Signs

     As my sons got older and I saw my full time mothering gig coming to an end, I spent a lot of time pondering the question: What Do I Want to Be When my Children Grow Up?

     I learned that there was a shortage of sign language interpreters, and since I had studied American Sign Language many years ago, I thought it could be a nice second career for me.  I enrolled in a program at Harper Community College.
     The week before classes began I bought my books and had my photo taken for my student ID.  While at the bookstore I bought a Harper Hawks notebook, a Harper t-shirt, and those gym shorts that all the young girls were wearing that said "Harper" on the butt.
     I was very excited to walk into my first college class in twenty-seven years. There were two girls already seated.  One had hair that was half red/half blond, and the other had a nose ring and braces.  They were discussing which soy milk they preferred while eating Fritos and Diet Coke.
     I took a seat and waited for someone to walk in who was at least old enough to have had her wisdom teeth removed.  I had read all the articles about middle-aged people returning to college.  Heck, I had seen them on the TV show Community.  But as my classmates filed in, talking about their shifts at The Gap and Starbucks, I began to panic.  I was old enough to be EVERYONE's mother.
     Our teacher started the class by signing his name and that he was deaf. He signed or acted out what he wanted us to do, and when we really couldn't understand, he wrote on the board.  After the first hour we took a break, and I made my way to the girl's bathroom where several of my classmates were already deep in conversation.

     "The boy with the hat is cute," a girl named Brittany said as I entered a stall.

     "His name is Kent," another girl said.  "He is in my biology lab."

     "Do you know if he has a girlfriend?" Brittany asked.
     "I think so," said one of the other girls.
     I went to the sink to wash my hands. I smiled at the girls but I could not think of one thing to say.

     After break, the teacher put us into groups of three to practice vocabulary.  I was put with Kent and another boy named Chris. By the time I moved my chair over to my group, the boys were hard at work.

     "How do you say, 'Asshole'? Kent asked. Chris showed him the sign.

     "What about 'Shit'?" Kent asked.  He looked at me.  "Sorry," he said.

     It was worse than I thought.  I was so old that they had to apologize for swearing in front of me.
     I'm not sure if they had any idea how old I actually was.  I did sign that I had two children, but the only sign I knew for "children" was to rock my arms like I was holding a baby.   I didn't mean to give the wrong impression.  Or maybe I did.
     By the third week we were practicing questions.  Brittany was way ahead of the rest of us.  She had deaf parents, and her first language was ASL.  She should have been in the advanced class, but she was taking our class for an easy A.
     The teacher was asking a series of "Where is?" questions, and it was my turn.  He signed the question, but I couldn't understand him.  I asked him to repeat it.  He did, but it didn't help.  I looked around the room to see if anyone else had a hand up.
     Behind her book, head down, I heard Brittany across the room whisper, "Candy machine.  Where is the candy machine?"
     Since our teacher was deaf, he wasn't aware.  I signed the answer, "In the hallway."
     I was fifty years old and I was cheating.
     When the teacher moved on to another student, I nodded my thanks to Brittany.  I thought I'd show her a picture of my son.  Maybe I could introduce them.  She seemed nice.