This makes me cry, because I want to find you, OP, and ask you if I can draw your hands (your voice); I want to find all the greatest textured things for you, things you like, and let you flap to your hearts content. The greatest compliment I have ever received was a quiet, “Youareverysymmetrical” from a boy at my high school who fought his way through the chaos in his mind just to tell me that. I sat down on the steps and cried because I know that must have been so hard for him. I do not cry easily. Please, have loud hands.
TW: Ableism, abuse
Explaining my reaction to this:
means I need to explain my history with this:
When I was a little girl, they held my hands down in tacky glue while I cried.
I’m a lot bigger than them now. Walking down a hall to a meeting, my hand flies out to feel the texture on the wall as I pass by.
“Quiet hands,” I whisper.
My hand falls to my side.
When I was six years old, people who were much bigger than me with loud echoing voices held my hands down in textures that hurt worse than my broken wrist while I cried and begged and pleaded and screamed.
In a classroom of language-impaired kids, the most common phrase is a metaphor.
A student pushes at a piece of paper, flaps their hands, stacks their fingers against their palm, pokes at…
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