Get Malzed!

If you like to be left behind, not knowing what’s going on with the bandwagon, this post is not for you. Stop reading now. But, if there is a tiny chance you’re curious, feel free to continue reading and learning something new. This is as educational as a PBS show can get.

First things first: there is no deaf youth association in America. Deaf youth in America is a large inactive group, either being too busy with their immediate future to be concerned about others or not realizing there are more people like them that are more interested in making changes rather than gossiping about the latest Britney fiasco. What is youth? It does not mean ages from 10 to 18, like the creepy tween craze or those “I’m-so-cool-with-my-know-it-all-and-antisocial-attitude” kids. We have Junior NAD, catering to high school students, plenty of positive leadership camps or workshops for teens, and among other things. They have it all. Until they get into college or graduate from high school and realize toiling away at their local McDonald’s does not bite the bullet. College is fun and hip, sure. But when you’re done, you’re done. Staying in the gutter forever does not become you. You go on with your life, getting a career and boxing yourself in a tiny cubicle in an organizational office hell, and start paying off the debts you mounted up while you were buying your toys and clothes to compete with fellow students in college. You get stuck, sure. What if I’m telling you there is a way out. Not quite a red/blue pill situation here, we do not have that luxury of choice. Rather, there is a way for you to actually contribute few hours of your time weekly into something positive for yourself and others. You’re bored? You’re lacking creativity, both mentally and spiritually? You’re stuck in a rut, wanting better things but not knowing how to get them? You’re lazy and never found the drive to apply yourself to a positive cause? You want that expensive gadget (say, a Wii) but cannot afford it? Well, this is not a solution to all of your problems, especially the monetary situation where you’re lacking a Wii, but this will give you connections to other people who might have a Wii. Even better, this will make you feel important. Significant someone in this kind of society where you’re just a gray person walking down a nameless street in a suburban city of a corporate nation. You will never be bored again. This is a strong claim, but like the infomercials love to say: 100% satisfaction guaranteed or your money back!

No, I’m actually exaggerating on the money part, but you get the gist, I hope.

Join Deaf Youth USA if you’re still reading this and agreeing with what I have been saying. Deaf Youth USA (DYUSA) is a new concept, borrowed from our European friends. Last summer, I went on a backpacking trip with my sister and roommate, just three of us, for a month before joining up forces with other friends in Barcelona, Spain. Our destination: the World Congress of World Federation of the Deaf (WFD) in Madrid, Spain. Why? My sister was selected as a representative for National Association of the Deaf (NAD), acting as a delegate and spokesperson for USA in a huge international conference. Soon enough, my sister was voted in as the secretary for the youth board of WFD. Her mad English skillz helped. Anyway, once I was there, I met plenty of young people like me, whether they spoke/wrote in a different language, we could understand each other pretty well. With liberal amounts of sangria, beer, firewater, and campy atmosphere, I found myself analzying what was really wrong with America. We have it all, the laws and rights that allow us to get school, jobs, and live normally as we could.  But, one thing was missing: a collective body of young deaf adults.  There used to be College NAD (CNAD) but it fell one too many times.  Duh.  College kids all care about their grades, partying lessons, and nearest cash machine.  Organizing a strong body of young deaf adults is a bit too much for them.  Instead of relying on others for manpower and motivation, we have to look inside ourselves and decide whether we are capable of greater things.

I’m saying I am capable, but only as much as I can handle.  Add five more people, I’m suddenly capable of doing small things such as writing, buying domain names for websites, and debating ideas of change.  Add fifty more, we have an army.  Add a thousand people, we are solid.

Right now, we are a collective of ten people.  A bit more, considering how many friends Deaf Youthamerica gained through Facebook, however it is still small.  Irregardless of how small or lacking manpower, the organization is growing.

On the train trip from Madrid to Lisbon, Portugal, it was just me and my sister, tired as hell but awake as we can be with the train rolling through black landscape, crowded in the economy section, and full from greasy burgers, we sat down in another section where we could recline fully and be comfortable.  Our extreme discomfort and slowly digesting food kept us up.  Talking about deaf youth pushed us over the edge of wakefulness,  we were up for hours, discussing the logistics, names, reasonings, and DYUSA was born.  I did not, am not going to, and will never take the credit for DYUSA.  The concept was born the day students decided to protest against the oppressive administration at Gallaudet.  Seeing how students banded together, organizing things by themselves, and held peace in the halls and tents they called home, inspired me to think bigger.  That October protest was just a month, but what about the years ahead of us?

