Ann LeZotte - T4

Hear the voice of the poet!
I see the past, future, and present.
I am Deaf, but I have heard
The beauty of song

And I wish to share it with
Young readers.
A poem can be simple,
About a cat or a red
Wheelbarrow.

Or it can illuminate the lives
Of people who lived, loved,
And died. You can make
People think or feel

For other people, if you
Write poetry. In T4, the facts
About history are true, and
My characters tell the story.

In a little house
On a street
With tall poplar trees.

I could see
Bluish hills
In the distance.

That was my home.
But my country,
Germany,
Was not my home.

Our leader,
Adolf Hitler,
And the Nazi Party
Hated
People like me.

With me, she was exposed
To rubella, or German measles,

A common cause of hearing loss
In infancy. I wasn’t completely deaf

Until I had a high fever at sixteen
Months old. I don’t remember what

I heard before then. My mother said
I clapped my hands when she spoke.

I loved bird song and our cuckoo clock.

My small dog, Schatze, barked at my back.
Later she learned to tap me on the leg
When she wanted to be petted. She danced
On her back legs so I would give her a bone.

My parents and grandparents and my sister,
Clara, loved me even though I was Disabled.
Father painted roses on the wooden bed
I shared with Clara. Mother baked fresh bread

And let me have a piece while it was still warm.
Grandfather played the fiddle. I held on to the
Instrument so I could feel the fast folk music.
Grandmother pointed at the night sky. I saw
Bright Casseopeia, Orion, and a shooting star.

I was fair like Father;
Clara was dark like Mother.

Father and I
Loved being in the sun;
Mother and Clara
Sat in front of the hearth’s fire.

We were robust like horses.
They were elegant and slinky like cats.

We enjoyed eating big meals.
They took small bites of a single radish.

We snored like buzz saws
Or a hornets’ nest.
Their dreams were silent
And beautiful like flowers.

The way most children do.
I put my fingers on the vocal cords
Of my family.
I wanted to feel
What talking sounded like.

I tried to open my mouth
And make sounds,
But nobody understood me.
They said I should keep quiet.

I watched the lips
Of my relatives
When they told stories.
I could see words
Being formed on their mouths.
It’s called lip-reading.

I saw books and letters.
I knew people were expressing
Ideas with language.
But when I was very young,

I couldn’t communicate.
I was trapped in my silence,
As if under a veil.

This made me feel upset
And angry sometimes.
I put my face in my pillow
And sobbed and sighed.

My visual
Sense
Was so
Strong.

If
A breeze
Shook
The leaves
On
A tree
I
Would
Shriek
With
Delight.

If
People
Ran fast
Past me
It looked
Like
A tidal
Wave.

Even
The motion
Of
A hand
Waving
Goodbye
Startled
Me.

The Catholic priest in my town
Decided to teach me my name.

He drew the letters
P-A-U-L-A B-E-C-K-E-R
On a sheet of paper.
He pointed to the words
And then to me.

I tried to trace the letters
With a piece of charcoal.
He held my hand
In the correct position.

I stared at my name,
Paula Becker,
Until I memorized it.

For the objects I saw around me.
I put my fingertips against my lips
When I was hungry.

I rubbed my eyes
To show
I was tired.

I shook my head
And snorted
In imitation
Of a horse.

I bared my teeth and crept
Across the floor like a wolf.

A rock was made with my fist.
I waved my arms to say “the wind.”

I put the palm of my hand
On top of my heart
And then pointed at my mother
And father and sister
And grandparents.
That meant I loved them.

I counted on my fingers,
And when the number
Was more than ten
I made markings on a stick.

Lived on a farm
Outside town.
Some people said
She was a witch.

She always wore
A long brown coat
And galoshes,
Even when she slept.

She gave
Remedies
To the sick
And Disabled.

She made them from
Items she gathered
In the woods: flowers,
Bark, weeds, nuts.

She trapped small
Animals for food
And wore their bones
Around her neck or
Boiled them for soup.

In my sixth year
My mother took me
To her place.

I was scared
But fascinated
By her
Ramshackle house.

Marthe melted a candle
In a pot
And poured hot wax
Into my ears.

It hurt a lot.
She made me sit
On a stool
As it cooled.

Then she took
A paring knife
And carefully
Removed the hard wax.

Marthe cupped her palms
Over my ears,
Said a prayer, and quickly
Removed her hands.

She was yelling
And stomping her feet
Like she was dancing.
Her black cat,
Mittennacht,
Ran out the door.

Mother and I were
Hoping she could
Make me hear,
But she couldn’t.

On the way home
My mother cried.
And I still wanted
To be a regular girl
Rather than a dumb animal.