Kelly
Sargent and “Echoes in My Eyes”
Kelly
Sargent with her twin sister, Renee, and the second book about their childhood.
Kelly Sargent is a hard of hearing writer and artist adopted in Luxembourg, now living in Williston, Vermont. She is the author of an award-nominated memoir in verse entitled Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion (Kelsay Books, 2022), in which she reflects on growing up with her Deaf twin sister in Europe and the United States.
She is also the author of Bookmarks (Red Moon Press, 2023), a collection of haiku and senryu poems, and a children's storybook entitled Sundae Sundays, winner of the international Firebird Book Award (Children’s Inspirational).
Her cover art and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in more than eighty literary journals, most recently including Rattle, Chestnut Review, and Broad River Review. Recent honors include: The Rash Award in Poetry finalist, Eric Hoffer Award nominee, Touchstone Awards for Individual Poems nominee, and Best of the Net nominee.
She has written for SIGNews, a newspaper for the Deaf and hard of hearing community and worked with Deaf students in education. She currently serves as Creative Nonfiction Editor of The Bookends Review.
Visit http://www.kellysargent.com to learn more about her.
Comments by Editor Sharon Waller Knutson
I am blown away by Kelly Sargent’s new narrative poems about her life with her twin sister from her latest poetry collection, Echoes in My Eyes (Kelsay Books 2024.) a sequel to Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion. Kelly initially wrote the poems in her new book for her twin sister’s three children because they found it healing to read about their mother. They wanted more glimpses into who she was as a child — stories that their mother could not tell them.
My favorite poems from her book are:
A Kindred Spirit
As a child, from the time she could toddle,
she carried with her from room to room
a stuffed owl by its wing.
Because an owl’s ears are hidden from sight,
she may have presumed it deaf, like her —
a kindred spirit.
She may have supposed
that its eyes were its ears,
like her own were hers in a hearing world.
Though the species differed through the years,
what remained a constant
were the wide, unblinking eyes.
At night, instead of tucking the owl of the day
into bed beside her,
she, instead, propped it up on top of her pillow
to keep watch over her
in the darkness
that she feared.
The owls that lived
beyond her bedroom window
could sleep with one eye open,
and so she determined would her own.
The sign for owl uses
the letter o
to encircle the eyes,
like binoculars,
or night vision goggles.
Oddly, not one of them
ever had a name other than
Owl.
And though owls demand to know
the name
of every person they encounter,
Owls, I reckon,
readily recognized
this kindred spirit
of a wide-eyed, curious child
who desperately wished
to see in the dark.
As a child, from the time she could toddle,
she carried with her from room to room
a stuffed owl by its wing.
Because an owl’s ears are hidden from sight,
she may have presumed it deaf, like her —
a kindred spirit.
She may have supposed
that its eyes were its ears,
like her own were hers in a hearing world.
Though the species differed through the years,
what remained a constant
were the wide, unblinking eyes.
At night, instead of tucking the owl of the day
into bed beside her,
she, instead, propped it up on top of her pillow
to keep watch over her
in the darkness
that she feared.
The owls that lived
beyond her bedroom window
could sleep with one eye open,
and so she determined would her own.
The sign for owl uses
the letter o
to encircle the eyes,
like binoculars,
or night vision goggles.
Oddly, not one of them
ever had a name other than
Owl.
And though owls demand to know
the name
of every person they encounter,
Owls, I reckon,
readily recognized
this kindred spirit
of a wide-eyed, curious child
who desperately wished
to see in the dark.
What Did
They Say?
Your twin sister is retarded, the teenage neighbor boy
sneers over the picket fence.
sneers over the picket fence.
What did he say? your grass-stained four-year-old hands
sign to me between somersaults.
He’s mad because he can’t do a somersault
as good yours, I tell you,
and lead you to the peeling swing set
on the other side of our house.
When you go in to fetch us cans of Hawaiian Punch,
I run to the fence and spit at his inky shadow through a narrow slat.
On another day, a gangly blond girl
who lives three doors down the street
points at you and shouts retard
as we pedal gleaming new bikes with training wheels—
mine with a white wicker basket
and yours with red, white, and blue streamers—
down the sidewalk past her porch.
What did she say? you sign beside me
with one hand off the handlebar.
She likes your streamers, I sign.
When you turn your head
to look at a squirrel that has caught your eye,
I show the gangly blond girl a lone finger,
like I had seen grown-ups do sometimes when they were mad.
Months later, when it is time to enroll us in kindergarten
in a new country, grown-ups separate us
because they say I will help you too much
if we are in the same classroom.
No one signs in your new classroom;
everyone is hearing.
We, at least, ride the school bus home together.
You tell me every day: I don’t know what they say.
We play “School” every day when we get home
with our Fisher Price desk and a slate with blue chalk.
I arrange magnetic letters of the alphabet
and count with colored beads I put into piles
to teach you what I learn in my classroom—every single day.
Now it’s your turn, I tell you.
