HE WHO HAS EARS TO HEAR ...
Minisinoo

Notes: The title references a Biblical quote, and the debate between Kelly and Scott borrows from the novelization, not just the film.


I've sometimes wondered how Erik and Charles could have been so blind for so long as to what was going on between Scott and me right under their noses. My only explanation is that they trusted us that much, because, God knew, we weren't exactly subtle in conducting our affair, even if we thought we were. I was too much in love, and Scott's just no good at lying, period.

Yet I can't say they were wrong to trust us. You can care about someone, even care deeply, and still think they're utterly wrongheaded. Erik and Charles should know that, as well. But since the beginning, we'd been aware of their friendship. We'd just never told them about ours.

Until today.

I think they're both reeling.

The funny thing is, I wasn't looking for Scott. I just stumbled over him by chance, and we were too deep into the relationship before we realized we had such opposing philosophies -- not to mention conflicting loyalties. You can't fall out of love with someone just because logic says so. And ironically, I think part of the reason I do love him so is also the reason I disagree with him. He has this optimism about the future, and the courage to go with it. That's why he's twenty minutes away from getting up in front of a room full of senators who'll eat him alive. And the crazy thing is, I'm getting up there with him.

Oh, not to speak. I have nothing to say to money-grubbing, dishonest politicians. The democracy might have worked once, but I think it's seriously fucked now. Scott still thinks it's better than the alternative. In any case, I'm following him up there only to be his ears, and not as myself -- either my blue self, or the public Jean Grey. I'm just a hired interpreter, as far as anyone else knows. Technically, Scott doesn't even need me. He's speaking aloud. That's amazing enough in itself -- or shows his level of desperation -- and we've spent hours on end, working at his enunciation (he's not half so bad as he thinks he is), but he can do his own signing and reads lips perfectly well. Yet I just . . . I need to know he's hearing exactly what they say . . . not just what they let him see that they're saying. Whether or not he likes to admit it, Scott is handicapped. He can do an amazing number of things by himself, and do them so well, he fools people into thinking he can hear. But he can't hear. And I'm along to see to it that they don't take advantage of him for that.

And that's how Erik and Charles found out. Erik had wanted me to sit in the audience today to monitor people, the same as he plans to. Naturally, I can't be in two places at once, and while I could have lied and told him that I was where he wanted me, Scott and I discussed it, and decided we were tired of playing games. We're in love with each other, and they need to know that. If anyone can understand, it's them. So we told them this morning.

Right now, they're more mad than understanding, I'm afraid. I find it funny (pot calling the kettle black), but Scott's upset. Yet we haven't betrayed them; we'd be betraying ourselves if we did. Scott believes in Xavier's dream, that peaceful co-existence is possible. And I believe history proves him wrong; it's going to take something drastic. Anti-Semitism and hounding of gypsies was accepted in Europe up until the holocaust. It took the deaths of millions to show people how ugly hate looks, but I have no plans to become a martyr to mutant acceptance. There's got to be a better way, a more proactive way than Xavier's . . . and Scott's. Scott's a man of words. I'm a woman of actions.

But he's not just a man of words, he's also a man OF his word, and he's upset right now because he lied (by omission) to the man who'd trusted him most. Once Charles gets over his anger, I suspect he'll be more willing to forgive Scott than Scott is to forgive himself. But now, Scott's staring at the opposite wall as we sit in a pair of seats in a rear conference room, waiting to be called, and if he keeps grinding his teeth like that, he'll need dental work. Not to mention that he'll be too emotionally scattered to concentrate on the hearings. But Charles is in the room and I wish the old man would leave; he's making Scott worse, not better, and I know Charles can hear what I'm thinking if he wants, so I project it in his direction and, when he looks up at me, I smile. It's not friendly.

