Talking With Hands, A CODA’s Story

"PRRRIINNNGGG" 

It was 8:00 am, my first day of kindergarten. The school bell rang loudly and clearly into the crisp August morning air. A swarm of squeals and giggles filled the salt-and-pepper blacktop as kids ran around playing tag, took turns zipping down the slide, and hung upside down on the monkey bars with flushed red cheeks. 

Then there was me – the kid half-hidden behind her mommy, peeking out like a meerkat. 

After the bell rang, the kids swiftly ran to form neat, single-file lines in time to listen to the morning announcements. Across the playground, standing on a matte-black, painted wooden stage, was a blonde woman in a prim, charcoal-gray pantsuit with black leather, pointed-toe kitten heels. Despite her slightly intimidating presence, she had a warm and inviting smile. 

"Gooooood Morning Orcas!" said the lovely lady holding the mic. "Welcome back to yet another amazing school year! My name is Ms.Kallegan, and for those of you who don't know me, I'm your school principal." She had gone on explaining the school's values, rules, goals, and other miscellaneous announcements that felt like seven eons in my adolescent brain, but in reality, it was 15 minutes. 

I felt a familiar tug at my t-shirt sleeve, my mom looking down with a confused look, asking, "What's she saying? Explain to me?" Naturally, I turned to face her and began moving my hands, trying to keep up the pace of Ms. Kallegan's speech, interpreting as best as I could with my wobbly baby fingers. Every few words or so, I'd mess up a sign or jumble a few together. "Slow down, hon. It's okay," my mother comforted me with a gentle smile.

Now and then, between pauses, I'd catch glances and not-so-subtle stares in our direction, but paid no mind to them. At the time, I didn't understand why they were staring, but as an adult, I recognize that it may have been the first time I noticed that what was normal at home was what made me different at school. 

The Rude Awakening

After morning announcements, it was time for everyone to head to their respective classes. Most kids waddled over with backpacks bouncing; the older ones slouched and trudged, and a few eagerly speed-walked with chipper smiles. 

"Ready? Got everything?" my mom asked. "I think so," while bobbing my head and first in a "yes" like motion. Handing me my glittery pink Disney princess backpack and matching lunch pail, my mom held my hand as she walked with me, just as other kindergarten parents had done. In a neat single-file line, we marched together towards our classroom, something we'd find ourselves doing for the next 18-some years of our lives. 

Entering the room, an overwhelming yellow-tinted light illuminated the desks, adorned with multicolored crayon name tags attached to each one. Hung around the walls were kitschy motivational posters with cheesy phrases written in funky block letters and decorative fonts, saying things like "BE YOU-tiful!", "SCHOOL is COOL," and what was a personal favorite of mine, "You're people, not sheeple! DON'T FOLLOW THE HERD!" At the end of the room was a large, rainbow-colored carpet, cut into squares to fit each of our tiny bodies. 

"Leave your stuff in your cubbies and come take a seat on the carpet when you're finished!" the teacher called out. Amongst all the shuffling in the room and the occasional screaming of kids saying "MOMMY DON'T LEAVE MEEE!" I managed to hug my mama goodbye, where she counseled me with the typical "Be good! Pay attention! Have fun! Be smart!" She gave a peck on the crown of my head, smiled at me softly, and turned around to walk towards the door. As she was about to walk through the doorframe, she stopped abruptly, turned around, and called out my name. "Shelby!" she said in her high-pitched voice and signed "I love you." 

I replied the same with a cheesy grin on my face when a skinny strawberry blonde girl holding a pencil case stood next to me, giggled, and asked, "Your name's Chebi?" I gave her a puzzled look, "No? It's Shelby, my mommy just said it." The little girl giggled to herself again and walked away to put her items in her cubby. 

Eventually, everyone made their final goodbyes, and we all settled on the rainbow-colored carpet, where some of us continued to cry for our mommies. We introduced ourselves with icebreakers, reviewed classroom etiquette, and discussed the weather and calendar system until it was time for recess. We all scurried outside back to the salt and peppered colored blacktop where I heard, "HEY CHEBI!" I turned around. It was the strawberry blonde girl. "My name is Shelby," I replied in a shy voice. "Oh, sorry. I'm Whitney!" Whitney later became one of my best friends for many years. 

As my mom dropped me off every day during that first week, I faced questions and encounters from classmates I had never met before. Questions like "Why does your mom talk like that?" "That sign looks funny," "How does your mom drive?" and the ever-so annoying "Can you teach me the bad words in Sign Language?" 

