I had heard my parents described as deaf-and-dumb all through my childhood. I always took pains to explain that although they were deaf, they were not dumb, not were they mute.

　　"Why do you let your boss call you Dummy?" I asked my father the next day.

　　He shrugged. "It is easier for them. They remember me."

　　I was enraged. "You are not a dummy. You are a smart man. Tell them your name is Benjamin."

　　He smiled wanly. "It is all right. I know I am not dummy, that is enough." He spoke of the men with benevolence, forbearing their disdain when they called him Dummy or too roughly poked his shoulder for attention. In a world of fools. Locked in stillness, he was pleased with himself. But I was not.

　　Dummy. I traced the hateful word on soot-laden cars and erased it with a swipe of my hand. I wrote it in my notebook, tore out the page and crumpled(弄皱) the defamation into a ball.

　　My father saw my anger. "Don't worry," he said. "I will improve my mind every day. I will learn new words, and you, Ruth, are my teacher. You are my dictionary."

　　I hugged him.

　　From that moment, the anger and shame that had coursed through me crystallized into resolve. I was determined that no one would call my father by that name again. I read the dictionary every night, absorbing language, and taught the words to my father. He was insatiable. He and I had purpose. Our minds melded in study.

　　In this way, my father awakened my own thirst for language.

　　"I tell you," he signed, then pulled his chair closer to mine. "Language is alive, like a person, like a river; always change, always new works. Not need to speak to know language." He knew language in a way I never will. It danced from his soul.

　　His primary passion was clear thinking and comprehension. When I was in doubt about a concept that I was teaching him, he said, "You must ask the teacher again. Must be clear."

　　The sign for the word clear is revealing. The tips of the fingers of each hand are closed, forming a small circle; the two circles join as the fingers touch, and then the hands are opened wide, permitting light to enter. It is a sign of illummination.

　　Knowledge alone was not what my father sought. It was the process, not the product, that thrilled him. He taught me the art of questioning. If I didn't understand a teacher's response, he assumed I had asked my question wrong. "You smarter than teacher," he said. "Ask another question. Make sure teacher knows what you ask."

　　And so I became skilled at communication. I questioned my teachers until I understood every facet of their teaching. It made no difference if the teacher was masterful of inept; each had a gift for me. Week after week, I learned whatever was set before me in class and taught my father whatever I could.

　　When I couldn't answer his inquiry at the most fundamental level, I promised to search for the answer until I could satisfy his wonder. "Now I understand," he would sign.