I believe it unsettles him that I don't care if he reads my mind. He's used to people feeling intimidated by his telepathy -- at least a little. He relies on that, even if he won't admit he does. Yet I've lived with a telepath for years, despite the fact Erik's telepathy isn't as strong as Charles'. They have a peculiar code of ethics, telepaths, and I can understand it, even respect it, so Charles doesn't scare me. I have a pretty good idea of what he'll do. And what he won't. There are things I won't do, too, even though I can. I won't fuck for secrets. I'm a spy, not a whore, and even if I wear another face, I avoid wearing it in bed. And while I've killed, yes, I've never assassinated anyone -- and never will. Even Erik can't make me do that, though with my skills, it would be so very easy. I have my limits, and I have to look myself in the mirror each morning. So I understand Charles -- and Erik. Virginia Woolf once said, "To have freedom, we must control ourselves." She was my friend, when I was a girl with a room of my own -- consigned to it, like a tower prison. And I learned to control myself exquisitely.

Now, it's just the three of us in this room and I don't have to keep up pretenses that I'm a mere hiree, so I reach over to touch Scott's arm. He starts. Charles' eyes follow my gesture, then he turns his whole face away. I'm not sure if he's trying to give us privacy, or if he's disgusted. To Scott, I sign, It'll be okay. "It" covers a lot of things.

He smiles faintly and nods once, then starts flipping through his notes. He doesn't really need them -- his memory for words is nearly eidetic -- but they're his security blanket. If he were just signing, I'm not sure he'd bother. But he's speaking.

He's speaking.

Charles still isn't looking at us. Leaning over, getting almost in Scott's face, I sign, I love you. His eyes soften and he smiles again, more genuinely. He puts his notes back in the maroon folder sitting on his laptop.

And we wait.

In five minutes, we're called out and led through back halls to the main senate chamber doors. Charles doesn't follow, but we're under the public eye here and I'm reduced again to his assistant and interpreter. After another brief wait, we're led into the wide chamber with the senators at their tables on the floor and observers in the balcony above, and Scott's introduced. "Scott Summers, who holds doctoral degrees in both linguistics and computer science from Johns Hopkins. I think several of us in the senate, maybe most of us, are familiar with Dr. Summers already."

There's polite clapping as Scott steps up to the podium and plugs his laptop into the projector they've provided. He may be giving his speech aloud, but he's too nervous of his voice to engage in extempore verbal after-debate. He fears sounding 'retarded.' Hearing persons make certain assumptions connecting clarity of speech with mental acuity that puts the hearing impaired at a disadvantage. So he'll be typing his replies, as he can type almost as fast as he can speak. I take my own place off to the side as he adjusts the mic, then looks at me, speaking into it: "Testing." People jump and he winces. I gesture to lower his voice and he tries again. "Testing." Better, I sign, but indicate lower still.

Loudness is Scott's real problem, and when he's nervous, he gets louder. After all, he can't hear himself. "I'm sorry," he says now to the room a large. "A little volume adjustment there." It's meant as humor and Scott usually wins sympathy by joking about his deafness, but only a few people laugh. That's not good. Senator Robert Kelly of Indiana -- who introduced this damn bill -- is sitting there looking smug, and I want to beat the smirk off his face. But I can't. Not yet, not here. His day is coming, though. Soon.

"I want to thank you for letting me address you today," Scott begins, "since the question of mutant registration doesn't precisely involve linguistics." There's another strangled laugh and my hands flow around his words, shaping them with my fingers. It's for show. I'm superfluous to everyone but Scott.

"While I was introduced as Dr. Summers, I'm not here to speak in any real professional capacity. I'm sure Dr. McCoy already presented a thorough scientific explanation of mutant genetics and origins, and I'd be a fool to try adding to that. I'm just a translator. But maybe that's useful in itself. Translators are bridges. I've spent my life throwing down walls of incomprehension. That's what we do, translators. We make people intelligible to one another.

