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Is it the end of my interrogation? Did I pass the test?
Yaya sits up straight, her back so tense it’s like someone strapped a steel pipe to it. She wears a quietly determined look. One I imagine she’s probably worn when making her case as a model.
“One more question.”
I gesture for her to go ahead.
“Are you prepared to raise a child who’d, culturally, be a part of both the deaf and hearing world?”
“You mean CODA?” I’ve done my research. I know that CODA means Child of a Deaf Adult and that 90% of CODAs are hearing.
“I mean,” Yaya keeps observing me, “I want my future children to feel at home in my community. I want them to know sign. I don’t want them interpreting for me,” she does a proud little head toss that makes me want to kiss her, “but it’s important that they understand both languages and experience both worlds.” Her hands tremble as if she’s getting emotional. After a deep breath, she adds, “What are your thoughts on that?”
The question hits me right between the ribs. Is raising our child in a bilingual home something I should be scared of? Because I’m not. Not one bit.
After being with Yaya, it’s become clearer to me how important accessibility is. I wish I’d learned ASL sooner. Wish I’d had more knowledge before I met her. That feeling isn’t something I can contain. Even now, it’s extending to initiatives I’d like to implement at work and in Talia’s school.
“The honest answer?” I sign back.
“No.” She rolls her eyes. “I want you to lie to me. Yes, the honest answer.”
I almost laugh but, from the intense look in her eyes, I figure I shouldn’t.
“Honestly… I want to have kids withyou. Full stop.”
There’s a pause where neither of us moves.
“And,” I continue, “I want those kids to be secure and happy in who they are as people. That’s important to me whether they’re deaf or hearing.”
She blinks slowly, absorbing everything I’m signing.
“I don’t fully understand your culture or your experiences, but I respect it and I want to learn. And that’s how I wish to raise our children. I value our child being bilingual and bicultural, fully secure in their sense of purpose and self-worth. I want them to communicate, make friends, learn, study and do whatever they want in life. I want to support them to pursue their dreams. I want them to know that they can achieve it, even if they fail at first. And above all,” I pause, “I want to do that with you.”
She sits there, working through something in her mind.
Then, to my surprise, she plants both hands on the table and leans completely over. Her ponytail swings over her left shoulder as she pushes over the nachos and plants a soft kiss on my lips.
It’s different from the kiss in front of the hostess. She was possessive there. A tad annoyed even.
Now her soft lips press to mine. Gentle. Sweet. Tender.
A whisper of a caress and yet it communicates her feelings more loudly than if she’d signed ‘I like you too’.
Yaya pulls back, brackets my face with both hands and goes in to give me a quick, playful kiss. To my surprise, she voices between kisses.
“You. Are. A. Sweetheart.”
When she reclaims her seat, I quickly peek outside to make sure the sun is in the sky because, right now, it feels like the sun is glowing out of my chest.
Calmly, Yaya flips her hair over her shoulder and signs, “Eat. You said you were hungry.”
Eat?I’m supposed to eat after that? My belly’s full. I could unbutton my pants from how full I am. Her pants don’t have buttons though. Hers would be very easy to roll off, being that they’re yoga pants. And it wouldn’t take much for my pants to be off either.
And then I could see what other pieces of her clothes I could get rid of…
Yaya waves her hands in front of my face, laughing and shaking her head. She signs, “Ease up, tiger. I’m not on the menu today.”
I grin and dig into the food the waitress brings.
