Hands of My Father
Say 鈥渓anguage鈥� and most people think of the rich intricacies of written and spoken words. But Myron Uhlberg鈥檚 first language took a different form. Before he could speak or write, he learned American Sign Language, gesturing with his young hands to communicate with his mother and father, who were deaf.
His first message was 鈥淚 love you.鈥�
As Uhlberg explains in his deeply moving memoir, Hands of My Father, he straddled two worlds as he grew up in the 1940s and 1950s 鈥� one profoundly silent, belonging to his parents, the other rich with sound. From the age of 6, he functioned as a miniature adult, becoming his parents鈥� designated ears and voice as he communicated with neighbors, merchants, doctors, and waiters.
At the poultry shop near their Brooklyn apartment, for example, his father, Louis, would sign to the little boy, 鈥淭ell Mr. Herman we want a fat chicken today.鈥�
His grandmother defined the child鈥檚 role reversal bluntly, saying, 鈥淵ou must always take care of your parents.鈥� Only by escaping to the roof of their apartment building, away from family duties and taunting playmates, could he dream of being a 鈥渘ormal kid.鈥�
In high school, football became his passport to normalcy. Instead of being identified as 鈥渢he deaf man鈥檚 son,鈥� he was known as a football player.
Life as the deaf man鈥檚 son carried daily indignities for both generations. One day his father took him to the New York Daily News, where he worked in the pressroom, to show off his son.
To Myron鈥檚 face, co-workers would say, 鈥淣ice to meet you, kid. How come you can hear?鈥� 鈥淗ow do you like having a deaf father?鈥� 鈥淒id your father become deaf because his mother dropped him on his head?鈥�
Behind the boy鈥檚 back they would comment, 鈥淟ook at the dummy鈥檚 kid. He looks normal.鈥�
Neighbors were equally insensitive, referring to the family as 鈥渄ummies鈥� and 鈥渢he deafies in Apartment 3A.鈥�
But public indignities faded inside the protective walls of their four-room flat, filled with love. Louis bought toys and made four-cornered newspaper hats for his sons.
After dinner, while Uhlberg鈥檚 mother, Sarah, washed dishes, his father sat with the two boys at the kitchen table, reading the news about World War II to them in sign. 鈥淚 could watch the war every night of the week on the human screen of my father鈥檚 hands,鈥� Uhlberg writes.
Watching his parents and a group of deaf friends gather every Saturday on a patch of beach at Coney Island, the young Uhlberg was fascinated with the 鈥渨ild diversity鈥� of their silent language. Men, he observed, signed more aggressively. Shy people made smaller, more guarded signs.
A couple from Georgia signed with a drawl, their silent words flowing 鈥渇rom their hands like syrup, thick and slow.鈥� Together, the friends painted a panorama of word pictures in the air, their hands 鈥渇luttering wildly like the wings of a flock of geese taking flight.鈥�
Obsessed with the nature of sound, Uhlberg鈥檚 father assumed that colors could be heard.
鈥淲hat does black sound like?鈥� he would ask. 鈥淎 hammer,鈥� his son finally responded. 鈥淗ard.鈥�
An avid baseball fan, Louis saw parallels between Jackie Robinson and himself. He told his son, 鈥淰ery hard for a deaf man. Very hard for a black man. Must fight all the time. No rest. Never. Sad.鈥�
Sad, yes. Yet Uhlberg avoids pity or self-pity, interspersing sorrow with humor.
At the age of 9, he faced the ultimate challenge 鈥� playing intermediary during a parent-teacher conference. When the teacher explained that Myron was a good student but a severe discipline problem, the mischievous boy signed to his parents, 鈥淭he teacher says I鈥檓 a pleasure to have in her class.鈥�
His father was not fooled.
What shines through this book is the abundant affection and courage that sustained the family through hardships, insults, and shame. Little wonder, perhaps, that when Uhlberg left for college and gave up primary responsibility for his parents, he experienced both relief and an inexplicable sense of loss.
Uhlberg鈥檚 poignant story of devotion and responsibility is a love letter of sorts to his late parents. It opens a window into a world of isolation and 鈥渆ternal silence鈥� unimaginable to most people. Calling sign a language of the heart, he elevates it to something approaching an art form, saying, 鈥淚t is for me the most beautiful, immediate, and expressive of languages, because it incorporates the entire human body.鈥�
Paying tribute to his father, Uhlberg writes, 鈥淚 loved the stories his hands contained.鈥� So does a reader, savoring a warm family chronicle as instructive as it is inspiring.
Marilyn Gardner is a Monitor staff writer.