"I don't just translate between languages. Sometimes I translate between communities -- the hearing community and the deaf community. I'm an ambassador. I explain to hearing persons how it feels to live in a silent world. I can't hear when they call my gate at the airport. I can't hear station announcements on the metro or the Blue Light special in K-Mart." A few giggles greet that. "I can't hear musak in department store elevators -- and maybe that's a blessing -- but I can't hear my best friends' voice, either. And that's not a blessing." The crowd's listening to him now, and it's amazing, how he does this -- pulls them in. "I can't hear 'excuse me' when someone needs to get by in an aisle, or 'hello' in the street, or 'can I help you?' in a store, and I need a placard that reads, 'I am deaf, I'm not ignoring you,' instead of the reverse. I don't even have hearing aids to give people a clue -- hearing aids don't do me any good. So people make assumptions, and if you work in the hearing world, you learn patience, and not to take offense. You learn to see the world as others might. You translate."

The room is silent. He has them. I don't know how he knew this was the right approach, but he knew. They're listening, and they're not hostile. Not anymore. Kelly is aware, and looking sour. Oh, Scott, be careful. Hell hath no fury like a politician upstaged.

"But I'm not here to talk to you about being deaf. I'm here to talk to you about being a mutant, because I'm not just a deaf translator, I'm a mutant deaf translator. I came to put a human face on the so-called 'mutant problem.'"

The chamber has gone even more silent. While many senators already knew he was a mutant -- it's not a secret -- the fact he just announced it on national television, even if just C-SPAN, is significant. No one can fault Scott's bravery. There's mutant registration and then there's mutant declaration, and I hope to hell he knows what he's doing.

"My gift, you see, is my facility with languages. My mutation is pattern recognition, particularly in language. It's fate's irony that an accident took my hearing. I wasn't born that way. But I was born a mutant, and I went into linguistics to become a bridge. It's a gift, not a curse. It's a gift no less than if I'd been born with a gene for extra height and agility and played for the Lakers, or could calculate the curve of a kick to put it in a goal like Beckham, or could write symphonies in my head and never have to correct them later like Mozart, or could translate life to canvass like Rembrandt.

"Talent is a difficult thing to quantify. Who knows where it comes from? Maybe it doesn't really matter. I believe what matters is how I use what I have, not how I came by it. My vitae says I'm fluent in twenty-seven languages. That's a little fib. Well, it's not a fib -- I really can read twenty-seven languages, and I dabble in a dozen more. But the truth is I can learn any language, just give me three weeks of intensive immersion. I've only gotten up to twenty seven so far.

"What do I do with this gift? I translate for museums, mostly. Sometimes I translate for the State Department, if they call me. It's a terrible power, you know, conjugating verbs." Ted Kennedy snorts, and it sets off a ripple of laughter. "I could take over the world in Swaheli!" The laughter bubbles and Scott smiles. "The truth is, I'm not very dangerous, unless you want me to talk you to death --"

And before Scott can continue, Kelly is on his feet. Apparently, he's had enough, or realizes he's about to lose his advantage to Scott Summers' golden tongue. It's an unusually rude gesture to interrupt a speaker, but Scott isn't the only one who understands a dramatic gesture. "Mr. Summers," Kelly says. "We're well-aware of your generous and manifold contributions to the Smithsonian in the area of translations. But I'm not sure what that has to do with the matter at hand."

Turning to Scott, I sign Kelly's words, but Scott isn't even looking at me. He's leaning into the podium and his lips are pursed while he watches Kelly. Abruptly, he lets go and turns to his computer, pulling it around to type: I think it has everything to do with the matter at hand. If you'd permit me to *finish*, that is. And I have to admire Scott for his cool. But then, he knew he'd face opposition, and Scott thrives on anything to do with words, including debate.

"The matter at hand," Kelly goes on, ignoring Scott, "is a question -- Are mutants dangerous?" Ostensibly, Kelly is speaking to Scott, but he's looking around the Senate chamber and there's murmuring from the balcony, among the observers. I sign his words for Scott.

