Are we really that different?

By Maille Goodwill

It’s my first day of Service. I am with a new family, in a new part of the city. My host father tells me we are going to a birthday party for his friend’s daughter. I am tired and running off of little sleep but a lot of adrenaline. We drive for a while and when we arrive at his friend’s house I am nervous and a little uncomfortable. There are balloons scattered around and a cute cake on a table. The room is dark and people are mostly ignoring me. I step outside and watch some people work the grill.

Eventually someone starts signing with me and as the conversation continues he starts getting excited. I ask him why and he explains that he thought I was judging them, their house, the fact that they are Deaf – and now he is so happy I know sign language. Suddenly the dark room is a lot brighter, this isn’t a stranger’s house, this isn’t even a new experience for me… this is my home. Soon I am in the circle talking, laughing, and making friends. I can’t believe I thought we were different.

Another day: church. The scariest test of them all. I love church and it has always been my home. But here, I don’t know what they are saying. I don’t have a group and I don’t have sign language to fall back on. They invite me to the service for teens and I take the advice of Queen Elsa from “Frozen” and step “Into the Unknown.” In the room everyone is staring at me until my now-new-bestie Nicky comes in and starts talking with me, says she wants to help me.

They change the games so I can play and pause the sermon to make sure I understand. And once again I find myself saying we really aren’t that different. After the service I am pulled aside by someone who works at the church. She hugs me and says welcome to the family. Because I belong here, I can belong anywhere once I take the first step and try.

I have always been someone who strives for community and relationships. I have also been someone who, when left alone, will hide in the corner, scared of the unknown. Here in Ecuador I have worked to consciously put myself out there: my first big event was a cookout with the Deaf community of Quito.

I stood out. That was made clear by every person there interviewing me about my life and how I ended up in Quito. I saw myself as different from everyone else, not part of their community. Then my friend from the birthday party showed up and rushed to hug me – not the common kiss on the cheek, a big bear hug. Suddenly I wasn’t different again. I wasn’t an outsider. When you put the work in, when you smile, and talk, and try, you become part of a community that would have been closed to you if you never stopped saying you don’t belong.