Oh, What a Feeling! Toyota!

This is one of my favorite pictures of Dad taken Winter '86 in front of our Toyota. It captures everything I love about him.

Dad taught me how to drive in this truck. Well, technically he finished teaching me what Mom had started. She wouldn't let me drive the Toyota -- it was the nicest vehicle we had ever owned and I was only 13. Instead Mom took me out in our old VW Bug. Its red paint was faded and dull and the engine sounded like a go-cart. It had no radio or, more importantly in the Texas heat, a working air conditioner so it wasn't exactly the finest piece of machinery. Perfect for letting a young kid get behind the wheel and give driving a shot. To complicate matters, the Bug was a stick shift and my brother Kyle decided to tag along.

Four years my senior, Kyle was both my protector and abuser, friend and enemy. But 90% of the time, he chose to be the latter of those two descriptions, so his presence meant I was under extra scrutiny and pressure. Mom was in the passenger seat and Kyle sat in the back in the middle where he had room for his long legs and I could see his wry smirk and squinty brown eyes staring back any time I looked in the rear view mirror.

By 13, I had driven a go-cart, three wheeler, dirt bike, bare-backed bull, and steered our baby blue '66 Chevy down the busy Houston freeway on Dad's lap as he worked the peddles, but this was something wholly different. The Bug required the operation of a clutch and gear whilst steering and was bigger and faster than anything for which I had 100% control.

It was exhilarating.

For about five minutes.

Once I got us moving, there wasn't much to do except steer since we didn't exactly live in a place with stop signs and intersections. Mom was a horrible passenger. At every twist and turn on the winding dirt country road, she pressed against the dashboard with open palms and stiff arms as though I was hurtling us forward at 100 MPH headed toward an iceberg like the Titanic. Bracing for a collision any second, she screamed in varying degrees of seriousness, "SLOW DOWN!" "YOU'RE GOING TOO FAST!" "KAMBRI, I SAID SLOW DOWN!" The windows were rolled down which meant the breeze distorted her hearing aids so she shouted even louder than another frightened mother would. "I'M GOING TWENTY!" "WOULD YOU CALM DOWN?!" "YOU'RE MAKING ME NERVOUS!" I alternately shouted back.

Kyle remained pretty amused in the back seat laughing, I imagine, at how ridiculous Mom was being and how white my knuckles were from gripping the wheel so tightly. When we finally approached a busier, faster road, Mom said, "Okay now I want you to stop and turn around," then showed me where "reverse" was on the gearshift. I slipped the Bug into reverse fairly easily, that wasn't my problem.

My problem was that I had turned the Bug toward the ditch on the roadside which meant we were facing downward into the ditch and to reverse meant going uphill. I would like to say that it was a steep drop but it wasn't. It was just tricky to master the exact timing of letting the clutch up with just enough pressure on the gas pedal to get over the hump. Anyone who has ever driven a stick knows that this is the hardest part for anyone to learn, but that didn't matter to me when I sent us lurching and stalled the Bug. I felt like an incompetent idiot. Mom reminded me how to re-start it which took its own effort and again I lurched us forward and backwards and stalled and revved too hard or revved too little or was too quick on the clutch or not quick enough. Kyle's peals of laughter cut straight through the engine's loud whirs and the exasperated directions Mom was shouting over the noise. Finally too frustrated and seeing that I was never going to get it before getting us stuck in the ditch, Mom impatiently asked, "You want me to do it? Here, I'll just do it."

My face was so hot from the embarrassment and anger, I couldn't hear anything except my rapid heartbeat pounding my eardrums. I stomped around the car and got in the passenger seat with a big slam of my door and folded my arms tightly across my chest. Mom deftly got us out of the ditch as she tried to show me what she was doing with her feet. "See, this is how you do it. It's not so hard." I was too angry to look over and she drove us home in silence.

Dad was surprised to see us return home so quickly, "What's wrong?"

