Alexa Barnes
First I have to learn in English A two-fingered sideways salute marks the beginning of my sequence. Index finger to my chest, then paired to double-tap my palm before flexing my left hand into a series of unfamiliar forms. Imitating an umpire, I roll them together, pinching the air. Finger to chest, then lips. Again and again, I sign, reaching for meanings. When my hands stutter, I look to the left of the sun, as though the heavens will open and hand me an answer. Then I remember the sign for learn, and my eyes snap back to a resting posture, thanking my brain, not the sky. My finger taps a red circle, repeating my sequence with a look of intense concentration as the sunlight scatters across my face and floor. I am hearing. I finish. I smile. I type. Hello. I am learning to sign A-S-L. I’m a beginner. I am hearing. That’s dope. He says, with words and the corner of his hair. I smile. Hand to chest, a single pass over my face as I smile again. That means thank you. But you’ll have to wait a while for more, the letters are hard. Seven thousand nine hundred twenty four erudite, Times New Roman words later, I sign again. Finger to chest, a two-finger tap of the palm, imaginary typing, a double tap as though conducting an invisible orchestra. Four fingerspelled letters. Really three with bookends. I learned to spell. This is your name. Closed fist covering my thumb. Closed fist with my thumb out. Index finger curled over middle finger, standing vertically. Fingers together, hovering in a semicircle above a semicircular thumb. Two fingers extended inward, the others in a fist. M-A-R-C-H. The four fingers stand together, blinking inwards and covering the thumb. Fourteen. The last time I spoke to him was March Fourteenth. Since then, it has been written words in azure bubbles and signed words against the backdrop of a place he’s never been. Learn how to flirt with me. He says. In words. This time with his whole face and a smile. I’m good with hands. I write. He laughs, he writes. Goodnight, he writes. As any multimodal or multilingual communicator knows, some things don’t translate. American Sign Language is not a one to one ratio. It’s a mechanism of expression. A series of gestures substitutes for listened words. But to sign, as to speak, you have to first know what you mean. The sign for flirting is like shoving away an imaginary typewriter, flittering the fingers up and down, pulling the elbows in and out as I tap the imaginary keys. This is how I flirt too. Typing things, thinking things, setting them aside. Never articulating them. To say soft things with spoken words is ironically hard. Harder still is to say soft things meant to land poignantly. I have a near limitless array of vowels, consonants, and combinations in my head, in my mouth, and now a beginner’s set in my hands. But words that mean delicate things do not roll off the fingertips 18 / American Literary Magazine