Found In Ceylon

Leah and I were standing in one of Miami’s Metrorail cars, waiting impatiently behind the closed doors as the train pulled into Government Center Station. Moments before the doors opened, I felt a hand brush against my back. It existed in that nether land between an accidental swing of the wrist and an intentional tap, but I heeded the signal and looked over at Leah on my right.

She glanced straight ahead and then put her head down. Huh. Maybe she’ll tell me later, I thought, and I looked again at the doors which stubbornly wouldn’t open.

Then the hand touched my back again, a bit more forcefully.

I looked over behind me, and saw a short middle-aged man wearing a dark blue cap and a gray mustache. He put up his left hand, forming the I-Love-You handshape. And then with a slight look of all-encompassing adoration in his eyes, he clearly enunciated, “I love you,” and smiled.

Then the doors finally opened.

Freaked out beyond imagination, I walked straight out, putting as much distance between me and my unrequited lover as soon as I could; a couple escalators later, I asked Leah if he was still behind us. He wasn’t.

Delusional proclamations of love notwithstanding, the public usage of the “ILY” sign among American deaf people appears to have changed in the past decade or so.

I remember watching a video of the 1988 Gallaudet DPN protest. There was a march to Capitol Hill, full of hundreds of goofy-looking deaf people (It was the Eighties, ok? Everyone looked goofy then.) proudly waving the “ILY” sign to the nation. Taken literally, those deaf people might as well as be screaming “I LOVE YOU!” over and over to the news cameras.

Watching this almost twenty years later made my skin crawl. Why should deaf people be represented by such a sappy expression? Why should the international deaf symbol translate directly to “I love you!”? It appears, well, childish. More (dare I say it) grassroots Deaf instead of educated Deaf? There’s nothing wrong with celebrating Deafness, nothing wrong with placing an deaf pride sticker on your car’s rear bumper. But does it have to be that sign, that message?

Can’t we come up with a bolder symbol to represent deaf people, and use the ILY sign for times when we actually mean it, like when Leah and I said good-bye to each other a few days later in Ft. Lauderdale Airport or when my parents say good night to me?

Back in Sri Lanka, the ILY sign represented just that–and more. I’m not entirely sure how the ILY sign made it to Sri Lanka, but it was used abundantly among the Rohana Special School children as well as the deaf adults around Matara. And heck, by every deaf person I met between Katunayake and Kataragama.

Chamali and Chintha.

The boys!

Sandya, Chamali, and Hasanthi.

Back: Adam, Ruwan, Ginette, Sanjeewa, Supun. Front: Nishan, Priyankara, Sudath, Shans Ahamed, Rajitha, Gayan, Fiona.

I don’t know, just looking at these pictures, the children screaming “I LOVE YOU,” I really feel it. I feel the love, man. The deaf Sri Lankans act more freely about love. Boys and girls who have coupled up at school go to great lengths to profess their love for each other without cluing in the matrons or teachers (but I’m sure this happens worldwide, too).

When someone holds up the ILY sign, I really feel they’re saying, “Hey, Adam, I really love you.”

Don’t get me wrong. This is still true in America as well. My parents using the ILY sign to me isn’t less meaningful. It’s the public usage of this symbol to represent the deaf community that bothers me.

However, in Sri Lanka, the ILY sign, when publicly displayed, identifies the signer’s deafness. This particular usage doesn’t seem common among American deaf people.

I remember one Sunday–the day Sophie arrived–when a bunch of us went into the sea at Polhena. This is a popular beach location, especially on Sundays. After splashing around with friends, I climbed out and went to talk with Ginette and Sophie who had opted to sit on the sand. When I started back towards the water, I saw a hundred Sri Lankan men and women jostling around in the shallow water.

For the life of me, I couldn’t pick out Amila, Ajith, Naushan, or Lakmal among all of the other beach-goers. To make it worse, strange men started waving at me, motioning me to come play with them. I couldn’t find anyone I knew in the water until I spotted an ILY sign being waved around. It was Amila trying to get my attention, and it worked.