Deaf Youth USA is the years ahead of us.  In a small scale, a body of fifty students held on stubbornly and twisted everyone’s hands.  On a grander scale, thousands of young deaf adults will definitely shake the old system of letting others handle the important things.  We don’t need to complain endlessly how it is bad.  We have the best legislative and judicial system in the world, right there at our fingertips.  Americans revolted against the biggest and wealthiest power in that time and won.  The same manifesto is still there, breeding into generations of young adults, whether they are deaf or not.  It is our time, right here, right now, to challenge the older corporate and institutionalized thinking, and be the change we wish to see in our country.

This summer, in New Orleans, right before the National NAD conference, there will be a camp for deaf youth.  KOA Kampground will be invaded and overrun with deaf youth from July 3rd to 7th.  Be there or you will wish you were.

If you’re still reading this, I’m patting your back for making this far and hope you do agree with me.  It is never the time to gripe and complain.  It is always the right time to take action!  We have nothing to lose- the Gallaudet protest taught me this.  And in return, I’m giving myself back to the society, to my culture, to my people.  Rock on, Deaf Youth USA!

This week hasn’t been good to me or my family. It has been pretty hard on me even though I was expecting it to happen. My grandpa left this world for a better one beyond. I saw him last on Thanksgiving, when I flew to Washington DC and visited my grandparents in Virginia Beach. He was lucid, stuck in nursing home and attached to a feeding tube, but that did not deter him from spending few hours talking with us all. His slow decline was not a secret in my family nor with friends. I knew he will eventually leave us, but when it actually happened, nothing could prepare me for the moment of total devastation and finality.

I was at a construction site, about to start working after wasting a better part of the hour talking with co-workers and taking a long cigarette break, when I decided to check my pager for any emails before hauling some serious action upon the floors. I flipped open my not-so-trusty Sidekick and saw only one message from my dad. The subject read: Grandpa dies today.

That was enough, to see the subject line and not to read the message, but I had to. I read the message, sat down on the dusty floor, and clutched my sidekick as if it was my mom’s hand. That moment I felt so alone, anonymous and insignificant in the great wheel of life. Partly because I was new to the area and I met most of the locals for the first time in past two months. Partly because I did not have a family member around me. My stomach clenched and let go, then clenched again. My hands were still gripping my already battered pager and I realized I was sitting down. Then the tears came, at first an tentative drop welling out of my eye, seeking a path down my cheek, and more came. I could feel gasping and yet more squeezing and I realized it was me, sobbing and my innards were twisted. I stood up, balled my hands around the pager, stretched my arms towards the sky, and looked outside where it shone brightly among the mountains. It was a really splendid beautiful sunny day, a rare moment in Vancouver middle of January. I was on the sixth floor and could see the mountains surrounding the city, with sun gently glowing upon the gleaming glass and steel towers. I stood there by the window, letting the rays soak me and chase away the chills death brought with it. That moment, I thought it was indeed a good day for Grandpa to leave, to depart his old, worn out husk.

Last time I saw him, he was barely able to spell out coherently, crippled by arthritis, making him miserable. I could understand him, but not completely, and it was the greatest sorrow, for a deaf person to be trapped inside a body that refuses to cooperate. It used to be only the letter “e” that he couldn’t properly spell, and the rest was perfectly legible. Later on, it became more difficult for him to articulate other letters, leading to whole words and sentences. That last time I saw him was also the first time I saw him abed and in a hospital facility (nursing home is practically a hospital). It was hard, to watch him struggle and get frustrated about something he had no control over. Weeks later, my dad would report his progress and would mention that communication was not getting any better. His mental state, too. Lucid moments came and went. I learned something new, something called Sundowner’s Syndrome, where mostly older people would have clarity in the mornings and falling into dementia when the sun sets. It is not something I’d wish on anyone, to have a strange roller coaster alternating between understanding and incomprehension. Up and down and up and down.

Now, my grandpa is not stuck between states, he is someplase else watching us. Corny, I know, but it is true. He lives on in us, in his sons and his grandchildren and the in-laws, and most importantly, his wife. He is at peace and always sane, and that’s how I rather remember him as.

