Last night I went to a place where the air was rife with the energy of motion, the flurry of expression. Last night I stepped into a world whose natives fill me with equal parts intrigue, terror and joy. It was bright with supermarket fluorescence, loud with shuffling feet and chairs scraping across the floor. It was quiet with the flicks, claps and sighs of subtle conversation. This world was filled with hands. Dancing, flitting, jerking, twiddling, flowing. There were many people. I was hustled around the room to make introductions, my hands hovering gently to follow each greeting. I traded names with many. “Hi, my, name, is, K-A-C-I-E. Nice, to, meet, you.” This was my mantra. Some were hesitant to talk to me. Most were not. There was a little girl there, 5 years old. She needed a bit of encouragement, but soon her tiny fingers pressed into my waiting palm. “My, name, is, L-I-L-I-A-N-A. How, are, you.” Soon I was approached by a young woman. Her shadow glided in front of me, her hands patiently filled mine. “Hello, she said, “you have a beautiful face.” (Blush). “Thanks, I responded, “You have nice hands. Big, strong, soft, good signers’ hands, I like.” I could almost hear her smile. “Thank you so much!” After the ceremonial trading of names, I wondered if I’d just had a pleasant brush with the enigma of this world’s culture. All too soon the lights briefly blinked. Off, on, off, on. Time to go.