Haben Read online

  But first, college.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I Don’t Believe Fairy Tales, Except This One

  Portland, Oregon. Fall 2006.

  Lewis & Clark College has a beautiful campus on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon. Dale, the director of disability services, gave me the grand tour during orientation. She showed me the shelf inside the Student Support Services office where all my braille texts wait for me to read them. She led me through the different entrances to the Templeton Campus Center: through the glass doors across the street from my residence hall, up the long flight of stairs by the mail room, across the large lawn by the Trail Room, and another entrance along a path that goes over a brook and through the woods. Thanks to the thorough tour with Dale, I now feel comfortable navigating campus on my own.

  In fact, this evening I will join three students on an off-campus adventure. Two of the students and I are waiting just outside our residence hall. We live in Akin, a small two-story building that hosts a community of students who value diversity. Living in Akin should increase my chances of meeting disability-positive people. Friendships take time, but my roommate already seems like a potential new friend. Carrie loves dancing, traveling, and eating chocolate—we’re a perfect match!

  Carrie runs over. “Okay, I’m ready. Wait. Haben, can I talk to you a moment?”

  “Sure.” I follow her as she moves away from the group.

  Carrie stops in front of the stairs to our building. “We’re going off campus.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re not taking the bus. We’re taking a back trail.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s a steep trail. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  I smile. “Really, I’ll be fine. I’ve done a lot of hiking. I’m able to feel the trail through my cane, and my cane will alert me to rocks and stuff.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. There’s a chance it could be a bit slippery. I really don’t want you to get hurt. If anything happened to you, I would feel responsible.”

  I give her a serious look. “You’re not responsible for me. If anything happens to me, it won’t be your fault. Does that make sense?”

  “I would still feel responsible. I’d never forgive myself. That’s just how I am. Please, it would make me feel better if you didn’t come with us.”

  Her words stab my fragile first-year heart. I pull my shoulders back. “I understand.”

  “Thank you! I’ll see you later.” With that, she runs back to the group, and they take off into the night.

  My cane clangs against the stairs into Akin. I stomp down the hall to my room, slamming the door on the cold, callous, cruel college world. How am I supposed to live with her? My stomach churns at the thought of spending a whole year with someone who thinks I’m incompetent. How do I resist ableism in my own room?

  I fall on my bed, weighed down by grief. Her condescension shattered my dream of having a college roommate who was also my best friend. I don’t know how to fill that hole, now. Carrie’s bed stands seven feet from me, her desk across from mine. We could pretend these are two rooms on either side of an invisible line. Will we live in a constant state of tension, fighting over one issue after another? Or will we live out separate lives, polite and indifferent whenever we’re forced to interact? It’ll be lonely. Awkward. Exhausting. It’ll be a constant reminder that there will always be people in this world who believe I’m incompetent. Or just don’t like me, period.

  I massage my temples, trying to numb the pain. A memory flashes through my mind, the broad strokes of a fairy tale a friend shared long ago.

  Sofia plopped down next to her grandmother with a sigh.

  “Every single one has issues. I’ll never find the perfect guy.”

  “I’ve tried to tell you.” The grandmother pulled down jasmine tea from a shelf.

  “If you want to find your perfect match, you must first become your perfect self.”

  Sofia gazed at her grandmother with a furrowed brow.

  The grandmother prepared tea, then began to explain how:

  “I’ll arrange dinners for you to practice listening, being vulnerable, and sharing your lovely wit.

  “We’ll reflect on the date and repeat the process each week, until one feels like the perfect fit.”

  Sweat formed on Sofia’s face. She cleared it with a quick swipe.

  “Grandma, I love you, but…you don’t know my type.”

  “That’s my point!” The grandmother waved a frustrated hand in the air.

  “You need to stop judging guys on everything from their shoes to their hair.”

  Reaching for her tea, Sofia inhaled the warm, heavenly smell.

  She sipped from the steaming cup. “Sure…Might as well.”

  Sofia met local men and foreign men.

  Fishermen and firemen.

  Her eyelids drooped as a guy described the best soil to plant a seed in.

  She stifled a yawn as a man droned on about the tax system in Sweden.

  Through practice and reflection, her listening skills grew.

  As she voiced her plans and dreams, her confidence soared, too.

  She shared her thoughts on bridge design with an investor from Taipei.

  She educated a businessman on the importance of equal pay.

  Her stories delighted her dinner partners and their waitstaff.

  During one lively dinner, she even got a lawyer to laugh!

  At the thirty-ninth dinner, she felt a jolt of elation.

  She asked the guy out again, continuing their flirtation.

  They built a relationship, not on diamonds and dollar bills,

  But on plates of savory food, and strong interpersonal skills.

  The story makes me smile and shake my head. It’s a silly story, but it carries a bit of wisdom. If Sofia’s strategy works for romantic relationships, then it must work for friendships, too.

  Cane in hand, I step outside my room and close the door. The door has blue and white stripes with a yellow sun in the corner. It’s the flag of Uruguay. All the rooms in this residence hall have a flag on the door, giving Akin a certain warmth. I squint at the colorful doors as I walk by, trying to identify the flags.