As I stood there by the windows, letting the sun warm my suddenly cold body, tears were running down my face and I couldn’t believe it. When the subject of death is mentioned, I have this genetic predisposition to smile, giggle, or laugh. It is never funny but I always have this nervous tic where my facial muscles contract and pull at my cheeks, widening my lips until you can see my teeth and it looks ugly. It is actually a grimace but a smile nonetheless, as I self-consciously try to stop my face from contorting rudely in the face of death. My mom has the same problem. My sister, too. That moment when I found out, I did not smile. My face was slack, in shock, and shiny with my tears. My sister followed my dad’s email, asking me whether I saw the news. That confirmed it for me, because I needed someone else to say it was true. One email cannot push my hand, but two or more definitely shoved me forwards. I contacted my mom, my brother, and my cousin simultaneously. All shared the same emotions: shock, disbelief, grief, and gladness that Grandpa went off to a better place.

Oddly enough, only a day before, I was shocked and saddened about my all-time favorite Hollywood actor’s death. Heath Ledger had a special place in my heart where I’ll follow his movies, news, and happenings since I was around sixteen years old. His death was too sudden and unrealistic.

After I received the news about my grandpa, Heath’s death became insignificant because I never knew the person. I only knew him through his roles and the screen time he put up. While, my grandpa was a real person, flesh and blood, and someone I looked up to while growing up. He was the one who taught us all to love reading, writing, and drama. I learned how sign language is one of the most valuable gift I could ever receive from him and my family. He was a trail blazer in the field of drama and literature. The written word was holy to him, any knowledge was worth having, and upcoming technology never fazed him. Instead, he had this cute and eccentric curiosity in how things worked and never shirked away from the progress. Internet, digital-dom, information, and such you can find at your fingertips was also accessible to him and he loved it. I was actually proud of him, for his unquenchable thirst for learning and evolving with time. I knew many of my friends’ grandparents felt threatened and overwhelmed by the changes in today’s technology. Not my grandpa.

My grandpa also saw plenty of events and history during his eighty-five years on earth. He made changes in the deaf community and for that, there are too many deaf people who would want to extend their hand in support for this tragedy. Not quite a tragedy, he lived his life to its fullest. The only thing that bothers me is the fame and publicity. I never proudly announced my last name when introducing myself. I’d say, “I’m Megan” and leave it at that. My grandpa was the Malz. I’m not the Malz, but a Malzkuhn. I will carry out the name and the legacy with it but I’m not him.

I appreciate the well-wishing and comfort people had given us. Yet, I do not want to remember him as the Malz. I want to remember him as my cranky lovable crotchety intelligent creative inspiring grandpa. He was and will be always Pop-pop to me. This week I have been remembering and honoring him by writing. I wrote poems, snippets, blogs, and all these were for him. A person might be dead but by remembering the person, he lives forever. To be immortal, one has to remember and be remembered by. I remember you, Pop-pop, and you’ll never be forgotten as long as I live.

Here’s a short poem I wrote within the hours after finding out he died.

“For you grandpa”

An old gentleman, quick to pull a face
Making me laugh or sit down with wonder
At his tall and not so tall tales
Inspiring me to use both languages I was born with
Fluently and surely as I think
Illustrating my voice through my hands
Because I grew up watching my grandpa do the same
My written words comes springing up flowing smoothly through my brain nerves, making connections, dotting the i’s and gives birth to my passion and ideas specifically and eternally
Signing is transisent, spur of moment, hardly preserved
With both, from the gifts my grandpa planted in me and my family, I can switch between present and infinity.

Dog lover, soda swiller, and trouble maker with a genuine love for intellectualism
Pop-pop was one of a kind
Irreplaceable
Solid mountain, deep lines of wisdom running down its face, alive through times, the evidence of the years gone past
Immortal
As long as one remembers, one never dies.

You’re in a better place, Pop-pop.

I was going to write a long rant or blabber about nothing, but unfortunately for me, there is an asshole cafe worker who kept bothering me and telling me they are closing.  Well, last time I checked, it will close in like twenty minutes, so there is no need to rush me along just because you want to skedaddle from work a bit earlier.  6pm closing time is ludricious.

Screw Beans Around the World cafes.  Go to Waves cafe- they are open 24 hours and that’s way more reliable.

