I've always known. My eyes have never seen the beauty of the world, or of the little beauty in smoggy L.A. I can barely hear the familiar honking horns and my puppy, Basker, as he whined and scratches at my door. I lay on my bed, taking solace at the comfort of my room. It's arranged just so so I can move around. Mom and Dad let me blare music, so I can listen. The truth is, I've spoken maybe fifty words in my life. I communicate with Braille, sign language, or movements with my hands.
It's not that speaking is a disability; for me, I've never seen the need to. Everyone believes I am disabled enough to not hear their insults. Depression has caused me to hate speaking. The little things I hear are harsh.
"She's stupid," a kid rants. However, he's never seen my abilities. I know French and English. I can ace a test based on question alone. The things kids say are so absurd I've never believed them. Until middle school. They also have never understood the want for sight, hearing, and speaking. I would speak. But if I did, would it matter?
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Spaced Out
SpiritualDawn Tenor has gone through life spaced out. Literally. She is blind, and her hearing isn't good. Dawn goes through life facing the same question; will her voice ever be heard?