A question that I was trying to answer, Scott types in reply. I was trying to point out --

"Oh, I don't think anyone's scared of you, Mr. Summers." Which is a loaded comment if I ever heard one. "But there are dangerous mutants out there -- would you deny it? You're willing to step forward because, as you yourself stated, you don't have a very powerful mutation --"

Scott's eyes narrow and he pounds his keyboard: I don't have an overtly *dangerous* mutation, senator. 'Power' depends on one's definitions. Which is mightier? The sword or the word? Wouldn't you say Socrates, Jesus of Nazareth, Muhammad, Gandhi, or Martin Luther King are men of *words*? Yet they changed the world. You can't change the world with a spear, Senator Kelly -- or a law. You only conquer it. And all empires fall. You change the world by talking . . . and listening with an open mind, regardless of whether your ears work right.

And he just derailed Kelly's arguments right back onto his own track, but Kelly won't permit him to stay there. "My apologies, Mr. Summers. I didn't mean to insult your . . . gift."

Low blow, Kelly, I think as I sign Kelly's response.

No insult taken, Scott replies, generously. He can't let Kelly's words stand and he knows it. I simply wanted to be perfectly clear about our definitions, since it's difficult to communicate unless you understand the words you're using -- which I ought to know. Power and danger aren't synonyms. My cat is dangerous to the toilet paper roll in the bathroom -- tends to shred it -- but I have the power of putting it up where he can't reach it.

And that gets laughter, while Kelly looks as pissed as Scott's cat deprived. Scott's just not taking the man seriously enough, which annoys him no end. "But would you deny that some mutants are dangerous?"

Of course not, Scott replies. But so's a twelve-year-old with his dad's pistol and too many viewings of John Wayne.

"That's why we have gun registration in this country, Mr. Summers."

But gun registration isn't going to stop someone from irresponsible gun *handling*, Senator Kelly. As I'm sure you're well aware, the majority of injuries from firearms in this country occur either as accidents or in situations of domestic violence -- with legally registered weapons. Scott's fingers hammer the keyboard so hard I can hear the clack-clack a good twenty feet away. This is another of his personal passions. You *teach* people. You make them responsible. That's called *education*, not registration. Guns aren't toys. And mutations may be a gift, but they're also a responsibility. Asking mutants to register themselves won't achieve anything except exposing them to possible violence from hate crimes. If you want to take care of the mutant 'problem' -- as you insist on calling it -- then you *educate* people, Senator.

"You just used an interesting word," Kelly replies. "You said 'expose.' But what, I wonder, are mutants trying to hide?"

Well I don't seem to be hiding anything, do I? Scott pauses to gesture with one hand towards the cameras. I just 'exposed' myself on national television. But you can hardly deny that some mutants who've come forward to reveal themselves have been met with fear and hostility . . . even violence. I'm an adult; I make my own choices and take my own chances. But are you prepared to force a fourteen-year-old girl to register as a mutant and then live in terror of being beaten up -- or worse -- after school? We're not criminals, Senator. I've never even had a traffic ticket.

"Funny you should bring up fourteen-year-old girls, Mr. Summers." Kelly leans back and says something to his assistant, a man I know well. I'd been studying him for weeks. Henry Peter Gyrich. Gyrich disappears towards a back table and returns with a folder while Kelly continues to speak. "You talk about your hypothetical fourteen-year-old as if she were defenseless, but" -- Kelly holds up the folder that's been placed in his hand -- "these are mutants we're talking about, not normal people."

Scott's jaw clenches even as Kelly turns his back, holding the folder higher and speaking to the other senators and the balcony audience, not to Scott. Scott's effectively cut off from what he's saying and frustrated, he glances at me. This is why I came -- this moment. I'm not going to let that snake take advantage of Scott's deafness. I sign his words: "Let me show you what mutants are trying to hide, Mr. Summers. A girl from Chicago, one of Mr. Summers' touted fourteen-year-olds, can walk through walls. I doubt she has much to worry about from a physical assault, does she? I'd say it's we who need to worry about her. What's to stop her from walking into a bank vault? Or the White House? Or our houses? And here" -- He pulls out a photo to wave it -- "this was taken by a police officer in Secaucus, New Jersey. A man in a minor altercation literally melted the car in front of him. These are not isolated incidents."

