The older gentleman nodded at me from the pool deck as I turned at the wall for another lap in the blue rectangle shimmering below the more expansive blue vault overhead. When I popped my goggles between sets, the man was gesturing to the swimmer at the wall next to me.

I wanted to introduce myself, but I haven't been practicing sign language enough in the past few months to feel confident in my ability to communicate much beyond: "Hi, my name is Dustin. I know a little sign language. And history."

That deficiency and attendant disappointment at not being able to join the conversation sparked my renewed dedication to studying.

I have walked the campus of Gallaudet, the nation's first college for Deaf students, based here in DC (as you might expect, the archives are premier). And I knew that French sign language provided the roots of our American version. But that story relies on a Euro-centric worldview, like too much of modern history.

Native American tribes have a long, looooong tradition of "hand talk." Vox produced a phenomenal video explainer. Reincorporating these nuances adds richness to our shared histories, like the depth of color in the sky compared to the bounded, artificial blue of the pool bottom.

Of course, poetry also bends language into fresh forms with metaphorical images that "work the dumb flour of day" into a different kind of sustenance.
 

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This newsletter was written on the traditional lands of the Piscataway and Nacotchtank.