I haven’t written anything (other than scribbling down my random thoughts on my trusty laptop, trying to write stories) in a while.  I’m lousy with updating my life, either because I’m naturally inclined to write for classes or such, rather than creatively and assertively putting my words on a webpage that I don’t even know if people bothered to read.  Well, thanks Jane, I know you read it

Anyway, this topic isn’t about my laziness/fear of posting/lack of enthusiasm- it is about Brad Renfro.

Some of you probably already knew, he died two days ago on January 15th, due to an overdose of something.  But I bet many of you did not know how much I adored him while growing up.  He is about a year older than me and I first saw him in The Client, as a troubled boy who Susan Sarandon valiantly defended and rescued from his dismal fate.  I was about ten years old.  He did not appeal much to me, being a kid and not too interested in boys yet.  Later, I saw him in The Cure, about a boy who had AIDS and became friends with Brad Renfro’s character.  Brad was definitely older and cuter.  Sleepers, a heavy weigh movie cluttered with famous actors such as Brad Pitt, Kevin Bacon, Jason Patric (what the hell happened to him?!), and etc, came next.  I remember that movie vividly because I was completely in love with my Brad while my sister was literally ape-shit crazy about her Brad (Pitt).  We snuggled up on the sofa and enjoyed watching our Brads act the younger and older version in the movie.  Later, Brad starred in Apt Pupil, one of my favorite movies to date and partly because of how cute he was.  I thought I’ll keep on watching his upcoming movies and grow up as he does.

He was my first crush, the first boy I thought was totally cute (sorry for the “valley-girl speak” but this is the way I thought back then) and kept up with.  My sister had her crushes, from Brad Pitt to Nicole Kidman and forcing me to soak in “Legends of the Fall” and “Far and Away” while she’ll yell “yes!” when Nicole stabbed Tom in the leg, and when Brad cried and held Julia Ormond, Melissa will groan because she knew what will happen in the end.  Well, she had her turn, while Brad was all mine.  My friends knew my star-crossed obsession, my fixation and hopeless dreams.

Admittedly, he became older, he seemed less “together” and got into a bad streak with drugs and crime, and that gave him less appeal.  I turned to other hotter and up-coming actors, but I always kept tabs on Brad’s movies and his life.   I watched his movie, Bully, and thought that was probably the chance he needed to get back into the mainstream and directors’ favor.  But years came and went, Brad was still a struggling actor and getting into worse things- he did not have the star wattage to avoid trouble with police and such.  Still, I had hoped for the best, because he is a good actor and he was my first crush.

About a week ago, before my internet shut off, I imdb’ed him (imdb.com if you didn’t understand that new verb) and was glad to know he did have projects coming up.  It seemed like he could pick himself off the ground following his heroin bust.  Oh, the bust.  It happened the day before I turned 22.  I was really sad to see how pitiful he looked that day, with the homeless-chic look and receding hairline, all pointed to a constant use of drugs.  Heroin fucks you over and takes it all.

Now, he is dead.  I googled him and now people are saying how pitiful, how tragic, how (insert a sympathetic invoking word here), that Brad died and he had this history of drug and crime problems.  It was not for me.  My old best friend from middle school, the girl who suffered through my obsession with Brad, was the first person to break the news to me.  I was out with co-workers at a pub, downing beers and when I found out, I was in shock.  I hate this type of conversation.  It went like this:

MyFriend: Hey!

MyFriend: Brad Renfro is dead.

Me: WHAT THE FUCK?!

I sat there, my sidekick clutched in my now-white-knuckled hands, and wondered.  He is dead already.  It was not about Hollywood ideals, or about fantasies that never happened.  It is just about humanity and human life.  You fuck it up, you’re dead.  No going back, no crazy group of people flat-lining themselves to see what’d happen at the end of tunnel (lost? check the movie, Flatliners).   Nothing.  It is done and that made me think of how fragile our lives are.  A random broken glass window could plummet me to death, which actually happened on the street in downtown Vancouver last Monday.  No, I didn’t get plummeted, but I was walking along that route before being told by a nice policeman that it was dangerous and had to take a detour.  Simple and quick, a person can go from living to dead.

You will be missed, Brad Renfro, and never forgotten.  Thanks for giving me a sense of reality and fragility of our lives.

Live your lives to its fullest because like Brad, you might not wake up next morning.