I signed a big, fierce, "Mom!" and launched into an animated, exaggerated account of how scared she was by bracing an imaginary dashboard and signing, "SLOW DOWN!" I stomped away as Dad couldn't help but chuckle since Mom had been his back seat driver since 1966. He knew exactly what I meant.

A few days later when Mom was too engrossed in a book to notice, Dad knocked on my bedroom door. "Come in," I yelled, but no one opened the door. I knew that meant it was Dad knocking. Since he couldn't hear my reply to his knock, he always took extra time before opening the door, careful not to invade my privacy. As he had dozens of times before he asked, "I going Webb's, you want Jack Crackers?" Reversing the word order of my favorite snack, Cracker Jacks.

"Yes, please. Thank you." I signed.

"O-K. You want drive?" He asked, with an impish grin.

"YES!" I leaped up, threw on my shoes and ran out of the trailer with Dad trailing behind me. I walked toward the Bug and waited for Dad to catch up but he was standing by the Toyota.

He swatted the air with a sour expression on his face indicating that he didn't want to use the Bug. He pointed at the Toyota and signed, "Better."

"Really?" I couldn't believe that he would trust me so much. I didn't know if it was a good idea. Dad could be pretty spontaneous which didn't always end well, but he said, "Come on, let's go."

I slid trepidatiously in the driver's seat and don't recall adjusting any seat or mirror, I just cranked it up and drove.

Perfectly.

Dad was navigator and would sign various instructions about turning down this road or that. At one point he told me I was going too slow and another had me turn around on a bridge. He even making me drive into a ditch so I could practice getting myself out. Defensive driving, you might say from his own experience since he had wrecked every car we had ever owned by driving drunk and going too fast. The irony was lost on me. I was driving.

I loaded up on "Jack Crackers", he on cigarettes and beer, before I drove us home. I shut off the car and handed him his keys when he signed, "Don't tell Momma. Get mad. Secret."

Oops. Not a secret anymore. (Sorry, Mom, but Dad said not to tell!)

Reporter's Record

In part of my research for my book I ordered the court reporter's transcript from Dad's trial and punishment phase. I received it this morning and just finished reading it.

For the first time I read the testimony of the officers who responded to the 911 call and interceded in Dad's assault against Gloria*. For the first time I got the account of the medical examiner who treated and reported Gloria's wounds. For the first time I saw Mom's statements in the punishment phase and Dad's reasoning as he tried to explain all of his wrongdoings away to the jury.

Big sigh.

My GOD, it makes my heart ache for my mom, the teenage me, dad, and, of course,
Gloria.

__________
*The woman he tried to kill and for whose attempted murder he is now serving 20 years in TX prison. Not her real name.

John Hodgman once told a story on This American Life about meeting Ryan, a host on the Cuervo Nation, "[a person] whose job it is to force us to interact, to touch one another because apparently this is something we’ve forgotten how to do."

Hodgman goes on to say, "[It] is a job that seems so intuitive and skill-free that you initially think anyone can do it. It's only when you are trying and failing to get someone to drink a shot of tequila off your head that you realize how hard it is to be Cuervo Man."

Or, in my case, Cuervo Woman. I was one of a handful of people who for a few weeks a year got to live on Marina Cay, a five acre piece of land in the middle of the British Virgin Islands dubbed the Cuervo Nation. There I hosted 14 contest winners. double decker tour bus.

When I listened to Hodgman's account, I was at once proud and grossly embarrassed. I had a coveted gig but one with no merit, morals or intelligence required. It was a bawdy lifestyle of debauchery in a bikini doing tequila body shots, dropping poker chips out of my butt crack into a beer stein and jumping off naked from the upper deck of a boat into a pool of anacondas swimming in the deep blue awaiting discarded burgers and bread and me.  I was tan, young, happy, drunk, fearless, free.

“Hey, Kambri, telephone!” The bartender yelled. I sat frozen, confused as to how anyone could track me down. The Cuervo Nation isn’t exactly listed in the phone book. In fact, it has no air conditioning, no television, no radio.

