Signs
For my Intro to Non-Fiction class, we wrote Flash Non-Fiction pieces for our midterm. They had to be between 500-800 words, mine comes in 799.
Scratching my skin, ablaze with anger yet tender with remorse.
I shuffle into the near-empty hospital waiting room, my friend leading the way. I stand behind her at the intake desk as she begs for help, pointing the nurse to my body folding in on itself. She tells him I’ve gone into anaphylactic shock, and that I need help. He looks at us and says, “You must grab a ticket and wait your turn.”
An Italian accent twists his words, but I know he understands us. Even if he doesn’t he could see me. He could see the tears falling down my hive-ridden face like rapids rushing between mountains, my chest red and raw from scratching endlessly in agony, my repeated futile attempts to breathe deeply. He glances at me, then back to my friend, and repeats, “You must wait.”
I’ve sat through endless lessons taught by pretentious white professors preaching that meaning isn’t contained in language. Language is a series of signs pointing you in the direction of a feeling. And while it creates barriers, the universal human experience is greater than any division language creates. We can all understand another's pain, joy, or sorrow even without words, they said.
Hands seizing my throat taking shallow breaths stifled by wheezes.
My friend turns away from the front desk and runs to the entryway of the triage area. The nurses yell and stop her from getting close, shouting a mix of Italian and English at her. She pleads with them for help. “She cannot wait,” she says and points to me lagging, searching for breath.
A young boy and his mom push past us. He holds his arm like it’s hurt but has no pain in his face. They speak with the nurses in Italian before they lead him into the triage area. My friend swoops in front of them, yanking my deflated body in the nurse's face. Their eyes widen with shock, then roll once they realize they must treat me.
During all those monotonous lessons of prehistoric white men telling me where to find meaning, I’d ask them to consider that language may not capture meaning but its divisions do. Not the divisions of differing languages – the division of me and you. The division of them and us, the division of us and others. Of course, they disagreed.
My heavy head drops to my hands, heavier hands fall to my knees.
Another bored nurse shoves a stack of papers and a pen in front of me. I scribble my name, my date of birth, and my country of origin before my hands land back on my knees. I flail like a balloon deflating as pain pangs through my chest. My lungs are growing tired of being forced in and out. My chest is done fighting to rise, just to fall.
The nurse looks up from whatever she’s doing on the other side of the desk and asks, “Can you breathe?”
Staggering amongst stares of misdirected shame. Holding my things like my pride, loose.
A male nurse who speaks some English leads me on foot to a private room. He too turns around and asks me if I can breathe, if my chest is tight, if my skin is itching. I look down at myself to confirm we’re looking at the same thing, that we both see my bright red skin and trembling limbs. He doesn’t offer me a wheelchair, even as other patients and calmer conditions roll past me. I drag my feet with the last of my energy to the bed where it feels like my death is imminent.
I like to think of language as a net. Human experience diffuses through, but only the experience of those that language has deemed human.
Surrendered to the bed in ignominy.
I’m swarmed by a school of doctors and nurses, all suddenly realizing the severity of my situation. They speak fragmented English as they poke and prod, poorly asking for consent first. Between shots and tests, bouts of foreign laughter ring across my body between nurses.
A female nurse removes my top for an EKG. She doesn’t bother finding the words for consent in English beforehand, suddenly leaving me cold, exposed, and confused. I lie there and can’t help but wonder if she’d try if I was white.
A new nurse rushes in, grabs my hand, and looks at the landscape of hives on my arm. She shouts “What did you eat?” she asks, speaking perfect English.
“Ice cream.” I choke on my words.
“What’s wrong with you? You have to ask first if you have an allergy!”
“I know–”
She cut me off: “Are you an idiot? You could’ve died!” Laughs cry out from the room. I lie there silent, knowing my words are beyond me.