Pretend you are Teacher
and teach Owl the same things I just taught you.
Nearly two years later, in another country again,
we find our second new school—
this one with one classroom for deaf students—
and grown-ups test you when we enroll.
She learned much more than one would have expected, they say.
They speak of your intelligence and your capability.
And I tell you
…what they say.
sign to me between somersaults.
He’s mad because he can’t do a somersault
as good yours, I tell you,
and lead you to the peeling swing set
on the other side of our house.
When you go in to fetch us cans of Hawaiian Punch,
I run to the fence and spit at his inky shadow through a narrow slat.
On another day, a gangly blond girl
who lives three doors down the street
points at you and shouts retard
as we pedal gleaming new bikes with training wheels—
mine with a white wicker basket
and yours with red, white, and blue streamers—
down the sidewalk past her porch.
What did she say? you sign beside me
with one hand off the handlebar.
She likes your streamers, I sign.
When you turn your head
to look at a squirrel that has caught your eye,
I show the gangly blond girl a lone finger,
like I had seen grown-ups do sometimes when they were mad.
Months later, when it is time to enroll us in kindergarten
in a new country, grown-ups separate us
because they say I will help you too much
if we are in the same classroom.
No one signs in your new classroom;
everyone is hearing.
We, at least, ride the school bus home together.
You tell me every day: I don’t know what they say.
We play “School” every day when we get home
with our Fisher Price desk and a slate with blue chalk.
I arrange magnetic letters of the alphabet
and count with colored beads I put into piles
to teach you what I learn in my classroom—every single day.
Now it’s your turn, I tell you.
Pretend you are Teacher
and teach Owl the same things I just taught you.
Nearly two years later, in another country again,
we find our second new school—
this one with one classroom for deaf students—
and grown-ups test you when we enroll.
She learned much more than one would have expected, they say.
They speak of your intelligence and your capability.
And I tell you
…what they say.
Weaving in the Dark
In soft-slippered, early morning light,
while nestled in twin beds
on opposite sides of a bedroom
wallpapered with daisies,
we often opened eight-year-old, sleep-dusted eyes
within seconds of each other.
Our handheld voices still tucked under covers—
mine sky blue and
yours cotton candy pink—
would emerge to sign our daily greetings
and plan the following hours’ adventures.
Each day, while California tilted toward the sun,
a signed language spun textured fibers
and wound them into vibrantly-colored threads
to weave the rich fabric of a shared, quilted childhood.
At bedtime, though,
light left us,
and darkness made us mute.
Unwilling, yet, to be silenced,
you would slip into my bed beside me
under my sky blue cover
to chat about morning episodes of The Brady Bunch,
afternoon games of hide-and-seek in the park,
and evening cartwheels with sun-kissed arms on the lawn.
I fingerspelled
in the dark,
one letter at a time.
You covered my right hand with your both of your own,
feeling my fingers and knuckles
form letters
into words
into sentences
into giggles.
I paused after each letter,
waiting until you tapped my wrist
to nod your understanding.
Because it was
the most time-efficient means of exchange,
you used your vocal cords,
still unsteady and awkward,
which I, alone,
understood without error.
While my vocal cords rested easy,
yours carried strenuously
words that you could not hear.
Unable to calibrate pitch
and gauge appropriate levels of sound,
your often indecipherable
and too-loud commentary
reached our parents’ ears
beyond our closed door.
Most nights, one flicked on a scolding overhead light,
and pointed you to your cotton candy pink covered bed.
Reluctantly, you would leave me,
words still on the loom,
thoughts
folded
and shelved.
But, there were stories to tell.
I determined to teach you to communicate
using your breath
to contour your words;
to press and release with measured force,
like a gas pedal
that propels or slows a car.
We worked for days,
for weeks,
for months;
until, one night in the darkness,
you crawled into bed beside me,
and whispered into my hearing ear.
Giggles of triumph and delight
escaped our throats without stifle or shame.
When exhausted by spinning embroidered tales,
we clasped our voices together on the quilt,
and sleep found us
on clouds
under cover of a blue sky,
with sunshine
and whispered breezes to warm us.
In soft-slippered, early morning light,
while nestled in twin beds
on opposite sides of a bedroom
wallpapered with daisies,
we often opened eight-year-old, sleep-dusted eyes
within seconds of each other.
Our handheld voices still tucked under covers—
mine sky blue and
yours cotton candy pink—
would emerge to sign our daily greetings
and plan the following hours’ adventures.
Each day, while California tilted toward the sun,
a signed language spun textured fibers
and wound them into vibrantly-colored threads
to weave the rich fabric of a shared, quilted childhood.
At bedtime, though,
light left us,
and darkness made us mute.
Unwilling, yet, to be silenced,
you would slip into my bed beside me
under my sky blue cover
to chat about morning episodes of The Brady Bunch,
afternoon games of hide-and-seek in the park,
and evening cartwheels with sun-kissed arms on the lawn.
I fingerspelled
in the dark,
one letter at a time.