There's murmuring in the balconies now as Kelly draws his number one weapon against us -- fear. Scott watches my hands and if he can't hear the swell in the balconies, he can see the movement. And I can see the rage in his face. Suddenly, he pushes away his computer and leans over, speaking into the mic again -- "Senator Kelly!" -- and it's loud. All his volume control has fled so his words crackle through the room, making people jump. I sign furiously for him to tone it down, but he's not looking at me. "If you intend to have a discussion with me, I'd appreciate it if you'd turn so I can see what you're saying." Startled, the senator has turned, and he's just too surprised to protest. Scott's trumping with the handicapped sympathy card, and maybe it's not fair, but Kelly wasn't playing fair, either. I'm surprised, myself -- but because Scott's talking. He's so upset, he's talking, and without a script or prepped enunciation practice. And if he does sound better than most pre-verbal deaf persons, there's still a slightly 'stuffy' tone to his voice and a softness on consonants that's peculiar if one isn't used to it. If they misjudge him for that, I'll skin them all.

"I understand the hearing can forget," he goes on, and he's toned it down finally to a level the speakers don't distort, "but it's generally considered rude to turn your back on a deaf person, even one with a translator." He gestures to me. "Now, as for what you were saying -- you asked what's to stop this young girl from walking into a bank vault? Morals, senator. Yes, she could walk into a bank vault, but the same talent would permit her to walk through a collapsed building looking for survivors. Imagine how many lives her power could save after an earthquake -- or a bombing. It's not what she can do, but how she uses it. And that's not determined by her DNA. We teach our children to be responsible or irresponsible, to be selfless or selfish.

"Children learn what they live. Have you heard that poem? 'If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn. If children live with hostility, they learn to fight. If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive . . . if children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty . . .' It goes on, but you get the idea. What I really like is the end, though. 'If children live with acceptance, they learn to find love in the world. If children live with recognition, they learn to have a goal. If children live with sharing, they learn to be generous. If children live with honesty and fairness, they learn what truth and justice are. If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and those around them. If children live with friendliness, they learn that the world is a nice place in which to live . . . With what are your children living?'"

The chamber has gone silent again and Kelly looks at once thunderstruck and furious. Tears prick my own eyes because Scott's speaking from his heart now, and the depth of his conviction shines out of his face. He's the survivor who wants others to survive, the teacher who wants others to understand. This is the man I love. And he's rendered them ashamed, even if only momentarily.

He takes advantage of it, though. "We find in people what we expect. If we expect the worst, then that's what we'll get. Yes, there are mutants who would misuse their powers for their own gain. But there are non-mutants who'd do the same, and I think -- I believe -- that most people, mutant or non-mutant, want to be good. We do the best we can do, and if we expect others to use their powers generously, then we'll find more who will than who won't. If we fear people, however, they go on the defensive.

"There's no reason for that. No reason. I enjoy using my gift to help others. I get a kick out of it. I'm not ashamed of what I can do; I'm proud, and want to share it. All I ask is that you permit me to do that. Don't be afraid of me. Gifts are neutral. It's the hearts of men and women that determine how they act -- regardless of whether they have an activated X-gene. Mutant registration says, 'We don't trust you.' It's a pessimistic response, not an optimistic one. Despite everything that's happened to me in my life -- the loss of my family when I was a child, the loss of my hearing -- I remain an optimist. All I ask is for a little optimism from you, as well."

Scott's eyes sweep the chamber as he closes his folder. "Thank you for listening." Then he unplugs his computer and steps down. He's said his piece, even managed to segue right into the original ending of his speech, and (for a wonder) Kelly stayed silent. I doubt the man was convinced, or will remain silent long, but Scott wasn't driven from the podium.

That's important, and he's done all he can do for the moment. But it's not all I can do, all the Brotherhood can do. For us, the fight's just begun.

Feedback always welcome (of course).