  Another door opens down the hall. A person steps out.

  “Hi, I’m Haben.” I switch my cane to my left hand and offer the person my right. The hand is large. “What’s your name?”

  “Ed.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ed.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Want to hang out? We could play a card game.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Okay, just let me know. I’m in Uruguay.” I gesture behind me. “That’s the door with blue stripes and a yellow sun in the corner. Room 101.”

  “Got it.” Ed turns and walks down the hall.

  My search through the hall for a new friend fails, but my optimism doesn’t waver. There are still a lot of people to meet—at least one of them will resonate with me.

  Over the next four weeks I approach lots of people. I practice listening, being compassionate, and displaying my sense of humor. My ability to laugh at myself comes in handy when people do the awkward “Umm, we’ve already met” dance.

  Many students meet at the cafeteria. It’s called the Bon, pronounced “Bone,” because the company Bon Appetit runs it. The large rectangular room has three walls with panoramic windows, showcasing Portland’s rain. The fourth wall has several food stations. Sighted students browse the print menu, and then go to their station of choice. I can’t read the menu since it’s not available in an accessible format.

  A long line of students stand in front of station one. Guessing it might be something good, I join the line. Cooking smells swirl around the room, blending into that vague cafeteria food scent. Unlike today’s food, some foods have aromas that refuse to mix, pumping their molecules through the airwaves with unabashed pride. Pancakes. French fries. Pizza. They perform a nonstop chorus of, �
�Come eat us!”

  After fifteen minutes in line, I finally reach the counter. “What do you have here?” I ask the server. The background noise of the cafeteria drowns out the response. “What?” I lean over the counter. “Sorry, I’m still not hearing that.” The person shouts inaudible words. Tired and hungry, I accept a plate from the server.

  The voices of hundreds of students bouncing off the walls form a persistent roar that increases as I enter the seating area—rows of round tables surrounded by hungry students. I squint at the seats near me as I squeeze through the crowded aisles. Finally, an empty chair—I touch the back of it and verify that it really is empty.

  The seats on either side of me have people. Smiling, I turn to the person on my left. “Hi, I’m Haben. What’s your name?”

  Mumble, mumble, mumble.

  “I don’t hear very well, especially in noisy places. Could you say your name again?” I lean to the left, hoping to catch it this time.

  “Pam.”

  “Pam?”

  Louder this time. “Anne.”

  “Anne? How’s your lunch?”

  Her face turned toward me suggests she has offered a response to my question. The roar of chatter around us swallows up her words. The noise forms a glass wall between us. I’m on one side, and Anne and everyone else is on the other.

  The grandmother marked listening as the first important skill to master, and this environment makes that impossible. The world shrinks to just the plate in front of me as I realize I won’t form any friendships here.

  Picking up my fork, I touch the tip to different areas of the plate, analyzing the textures. The fork pokes at meat on a bone. My shoulders sag. I wanted a vegetarian meal. I continue the investigation. On the right, something soft. I scoop up a tiny portion and take a bite. Mashed potatoes. I take another bite. The smooth potatoes melt in my mouth. Not bad.

  I glance over in the direction of the food stations. Another station probably has something delicious. Saag paneer with jasmine rice. Pennini with smoked Gouda cheese. Soul-filling food and friendships, it’s all over there, beyond the glass wall.

  “Nice meeting you,” I mumble in Anne’s direction as I leave.

  Unlike the cafeteria, the disability office provides information in accessible formats. I first met Dale and her colleagues Rebecca and Barbara back in April. I’m their first braille reader, and that didn’t faze them one bit. They purchased a braille embosser, purchased braille translation software, and then spent the summer learning how to produce braille. They’re not afraid of the unknown; they learn, explore, and discover for the sake of their students and the betterment of themselves. They represent the pioneering spirit Lewis & Clark College celebrates.

  Rebecca is the reading specialist, so she expanded her talents to include braille. After securing syllabi from all my professors, she began ordering books in braille from the National Braille and Talking Book Library, and Bookshare. When a book is not available, she asks publishers for a digital copy of the book so she can emboss it in braille herself. The braille embosser is a large printer that punches dots into thick braille paper. It sounds like a jackhammer, so Rebecca stationed the machine in a large closet.

  “Perfect timing!” Rebecca hands me a braille volume. “I just finished printing this. Thomas threw a tantrum this morning and I had to put him in time-out.”

  I give her a confused look. “Who’s Thomas?”

  “The braille embosser. I spend so much time with it, I started calling him Thomas.”

  I smile. “I like that. I hope Thomas behaves.”

  “He better. Or I’ll have a word with his maker.”

  Rebecca, Barb, and Dale remove any access barriers in my classes, allowing me to devote my time to studying. Other colleges force blind students to sacrifice their precious study hours to convert course materials themselves. The struggle of juggling both making materials accessible and learning the course materials causes many blind students to fall behind. While I exhaust myself to excel, logging numerous hours in the library, the college’s dedicated accessibility team also contributes to my success.

  That evening, I spot an empty table in the Bon. It calls to me. Sit here! Sit here! You won’t have to exhaust yourself trying to connect with people you can’t hear. Think of your poor ears. Think of the peacefulness of sitting here!