You covered my right hand with your both of your own,
feeling my fingers and knuckles
form letters
into words
into sentences
into giggles.
I paused after each letter,
waiting until you tapped my wrist
to nod your understanding.
Because it was
the most time-efficient means of exchange,
you used your vocal cords,
still unsteady and awkward,
which I, alone,
understood without error.
While my vocal cords rested easy,
yours carried strenuously
words that you could not hear.
Unable to calibrate pitch
and gauge appropriate levels of sound,
your often indecipherable
and too-loud commentary
reached our parents’ ears
beyond our closed door.
Most nights, one flicked on a scolding overhead light,
and pointed you to your cotton candy pink covered bed.
Reluctantly, you would leave me,
words still on the loom,
thoughts
folded
and shelved.
But, there were stories to tell.
I determined to teach you to communicate
using your breath
to contour your words;
to press and release with measured force,
like a gas pedal
that propels or slows a car.
We worked for days,
for weeks,
for months;
until, one night in the darkness,
you crawled into bed beside me,
and whispered into my hearing ear.
Giggles of triumph and delight
escaped our throats without stifle or shame.
When exhausted by spinning embroidered tales,
we clasped our voices together on the quilt,
and sleep found us
on clouds
under cover of a blue sky,
with sunshine
and whispered breezes to warm us.
One
On the second day in a hearing school
with one classroom for only deaf children,
a new teacher gave twin sisters—
one hard of hearing and one deaf—
names they had never had before:
sign names in sign language.
Using the sign for the word twin
in this new language to them,
the teacher substituted a R, being the first letter of one’s first name,
and a K, for the other’s,
to replace the letter t, the first letter in the word twin.
Though their two sign names were forever theirs
and intertwined,
one twin left the other
at age twelve
to move to a residential school.
She lived as One,
without a twin
in her bedroom,
at her dining table,
on her playground.
She grew
as a One
and an Only.
After graduating as high school valedictorian
and earning a full university scholarship,
she graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree
and a Master of Science degree
for One.
She backpacked across Europe—
twice—
as One,
without a twin to lead her.
She rode only a bicycle
from the east coast of Massachusetts
to the west coast of California
in 43 days,
as One,
without a twin to steer her.
She mastered certification
as a scuba diver
and a skydiver,
as One,
without a twin to teach her.
She visited sixteen countries
on four continents,
as One,
without a twin to join her.
As a surprise, unbeknownst to her twin,
she initiated
and succeeded in
a four-year search to locate
a biological hearing mother living in Rouen, France
and learned of a biological Deaf father from Ireland.
She returned to Europe, again,
without a twin to share her.
One afternoon,
she met for tea with cinnamon
with her twin,
and they toasted with teacups
found at Goodwill
stamped with Made in Luxembourg on the bottoms—
a birth land 3,544 miles away.
Twins drank tea for two
and toasted to One,
who, though born deaf
in a small country,
had come far in a big world
in which the one
and only thing
she could not do
was hear.
On the second day in a hearing school
with one classroom for only deaf children,
a new teacher gave twin sisters—
one hard of hearing and one deaf—
names they had never had before:
sign names in sign language.
Using the sign for the word twin
in this new language to them,
the teacher substituted a R, being the first letter of one’s first name,
and a K, for the other’s,
to replace the letter t, the first letter in the word twin.
Though their two sign names were forever theirs
and intertwined,
one twin left the other
at age twelve
to move to a residential school.
She lived as One,
without a twin
in her bedroom,
at her dining table,
on her playground.
She grew
as a One
and an Only.
After graduating as high school valedictorian
and earning a full university scholarship,
she graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree
and a Master of Science degree
for One.
She backpacked across Europe—
twice—
as One,
without a twin to lead her.
She rode only a bicycle
from the east coast of Massachusetts
to the west coast of California
in 43 days,
as One,
without a twin to steer her.
She mastered certification
as a scuba diver
and a skydiver,
as One,
without a twin to teach her.
She visited sixteen countries
on four continents,
as One,
without a twin to join her.
As a surprise, unbeknownst to her twin,
she initiated
and succeeded in
a four-year search to locate
a biological hearing mother living in Rouen, France
and learned of a biological Deaf father from Ireland.
She returned to Europe, again,
without a twin to share her.
One afternoon,
she met for tea with cinnamon
with her twin,
and they toasted with teacups
found at Goodwill
stamped with Made in Luxembourg on the bottoms—
a birth land 3,544 miles away.
Twins drank tea for two
and toasted to One,
who, though born deaf
in a small country,
had come far in a big world
in which the one
and only thing
she could not do
was hear.
Wow do I love "a Kindred Spirit" it works so well on many levels, totem animal, ears/eyes "2nd sight" it is told so beautifully without emotion, and for that it wells me up. All of these are stellar, thanks for letting us into a glimpse of these worlds.
ReplyDeleteIt's always a treat to read Kelly's sister poems. Love the idea of our voices in our hands!
ReplyDelete