I didn't have all the answers to their questions then, but those questions burrowed into me, and in a way planted the seed for everything I'd come to care about later in life. 

A few weeks into the new school year, I sat at the dinner table in our olive-colored dining room, holding a warm bowl of alphabet soup, always accompanied by a delectable aroma of tomato and basil. Twiddling the letters around with my spoon, my grandmother, who was sitting across from me, glanced up from her meal. She had slightly foggy vision due to the steam of the soup. In a somewhat irritated voice, she said, "Mija, come!" Honey eat! I lifted the silver spoon to my mouth, but before I could take a bite, I sputtered out, "Abue, porque habla mami raro?" Grandma, why does mommy speak funny? I remember her eyes widening, unsure how to answer such a simple but loaded question that had caught her completely by surprise. 

My mother's deafness was the elephant in the room that everyone was aware of but never addressed. Though it was blantly obvious to everyone else, it was never something that I felt the need to bring up or ask. In my short five years of living, it had never previously occurred to me why my mom "talks like that" or why I have to sign to her instead of speaking, but after weeks of being pestered with silly questions, I needed solid answers to give. 

In an attempt to gather her thoughts and stall slightly, my grandmother lifted her napkin, wiping off the soup that speckled onto her lips. After a long pause and drawn out sigh, she managed to say, "Es que ella no puede oír, entonces no habla bien." It's because she can't hear herself, so she can't speak normally. 

My grandmother proceeded to explain that when my mom was a baby, she had caught a virus that made her sick, causing her deafness at birth. She then explained that she "talks funny" because she couldn't hear herself enunciate the syllables, which caused her to mispronounce her words. 

In that moment, I'd realized many of my experiences didn't fall under the "traditional" family model. Many of my milestones and day-to-day experiences with my mom were…different. Instead of "baby's first word," it was "baby's first sign." Instead of going to Mommy and Me play classes, I went to Mommy and Me speech therapy. When I needed my mom's attention, instead of yelling "MOM!" across the room, I'd flick the lights on and off. During parent-teacher conferences, I served as the interpreter (and yes, I was honest about my report). 

As she went through my questions, providing me with clarity and answers, my grandma proceeded to say something that has stuck with me since that day. She said, "You mijita are all she has, you are her ears and her voice. You can speak, hear, and communicate with the world at ease. Not only do you speak English and Spanish, but you also have the gift to talk with your hands in Sign Language." 

From that day on, and as long as I could remember, I had done my best to make sure I was there for her when she needed me most. My mom and I were a unit. 

Living Between Worlds

Growing up as a CODA (Child of a Deaf Adult) to a single Mexican immigrant mother meant always living in two overlapping worlds. Though both were beautiful, they often left me at a crossroads with my identity and my relationships.

One part of me belonged to the Deaf community — warm, expressive, close-knit, a place where words weren't always needed, but eyes, hands, and presence said everything. Another part existed in the hearing world — loud and taken for granted, full of unnoticed pleasures. The giggles of friends on sleepovers, the music playing on the radio during long car rides, the whistle of a tea kettle in the morning, accompanied by the sizzling of bacon — everyday sounds my mom never heard but always felt through me.

Then there was the "wannabe all-American girl" version of me. The Shelby who spoke only English at school, sang to Hannah Montana and Selena Gomez songs on her CD player, swapped snacks for Lunchables at recess, and recited the Pledge of Allegiance next to my blonde-haired, blue-eyed, best friend. But the moment that bell rang, I went home and became Chebi. The girl who ate carne asada con arroz y frijoles at the dinner table, while my abue recited stories about her and our family in Mexico. The girl who curled up on the couch to watch telenovelas after homework was done. The girl who attended church sat in the pews on Sundays, listening to sermons and hymns in Spanish, looking forward to the senoras selling their tamales out of their coolers after mass. 

In that constant switch, I became an interpreter of more than just words. I explained morning announcements on the blacktop, ordered food at restaurants, and translated doctors' questions while sitting in exam rooms that felt too grown-up for my age. I untangled official forms from English into Sign Language or Spanish at our kitchen table, my tiny fingers spelling out big, unfamiliar words that I didn't know the meaning of but had to figure out. At family gatherings, I'd slip between Spanglish gossip with my cousins and sign back to my mom across the room so she wouldn't miss the punchline. I was always bridging worlds — never fully American enough, not quite Latina enough, not Deaf but never just hearing either.