  The corner location creates a tranquil refuge. A wall behind me and another to my right absorb the background noise. Even the food tastes better here. The flavors in this pizza have my full attention now that I don’t have to strain to hear.

  Someone pauses at my table. I continue eating. The person remains standing there, as if waiting. “Did you say something?”

  “Can I sit here?”

  “Sure.” I take another bite of pizza.

  He sets his tray on the table and sits down across from me. Mumble, mumble, mumble.

  “I’m pretty Deaf. It helps if you talk louder and try to talk slowly and clearly.”

  “Is this better?”

  “Yeah. I’ll still miss stuff now and then. What did you say?”

  “I was asking your name.”

  “Oh!” I laugh. “My name is Haben. What’s yours?”

  “Justin. I’m a senior studying history.”

  “I’m a first-year. I don’t know what I’ll major in. Maybe computer science, maybe international affairs…I’m going to take a few different classes to figure out what I want to do.”

  “That’s smart. Explore different subjects until you find a topic you love so much you’ll voluntarily lock yourself up in the library. By the way, how’s the pizza?”

  “It’s actually pretty good.”

  “Yeah, that looks good. I’m going to grab some.” He heads to the food stations. A few minutes later he comes back carrying two plates.

  “What did you get?”

  “I got some of that pizza. I also picked up a brownie. It was calling me when I walked by and I had to go back for it.”

  I gasp. “I didn’t know they had those.” I raise my cane from under the table. “I’ll be right back.”

  I march over to the dessert station and seize a brownie from under the glass wall. My cane clears the way as I carry the prize back to the table.

  “Whoa, I had no idea you were blind,” Justin says as I sit down. “Not that it’s a big deal—I just didn’t know until you picked up the cane.”

  “That’s funny. Most people here know.” My mood dips as I consider all the images of blindness that might be running through his head. I brace myself for offensive, ableist comments. “Blindness is actually just the lack of sight. With the right tools and training, blind people can do just about anything. Like, I travel, rock climb, and volunteer in my community. I just use alternative techniques.”

  “Yeah, I figured. My mom is a special ed teacher.”

  My eyes widen in surprise. Meeting new people often involves exorcising the specter of ableism. Meeting someone who has a background in disability feels miraculous. “That’s awesome. What kind of disabilities do your mom’s students have?”

  “Mostly learning disabilities. Hey! How’s it going?”

  I stare at Justin, confused. A moment later another person joins our table. Mumble, mumble, mumble. The two chatter away. I start eating my brownie.

  “Haben, this is Gordon. Gordon, this is Haben.”

  “Hi.” I shake Gordon’s hand.

  “Can you say your name again?”

  “Ha-ben.”

  Mumble, mumble.

  “I’m Deaf. It helps if you talk louder, and speak slowly and clearly.”

  Gordon increases his volume. “I’ve never heard that name before. Where is your family from?”

  “My family is from Eritrea, a country in northeast Africa. Haben is a name in Tigrinya, the native language of Eritrea.”

  “What does Haben mean in Tigrinya?”

  My breath catches in my throat. Wow, he’s genuinely listening to me. Most people tune out after hearing un
familiar names like Tigrinya and Eritrea. Feeling overwhelmed, they change the subject. This guy doesn’t run from the unknown, though. “Eritrea gained independence in 1993 after a thirty-year war with its large neighbor Ethiopia. My parents named me after our culture’s sense of pride in standing up for freedom and independence. Haben in Tigrinya means pride.”

  “That’s fascinating. I’ll have to read up on Eritrea.”

  Mumble, mumble. Justin and Gordon fall into a conversation, and the familiar glass wall settles between us.

  I finish the brownie. “What are you two talking about?”

  “Gordon plans to major in history, so he was asking me about professors,” Justin says.

  “I was asking Justin about Professor Hillyer’s teaching style.”

  “What does he teach?” I ask.

  “Professor Hillyer is a woman,” Gordon says.

  I blush, embarrassed. Although, I’m secretly glad he corrected me. Many people just overlook the mistakes of people with disabilities, assuming we’re too fragile. “What does she teach?”

  “She has a Civil War history class that I’m considering.” Gordon slips back into inaudible conversation with Justin. The hum of background noise has risen to a roar, and the glass wall slides up again.

  I stand up. “It’s too loud in here. I’m going to head out now.”

  “I’m actually done, too.” Justin gets to his feet, and Gordon follows.

  We slide our trays onto the dish racks in the corner of the Bon, then head for the exit. As I walk outside I observe Justin and Gordon still walking beside me. We seem to be leaving together, but it’s probably just a coincidence. My expectations sank to the bottom of the sea after what happened with Carrie.

  A soothing silence envelopes us as we step out on the sidewalk. I breathe in the cool autumn air. Then my nose wrinkles at a whiff of cigarette smoke.

  The silence stretches into awkwardness. I look from Justin to Gordon wondering if I should bid them farewell. Then I remember Sofia and her grandmother. The cafeteria environment limits my ability to listen to people, but out here…