All the radishes from the second round of seeds have been yanked from the garden. Those that were left either cracked or turned spongy inside. I’d missed the opportunity to harvest them at their peak. The garden now looks a little tragic, with only the tomato plants showing any promise.
A couple of metres away in the alley, there is a massive blackberry bramble that I’ve been snacking on post-run. There are few scents I find more magical than blackberries on a warm day. As usual, the plumpest berries are high up and well out of reach, so I messaged the landlord requesting to borrow his pole rope pruner, which I’d initially called “the long grabber stick”. Armed with this rusty magic wand, I returned to the bush to grasp at the juiciest of juicy-looking clusters.
The pole rope pruner wasn’t the game changer I’d expected it to be. The berries of beyond were so ripe that they rained down on me when I tugged at the thorny stems, totally missing the bowl they were meant to go in. Half an hour later, I walked away from the bramble in triumph with a large bowl of berries, bleeding legs, and purple splotches on my face.
I’d do it again, but in pants.
It’s been almost two weeks since my return from Slovenia, and I am still dealing with a severe case of the post-trip blues. I’d spent three weeks conversing in sign language daily. Not even in ASL, but BSL: British Sign Language. Before this trip, the extent of my BSL was the manual alphabet and a few signs/phrases such as “good morning”. Now I know over 170 signs. I’ve entered them in an Excel spreadsheet with the intention of reviewing what I’ve learned once a month, and adding to the list with the help of the online BSL dictionary.
Some BSL signs are the same as in ASL, such as the sign for “same“. The sign for different, however, is also the same. Others are wildly different. The BSL sign for “strange” is very similar to what I use to sign “lie,” whereas “pasta” in BSL looks like “DNA” in ASL. The signs for “what” and “where” are switched. Yet, despite having learned it as a teenager, it’s still the two-handed manual alphabet that trips me up the most. Even Ed struggles to remember which finger is assigned to which vowel and got them tattooed on his knuckles.
Once, while halfway through spelling something out, he paused and admitted, “This isn’t that helpful,” referring to his knuckle tattoos.
The ability to integrate oneself into almost any conversation is something many hearing people truly take for granted. My return to work was not a triumphant one: it was a stark reminder of how little effort most of my coworkers have put into communicating with me. I wish I could say I’m not angry, just disappointed. Given that I’ve been working at this shop for more than three years, the truth is: I’m disappointed and angry.
I am expected to spend 30+ hours a week in a hostile work environment, doing a good job with a positive attitude. All the while, a few long-time sales staff actively avoid interacting with me to the point that they don’t return my wave when I come and go! For others, that’s the extent of our daily interaction: hi and bye. Should they have a question for the mechanics, I am their absolute last resort, if at all. The bar is so low that some people would rather dig under it than raise it.
I am not okay with this, and I never have been. I tolerate it only because I have to. In my 25 years of work experience, I have never had a completely inclusive employer. Strangely enough, the bike shop I worked at in Montréal had the highest percentage of staff who learned ASL, even though they were primarily Francophones. Unfortunately, I still dealt with many sales staff who avoided me like the plague and an asshat of a manager.
As for my immediate colleagues—the mechanics—only two have learned some ASL. The one sign I am sure all of them know is “thank you,” as I use it with them all the time. Still, the few times I’ve dropped by to distribute some homemade cookies, several of them couldn’t even bring themselves to thank me in sign language. Come on, when I was living in Montréal, I used “Merci,” and while in Slovenia, I’d write “Hvala.” You can’t convince me that not thanking me in ASL is anything but disrespectful.
Am I wrong to be angry?
What a joy it was to return to work and find messages welcoming me back via Slack.
“Welcome? In what way? Since when have I been welcome here?” I wondered.
The other thing that really sucks is having friends who still think highly of those who think so little of me. Neutrality is complicity.
If you’re wondering, “Okay, what exactly am I supposed to do?”
Violence is the answer!
PUNT THEM TO THE MOON.
BREAK THEIR LEGS.
SHOVE THEM IN A BLACKBERRY BUSH.
Just don’t break their arms on the off chance they change their mind about learning ASL.
Most likely, I’ll get tired of being angry and return to being apathetic. Except when it comes to Turkish Airlines. Fuck those guys.
