie can't use sign language or read, obviously he's drastically cut off from the world, unlike most Deaf people. Still, though, I'd love any perspective you can offer!
Everybody else, too - please leave a review! Tell me what you loved, hated, or were uncertain about.
Thanks so much! I love you all! See you next chapter!