Read Shaking the Sugar Tree for Free Online Page A
Authors: Nick Wilgus
well.
Do you have a F-o-o-d-w-o-r-l-d card?
Those amazing brown eyes lit up and he smiled.
No.
Would you like one?
Yes! You know sign?
My name is W-i-l-e-y.
My name is J-u-a-n. Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you, J-u-a-n.
Not only was he deaf, but my gaydar was beeping something awful, and something told me his was too because of the way he kept smiling at me.
When I handed him the change, I allowed myself to hold on to his hand for a moment—the cashier’s love touch. That touch might linger a little longer than it should if there are some unspoken things that need to be said. Mine lingered as I pretended to fumble the coins, as though I wanted to make sure they didn’t spill from his hand and I had to keep it steady. Gave me the perfect excuse to hold his hand for a few moments.
He smiled as he put the change in his pocket. Then he fished around and handed me a slip of paper, which said:
My name is Juan. I am deaf. I can work for cheap. My number is (662) 822-1152.
Below that, the same message was written in Spanish.
I gave him an application for a FoodWorld card. He filled out his name and address and phone number. He pointed out the phone number to me, lifting his eyebrows as if to say, Make sure you use it!
On a piece of paper, I wrote down my own number and address and handed it to him, knowing he must have access to a TTY phone system.
I want to have a friend, he said. The way he signed the word “friend” suggested he had something more in mind than watching football games.
He added, I’m lonely.
He looked at me frankly, his need, his loneliness written plainly in his eyes, across his face.
Why do you know sign? he asked.
My son is deaf.
You have a son?
Yes.
Wow.
A lady with two kids pushed her cart up to the line. She began to unload her things.
It’s nice to meet you, I said.
Please call me, he said, biting at his lip.
He turned quickly, grabbed his bags, and walked away.
I watched him for a long moment. He was such a sweet-looking guy, handsome in that Latino way, but he walked as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders and he didn’t have a friend to his name.
There are many Hispanics in Tupelo. All throughout the South, actually. No doubt a great many are illegal, a fact that enrages many of my Tea Party neighbors. That Juan gave me a card indicating his willingness to work cheaply suggested he was one.
What would it be like to be an illegal immigrant who was not only deaf but gay? Talk about three strikes against you.
He didn’t give me that ants-in-the-pants feeling that Jackson Ledbetter did, though I was certainly willing to give him an opportunity to shake the sugar tree and see what might fall out.
10) Kayla gets out
T HE NEXT day was Tuesday and Noah and I got up early to make the long drive to Pearl, home of the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility, the only prison in the state that houses female prisoners, including those on death row. Noah’s mother had spent the last five years of her life at this facility after her boyfriend’s meth lab got busted down in Monroe County. She was set to be released at eight o’clock that morning sharp.
We had visited the prison exactly once during those previous five years, the first Christmas after Kayla’s incarceration. After making the drive and getting his hopes up, Noah’s mother refused to see him and we drove home disappointed. Noah was four at the time. I’m not sure how much he remembers.
The guard at the main gates directed us to a special parking lot where inmate releases were “processed.” Kayla’s parents were already there, standing by their sleek SUV. I parked my old station wagon nearby and Noah and I got out.
I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and had my camera on a strap around my neck. I wanted to take a picture of Noah with his mother, which would be precisely one more than he currently had.
Noah wore the new suit given to him by Cousin Eli. He had washed his hair and
Do you have a F-o-o-d-w-o-r-l-d card?
Those amazing brown eyes lit up and he smiled.
No.
Would you like one?
Yes! You know sign?
My name is W-i-l-e-y.
My name is J-u-a-n. Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you, J-u-a-n.
Not only was he deaf, but my gaydar was beeping something awful, and something told me his was too because of the way he kept smiling at me.
When I handed him the change, I allowed myself to hold on to his hand for a moment—the cashier’s love touch. That touch might linger a little longer than it should if there are some unspoken things that need to be said. Mine lingered as I pretended to fumble the coins, as though I wanted to make sure they didn’t spill from his hand and I had to keep it steady. Gave me the perfect excuse to hold his hand for a few moments.
He smiled as he put the change in his pocket. Then he fished around and handed me a slip of paper, which said:
My name is Juan. I am deaf. I can work for cheap. My number is (662) 822-1152.
Below that, the same message was written in Spanish.
I gave him an application for a FoodWorld card. He filled out his name and address and phone number. He pointed out the phone number to me, lifting his eyebrows as if to say, Make sure you use it!
On a piece of paper, I wrote down my own number and address and handed it to him, knowing he must have access to a TTY phone system.
I want to have a friend, he said. The way he signed the word “friend” suggested he had something more in mind than watching football games.
He added, I’m lonely.
He looked at me frankly, his need, his loneliness written plainly in his eyes, across his face.
Why do you know sign? he asked.
My son is deaf.
You have a son?
Yes.
Wow.
A lady with two kids pushed her cart up to the line. She began to unload her things.
It’s nice to meet you, I said.
Please call me, he said, biting at his lip.
He turned quickly, grabbed his bags, and walked away.
I watched him for a long moment. He was such a sweet-looking guy, handsome in that Latino way, but he walked as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders and he didn’t have a friend to his name.
There are many Hispanics in Tupelo. All throughout the South, actually. No doubt a great many are illegal, a fact that enrages many of my Tea Party neighbors. That Juan gave me a card indicating his willingness to work cheaply suggested he was one.
What would it be like to be an illegal immigrant who was not only deaf but gay? Talk about three strikes against you.
He didn’t give me that ants-in-the-pants feeling that Jackson Ledbetter did, though I was certainly willing to give him an opportunity to shake the sugar tree and see what might fall out.
10) Kayla gets out
T HE NEXT day was Tuesday and Noah and I got up early to make the long drive to Pearl, home of the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility, the only prison in the state that houses female prisoners, including those on death row. Noah’s mother had spent the last five years of her life at this facility after her boyfriend’s meth lab got busted down in Monroe County. She was set to be released at eight o’clock that morning sharp.
We had visited the prison exactly once during those previous five years, the first Christmas after Kayla’s incarceration. After making the drive and getting his hopes up, Noah’s mother refused to see him and we drove home disappointed. Noah was four at the time. I’m not sure how much he remembers.
The guard at the main gates directed us to a special parking lot where inmate releases were “processed.” Kayla’s parents were already there, standing by their sleek SUV. I parked my old station wagon nearby and Noah and I got out.
I was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and had my camera on a strap around my neck. I wanted to take a picture of Noah with his mother, which would be precisely one more than he currently had.
Noah wore the new suit given to him by Cousin Eli. He had washed his hair and
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