When I swam up to them, I asked why they had used the ILY sign. Amila explained that it’s the best way for a deaf person to find another deaf person. With everyone else just waving open hands, using the ILY sign is saying, “The deaf people–your friends–are over here!” How ingenious. In the months that followed, I saw the ILY sign being used in the same manner many times among both the children and adults.

I’m surprised American deaf people haven’t picked up on this usage. There’s so many times I’d have loved my friends to just wave the ILY sign when standing in the middle of a crowd, making it easy for me to find them.

But it means so much more than a homing beacon. It’s a way of saying that you and I are the same. We’re both deaf, and we’re looking for each other. Nobody else–only us–knows what it’s like. Come and find us.

So have I created a double standard here? That it’s icky for American deaf people to just wave the ILY sign in front of news cameras, but it’s heart-melting for South Asian children to do it for the digital camera?

Maybe. And maybe I should do something about that–grudgingly accept the international symbol of deaf culture–but not right now. I’m too content to review pictures of endless ILYs–the exquisite blending of the I, L, and Y handshapes–being thrown around like the genuine, essential messages of love which they are.

During our April break, Ginette and I took a brief holiday in Unawatuna, the touristy town set on a lovely beach just a few kilometers from Galle. Right across from the access road to our hotel was a sign advertising “Karuna’s Cooking Class.” Thanks to the New Year festivities, we had eaten our fill of amazing Sinhalese meals and, upon finding out its price of just 2,500 rupees per person, we decided we’d take her class come next month.

As circumstances would have it, our interest swelled to include five participants–all fellow volunteers in Matara clamoring to partake in the dissemination of the local cuisine–and then collapsed down to just me as everyone else fled for a day on the beach instead of in the kitchen. On the day of our class, I strolled over to Karuna’s kitchen and found a large German woman (by then, all Westerners looked large to me) who would be joining me for the class.

Karuna took us to the Galle market to buy the fruits, vegetables, and herbs we’d need. On the list was brinjal, pumpkins, beans, onions, garlic, tomatoes, curry leaves, and more.

On the road back to Unawatuna (because this road ultimately led to Matara, it was called Matara Road), we stopped at one of the many fish shacks that littered the ocean side. Karuna swiftly selected a fine slice of tuna for our fish curry.

We then proceeded to cook kokis and wellawahum, two popular teatime snacks. While we sipped our tea, consuming our creations, Karuna explained to us what exactly goes into curry powder. Then it was time to chop and stew and make seven curries (including dhaal).

By mid-afternoon, we had produced pumpkin curry, bean curry, carrot curry, pineapple curry, fish curry, fried brinjal curry, and dhaal. I was given the rest of the afternoon off to grab some sun and lead our small entourage of now-well-tanned volunteers–Ginette, Sophie, Vivian, and Denise–back to Karuna’s kitchen for dinner.

All was consumed within the half-hour. I also took the opportunity to teach Karuna some sign language before we bade her farewell.

Fast forward two and a half month later and 16,000 kilometers away in San Diego. Liz decided that on my second night back in the United States, the two of us would cook an authentic Sri Lankan dinner for the family using Karuna’s recipes. The search for exotic ingredients led us to our local Ralphs as well as the Little India shopping center in Miramar, a slice of Bollywood bumping up against a Marine Corps air base.

A few hours later, Liz and I had created a four-curry (plus papadam and lunumuris!) dinner for my parents, and there was no tempering down of the famous South Asian spiciness for my parents’ tough palates. We washed our hands, grabbed our plates, slapped red rice on them, and poured each curry onto the rice bed.

My family dug in right away with their fingers, squashing and mixing and throwing morsels into their mouths. There were few moments where I was more proud of my family than I was during that dinner. It really meant a lot to me to have them accept so completely an artifact that had been an essential part of my life for nine months–the fiery rice and curry dish.

Fortunately, you can do the same thing because I’ve finally typed up the handwritten recipe book I made during Karuna’s class. It’s actually more for Liz than anyone else, but if you’d like to try out a curry dish, here’s the 11-page cookbook. Cook away!