As an adult, the joy was even more profound, the kind of deep and lasting pleasure than can only come from being where I was supposed to be and helping in a way only I could. I tapped Andrew on the shoulder as I approached, and Andrew’s hands and fingers flew as he signed his hello to me, our conversation moving with ease and a fluidity that was gorgeous.
Andrew had been lashing out in patterns that followed my own from his age. When speaking was an obstacle, making friends was hard as hell, and Andrew was having no luck at his new school. There wasn’t the kind of support a deaf student needed in his classes, either, and it meant he stuck out even more than normal.
“Another fight?” I signed as I threw him a knowing look.
“I hate when they make fun of how I talk. How am I supposed to know what to sound like when I don’t hear any fucking sounds?” His signs were sharp, the anger lashing out in slices and punctuated jerks.
I shrugged to disarm him. “You aren’t supposed to know what you should sound like. You’re supposed to know that some people are assholes and some are good guys, and you should save your energy for the good ones instead of wasting it on the shitheads.”
It was a familiar conversation and he wasn’t having it today, deciding to change the subject instead of admitting I was right. I couldn’t blame him. Sometimes it was easier to ignore your problems as much as possible, at least for a little while.
Even after trying to come to terms with my speech impediment, I’d still rather sign than talk. My stutter was present when I was calm and straight-up debilitating when I was upset. It could get to the point that no amount of backtracking or trying to find word alternatives made a difference—my tongue, lips, and brain refused to connect. And I knew I sounded like an idiot.
There was a look people got when they heard it, this kind of immediate pity that made my self-awareness and self-consciousness fester. Sometimes they’d speak slowly to me, like just because I couldn’t say words, I must not be able to understand them either. And that’s if people were trying to be nice.
When they were mean? Fuck, I’d spent my whole life being ruthlessly mocked and tormented by other kids, foster parents… even my own parents, during my short time with them. So yeah, signing was a gift and one I was grateful to have.
“Your tattoos are so badass,” Andrew signed to me, his gaze taking in my arms, neck, and chest. I was wearing a shirt with a deep V-neck that showed off the intricate design on my chest, ravens circling a shield over my sternum. It had hurt like a bitch to get, and I didn’t regret a second of it.
“Thanks,” I signed back, relaxed in the ability to ‘speak’ freely without worrying my stutter would hold me back, and happy that Andrew seemed to be loosening up a bit. “They make me feel badass.”
“When will you tattoo me?” His black eyes twinkled with thirteen-year-old mirth.
I raised an eyebrow. “When you’re eighteen.”
Andrew threw his hands in the air and pretended to be irritated. “Not cool, man,” he signed. “I thought we were friends. That’s going to take forever!”
“We’re totally friends. See these here?” I pointed to my knuckles. Across them was written the letters H-A-L-F F-U-L-L. “We call these job stoppers. Tattoos are like any other action—there are consequences you have to be able to be man enough to accept. And you aren’t a man until you’re eighteen.”
But I waggled my eyebrows as I signed it, softening any blow Andrew might perceive.
“They didn’t stop you from getting a job.”
“I’m kind of a one-trick pony now, though. I thought all I wanted to do was tattoo, so I fell head first into the job. Literally.”
I pulled my close-cropped hair above my ear tight. I knew that Andrew could see the winks of blue and black from my first ever tattoo. Reagan had drawn a hand flashing a middle finger on the side of my head. It had been a stupid tattoo, a young me trying to shout “fuck you” to the world. Reagan had known and convinced me to put it in a place I could hide it if I needed to. Now my black hair covered it, the curls softening the anger I’d let drive me all those years ago.
“Damn!” Andrew said it out loud, a gift just for me. His smile was infectious.
Soon, Andrew and I were laughing hard enough my ribs ached. He would pause between fits of laughter to sign some truly awful tattoo ideas. The kind that would land a person in internet infamy for “best of the worst.”
After a while, I dragged over some blank paper and markers and encouraged Andrew to start drawing some of his ideas, as I settled in to do the same. I liked working on drawing with the kids in the center. Being able to articulate emotions into lines, into colors, into something tangible and real? That was my outlet. It kept my frustration at my stagnation at bay.
Sure, I’d managed to make a name for myself as a go-to tattooer. My art even popped up in frequent Instagram feeds where the comments were universally good. It meant I never hurt for clients and I could easily support myself. But was that all there was to me? Being a reformed juvenile offender and a good artist? Was that enough for me? Because whenever I looked around the youth center as just a volunteer, it stung.
I didn’t want to just volunteer a few days a week for these kids. When I saw the ones with disabilities, like Andrew, I felt like I should be doing so much more.
I knew from experience that a tall, tattooed man had difficulty convincing people to donate money. My being Latino didn’t help, either, because like I told Andrew, some people were assholes. But if I could create a fundraiser that would force people to look beyond my image and into their hearts, I was certain that we could raise enough money to fund resources to help kids like Andrew. Give him the kind of help that had saved me from ending up as a permanent resident in the county jail.
Fond memories of my mentor, Jack, rushed over me. He’d worked in a center like this one and had been the one to teach me how to sign. My foster family at the time had been on their last leg with me, ready to kick me out despite the money the state gave them to keep me.
Jack had realized I wasn’t going to get the speech therapy I needed. I was too old for it to be easy, and I didn’t have the kind of insurance that would pay for it. So he’d taught me how to sign himself. His lessons kept me out of trouble, and they gave me the gift of communication, freeing me from the constant humiliation I experienced with my stutter.
But Jack had been a paid social worker, able to put in consistent, long-term time with me.
This center didn’t have that. It had me, and there was only so much time I could afford to put in. What they needed was funding and paid, experienced full-time staff.
After Andrew showed me a truly ridiculous but completed drawing, I grabbed a blue marker from the jar on our table and waved it at Andrew as a reward. I pointed to his arm, and he placed it on the table, palm side up, knowing the game.
For months I’d been giving him temporary tattoos, a compromise to help encourage him not to rush into the real thing and get some Bic pen stick-and-poke disaster rather than a piece of art. Wielding the marker with flair, I popped the cap off and started mapping a design in my head. Andrew was going to want something cocky, cool but unusual. Like him.
Smiling to myself, I settled in to work, creating the outline first. Andrew sat still as a statue, allowing me to move quickly, building the lines that would provide the foundation for his “tattoo.”