"Who died?" I thought. Then quickly, "This had better not be about Grandma."

"Hey, Kambri." It was my brother. I hadn't spoken to him in a year. If this were about Grandma, my mother would be the one calling. Why isn't she calling? She’s the one who's dead. Or my dad.

This is about my dad.

It is strange how in the still anticipation of gaining unwanted news how crystal clear the message is.

I climbed out of the vacuum of that phone call and tried to focus on something else. The reggae music, the pattern of the wood grain table, my half-empty bottle of tequila. I stopped my brother from saying another word.

That bottle of tequila was only half empty and the anacondas were waiting.

Warrior for the Deaf

I received a 25 page letter (!@!%#$!!!) from Dad yesterday. He has been in solitary confinement since Christian and I saw him in July for assaulting an officer. He insists the guard is trumping up charges and instigated the entire incident in the first place. Dad has become a "warrior for the deaf [inmates]" and spends most of his day in the library researching laws, the ADA and helping the other deaf inmates file grievances against the TDCJ.

Dad thinks the guard got him thrown into solitary for causing the guards grief in this regard and his punishment is excessive. Now, I know Dad places blame on everyone else for all of his troubles including, sadly, the two women he tried to kill: my mom in '88 and Gloria* in '02. But in this instance, I don't think Dad is entirely off base. Two main reasons:

(1) There are lots of documented cases in Texas and the US about deaf inmates not receiving fair or adequate treatment behind bars;

(2) During our first ever visit to see Dad, Christian had a long chat with a new guard, a very young man who wanted to pay his way through college. This guard was very well spoken, intelligent and seemed out of place entirely and told Christian in summary, "The inmates aren't the ones I'm afraid of; it's the guards." He said the guards definitely are mentally and physically abusive to the inmates and it worried him because the guards are so outnumbered.

Not really the kind of thing you want to hear from someone who is talking about the guards in charge of your own pop.

Regarding item #1, I found some excellent articles online at the Oxford Journals of Deaf Studies and Deaf Education. I was interested in research performed by Dr. Katrina Miller, in particular, as she has written articles pertaining to Deaf inmates. Further research led me to a book she published in 2003 based on this research titled Deaf Culture Behind Bars which includes interviews of Deaf inmates in, where else? Texas. I ordered a copy for myself and one for Dad. I'm sure he'll know many of the inmates she interviewed but it is highly doubtful that he's one of them as I believe her research was conducted just prior to Dad getting thrown in the clink. I also tracked her down at her current University and sent her an email. I hope she replies.

As for Dad's self-annointed title of "Warrior for the Deaf," it really makes me happy. I like knowing that he's investing his time in a more positive way and putting his intelligence and energy toward the greater good of helping Deaf inmates. Sure there's the motivation to help himself but isn't there often a selfish reason for being unselfish?

Another Kind of Anniversary

"It was nineteen years ago tonight my Dad tried to kill my mom."

Sometimes when you try to say a sentence like that out loud it comes out all twisted and garbled because your throat knots up and simply won't cooperate.

It's very easy to type away and recount stories and try to make light but when I actually say a sentence out loud to someone I like and who likes me back, and I'm not trying to be sarcastic to make light but instead trying to relate why I might just be a wee bit melancholy today it strikes me: Nineteen years ain't all that long ago. In fact, it's right here and now if I let it.

For fun, here's a snippet from a letter I wrote to "Rick", my then boyfriend of four weeks, that night...tonight, 19 years ago:

"[He] nearly choked my mother to death, then held a knife to her throat. God, Rick, I didn't know what to do! I couldn't call the cops, because he ripped my phone out of the wall and made us sit in front of him so we couldn't call anyone. I wish I could get away from here but I can't leave my mom and I still have school to think about. I need you so much right now, but you're not here. So, if I die right away...I love you with all my heart. Kambri Crews. =0) "

Yay! Happy Anniversary!

Happy Anniversary to Us!