I loved these worlds, but also felt stuck and out of place between them.

When I was younger, I sometimes wished that things were simpler, that I were deaf, or that my mother could hear like me. That I could be just one thing: only American, or only Latina. I'd wonder, "If we were the same, would it make understanding each other easier?" 

Due to our language and slight cultural differences, my mom and I often stumbled through miscommunications that sometimes built tension between us, making it difficult for us to communicate effectively. But in moments where words failed, there was always one place we could meet each other without misunderstanding: art. From arts and crafts to finger painting to silly sketches, art was our common ground. It was a space where she didn't have to rely on her ears or voice, and I didn't need to interpret every syllable. I could just observe, create, and share. Art allowed us to speak in ways we couldn't always reach naturally. Art allowed us to communicate. Art let us bond. 

As I grew older, our love for art took on a new form through design. 

I have countless memories of my mom and me running errands together. "Hey, I think that's cool," she'd exclaim, pointing at a bright, eye-catching illustrative poster with bold, dynamic typography in a store window. "We'll get this jar; it's healthier," she'd insist, handing me the glass bottle of tomato sauce, which featured the word "organic" written in a rustic, handwritten cursive font with leafy imagery. 

My mom was always easily influenced and drawn to packaging and visuals, and I would always make mental notes of which designs caught her eye. Depending on how clear the visuals were, she'd either immediately understand a product's story or lean on me to explain it. 

Even in our everyday moments, like sitting down at a restaurant, design would find its way in. "What is this?" she'd ask, pointing to the word broccolini on a cramped, text-heavy menu. "It's kinda like regular broccoli," I'd say, pulling up a picture of it on Google to show her. She'd grin, satisfied: "Ooh, okay, I think I'll like that." 

She always preferred places with menus that included pictures, simple visuals that made it easier to know what to expect. A tiny design detail for most people, but for us, the difference between a straightforward or cluttered menu could make or break the whole meal. 

Designing for Connection

I realize now that the most meaningful moments my mom and I shared were shaped by experiences rooted in thoughtful design, whether physical, visual, or both. The encounters that stuck with us always had a clear pathway, an intentional message, or a story we could both grasp. 

As an adult, my mother and I have grown closer, and I sincerely appreciate the lessons she's given me. Lessons in patience, resilience, and seeing the world through more than one lens. This woman didn't just give me life; she gave me perspective. Through her, I gained a window into the Deaf community — a world of warmth, humor, and unspoken understanding that I might never have known. Through her, I've stayed connected to our Mexican roots, to a culture rich with stories, community, and traditions that have shaped who I am. She taught me how to move through daily barriers many people never even notice, and she gave me three languages to navigate it all: English, Spanish, and a visual language that feels like poetry in motion. I feel lucky, lucky to be second generation here, lucky to stand in the in-between, and lucky to carry all these worlds with me wherever I go.

In many ways, all the adversity, challenges, questions, and in-between moments of my upbringing were quietly preparing me for the career I dedicate myself to now. Growing up, I was my mother's ears and voice. Now, I choose to utilize my design skills to amplify voices, craft stories that are both seen and felt, and help make the world more accessible to those who can go overlooked. 

In my work, I aim to influence, inspire, and create an impact with purpose, not just to make things look nice, but to ensure they speak clearly to people of all backgrounds and abilities. I hope that as I grow in my career, I will continue to push design toward true accessibility, designing experiences that don't leave anyone behind, and ensuring that communication isn't a privilege but a bridge. 

Final Thoughts 

If you've made it this far, I hope you carry away two things from my story. First, I hope it nudges you to look inward, to dissect your own convoluted and beautiful journey, and discover what drives you. Then ask how you can share that gift with the world around you. Second, I hope you remember that design isn't just about how something looks; it's about how it makes people feel, whether they are seen, welcomed, or left out.

This past year, I've been sharpening my skills, defining my genuine values, and accepting that living in the "in-between" is my superpower. Instead of fearing the chaos, I've embraced it,  bridging gaps between words and hands, cultures and communities. Today, I take pride in being a "creative chaos coordinator": using design, storytelling, and a little bit of pandemonium to remind people that connection, communication, and care should never be gatekept.

If my work and this glimpse into my world can remind even one person to build better bridges, then I know I'm living in my truth. May you always find spaces where you belong, or feel bold enough to create them yourself.

From one creative chaos coordinator to another, thanks for being here ♥️