Keisha - Learning a New Language

I met Keisha one day while roaming around the countryside south of Montego Bay, north of Savannah La Mar on my motorcycle. I was visiting potential class sites for the literacy program, JAMAL - the Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy. I stopped by the house of a colleague, Mrs. Lightbody, who helped me when I visited the local rural schools. Mrs. Lightbody was a delight to work with, and I always looked forward to stopping by her place to chat. Her husband was a farmer, and they lived on the edge of their terraced farm. I had spent a day with him earlier, working out in the fields, learning how to graft lemon trees, eating boiled dumplings, conversing in patois. It was a fabulous day, and very poignant. I watched these Black men working their own land, where their not too distant ancestors had been slaves. I saw the lessons of their fathers in their hands as they expertly grafted the trees, working long and steadily throughout the day, free men. But on this day, I would meet another of her relatives, an amazing young woman named Keisha.
When I pulled up to Mrs. Lightbody's house, I noticed her standing on the balcony with a small child tucked shyly behind her skirt, peaking out curiously at the large helmeted man climbing off his motorcycle. I should mention that I loved Mrs. Lightbody's balcony that wrapped around the modest house, pulling the structure into the hillside. It was a nice day, and I was smiling as I pulled my helmet off knowing I would spend a good part of my afternoon sitting there, working on site plans with my hostess. As I bounded up the steps, I could see that tiny face peering from behind her aunt, wondering who this big white guy was. It was at least an hour before I saw her full figure - she exercised a perfect pivot with me on one side and her aunt between us. Eventually, she emerged and darted behind a chair, her eyes never leaving me. Keisha was a very beautiful girl with long braided hair, a simple clean dress, and a sad soft smile. Mrs. Lightbody apologized telling me the girl was deaf and dumb, and that she didn't interact much with strangers, or with much of her family for that matter.
Predictably, my secondary task for the day was to try to draw Keisha out and interact with her, my first being the literacy business at hand. As we talked and outlined site plans for several schools, I tried everything I knew to get Keisha to come out in plain view. After a bit, I noticed that she was no longer looking at me, but at my yellow helmet. I slowly pushed it closer to the edge of the table, near her chair fortress. When it got close enough, she gave her aunt a quick glance, who did not convey any prohibition, and she grabbed the helmet with both hands and ducked back to her safe place. I heard a strange sound that I knew was kin to a giggle, but oddly muted and flat. With all her might, she hoisted the helmet up and pulled it quickly down over her head and all those braids. Once she had it properly placed, she promptly walked around the chair, into open space, and right up to me. She was smiling broadly, and I wondered how all those teeth could fit into the opening of the helmet. When she got up beside me, I instinctively tapped the top of the helmet. She squealed. When I tapped the helmet again, she would bring her hands up and repeat the gesture, laughing and squirming. I increased the complexity of my thumping, using both hands. She matched anything I could conjure, pestering me over the course of several hours to continue the game. Mrs. Lightbody was delighted and noted that she had never seen Keisha behave like that, not even with family. I did manage to get some work done, often writing with my right hand, drumming with my left. When lunch came, Keisha refused to eat, caring not to remove her crown.
I knew it would be difficult when I had to leave. Keisha was not giving the helmet up without a fight, and I could raise no more than a half-hearted attempt to reclaim it. Eventually tough, Mrs. Lightbody gave her a stern but loving stare, and Keisha slowly pulled it off. She placed it on the table and promptly raced back to her chair. As I climbed back on my motorcycle, I did see a little hand waving goodbye, just cresting the top of the chair. On the way back to town, it struck me why the helmet had the effect it did - Keisha could "hear" with it on. For several hours that day, maybe for the first time, she heard another human being, even if it was just vibrations posing as language.
I didn't see Mrs. Lightbody for several weeks after that lovely day when two lonely people from different worlds chatted eloquently through polycarbonate and plastic. When I did see Mrs. Lightbody next, she was visiting the office for supplies. She came in and greeted me with even more enthusiasm than was her custom. Before I could ask how Keisha was, she informed me that every time a motorcycle came into view, Keisha would start running to the porch symbolically patting her head. When she realized it wasn't me, or that the owner was not stopping she would retreat back inside with a disappointed frown. I changed my plans for the day and took Mrs. Lightbody home on my motorcycle. Keisha met us halfway up the drive, wildly tapping the air around her head. I stayed a few hours to renew our conversation, and had a bittersweet departure knowing I probably wouldn't be able to return before I was to head home to the States permanently. Keisha gave up the helmet without much fight, and my leg got a beautiful hug.
On my way home, I had plenty of time to concoct a good story about how I had lost my spare helmet.