One year ago today, Finnegan & I got hitched during the most awesome party ever -- no joke, it was FUN and not stuffy or full of random strangers. We did it at Galapagos Art Space, a former mayo factory, and he & I came downstairs from their loft space and worked our way through the crowd to the main stage to the tune of "Head Over Heals" by Tears for Fears. The best wedding march song ever: great, dramatic opening piano/keyboard-y sound and the lyrics are great for schmaltzy romance, too.

For a laugh, here's the toast I read from My Jailed Deaf Dad:



--Kambri

Working Titles -- For Reals

I'm thinking of these as working titles:

Being Anything
Bone Collecting
Cranberry
Falling Upwards
Unheard Of

P.S. Tomorrow's our 1st year wedding anniversary, y'all!

DSL: Doggy Sign Language

Can I just brag about my dog Paquita for a minute. Girl is six and half years old and she still learns new sign language. This morning I signed "coffee" as I've been doing with voice for about two weeks before putting her harness on and walking her to the deli for my regular morning java. Today I just signed coffee without any words and the girl went ballistic, excited to be going on the coffee run. She knows more signs than Christian!

So add coffee to the growing list that includes: Sit, down, roll over, go around (she turns around in a circle), play dead (I sign a gun pointing at her), wave, be cute (where she rubs her eyes with her paws), and lots of words not in sign language on top of that. Makes her mama proud.

Okay, back to regularly scheduled programming.

Brand Loyalty

"No! We will NEVER eat there, EVER!" Dad signed. His eyes became angry slits and his mouth was wrinkled as he mouthed the word "EVER" through clenched teeth and tight lips.

"But Pizza Inn is just the same as Pizza Hut," I argued. "Why can't we just eat there?" I was eight years old and just couldn't see the sense in rejecting one pizza place over another when they were practically identical, even down to their red roofs.

"Because," Dad furiously explained, "They had me arrested. Why? For nothing! I was just sleeping after a long day of work."

"What? They arrested you? But why?!" I was beginning to hate Pizza Inn, too, as Dad pulled into the Pizza Hut parking lot and turned off the ignition.

Dad explained, "I was working long hours and on my way home from the construction site stopped in to have some pizza and beer. The next thing I know I feel a tap on my shoulder. It was a policeman who was trying to wake me up. I was so tired from long hours of work I fell asleep in the booth. But why didn't the waiter or manager try to wake me? Why send a cop? They said I was passed out drunk and arrested me! But I wasn't drunk, I was sleeping!"

I didn't say anything, just nodded in acknowledgement. I tried not to let him on that I thought something smelled fishy.

When Mom showed up at the Courthouse as Dad's interpreter, she talked his way out of the public intoxication rap. "See Your Honor, he's Deaf and he must not have heard them trying to wake him up. He wasn't passed out, he was just tired."

Mom left out the fact that Dad had downed a pitcher of beer on his own and that this had happened before, just never at Pizza Inn and never were the cops called.

The Judge let Dad walk and Dad had smug ammunition that he had won. Pizza Inn was a discrimating bastard and had tried to get him in trouble because he was Deaf. Any time he got in trouble, it was always because he was Deaf.

The next time I ate at Pizza Inn was in Oklahoma City over twenty years later. I had boycotted it in solidarity all that time even though I knew Dad was wrong. I felt weird walking in but wondered if Dad even remembered the incident. I soaked in the scenery, ate their pizza and noted that beer was no longer an option.

Just last month, Christian and I visited Dad in jail. I asked him, "Do you remember how you never let us eat at Pizza Inn? Do you know why?"

"Oh, yes!" And Dad launched in to his story as though it had happened yesterday. "...it was because I am DEAF!"

So I guess I shouldn't tell him about the time I ate there and how it really is just like Pizza Hut.

Love, Daddy has graduated to: LoveDaddy.org!

On the Radio

Christian is in Philadelphia headlining at the Helium Comedy Club. To promote his appearance, he did some radio. The subject of me and My Jailed Deaf Dad came up in the second half which created some interesting radio conversation. Listen to it here.