First I'll be needin' yer full name, honey. It's for my confidential records. Lord knows none o' the girls actually uses 'em.

*Writing on a sheet of paper* Nellie Brogan.

So what do people actually call ya? An' why?

Mole. Moles are deaf. I’m deaf.

Age an' birthday? Just estimate if ya ain't sure, hon.

13. August 23rd.

Now you's gonna give me a physical description. Height, build, hair, eyes, the clothes ya wears--everythin' down to the last freckle, ya hear? *gives you a sober look* If one o' my goils goes missin'...well, it pays to be prepared, I always say.

Red hair. Green eyes. Skinny. Tall. Five feet, five inches maybe. Freckles. Pale skin.

I know you'll be sellin' papes, but are ya doin' any odder kinda work? If so, I gotta know about it. *gives you a sharp look* Yes, even that.

I knit socks and sell them to people in my spare time. Don’t tell my brother.

What's yer personality like, dearie? Sweet, grumpy, shy, outgoin', overly fond o' the boys? *smiles* It's all perfectly fine here in Greenwich Village.

I’m smart. Most people think I’m stupid, because I can’t speak well, but I’m not. I’m not good at being around other people. Not without Ernest there to translate. I keep to myself. I won’t make trouble, I promise, and Ernest will take care of my boarding fee. I’m a hard worker at what I can do, if that makes any difference.

Now, most o' the Village is real keen on the arts. Got any special talents I should know about? If ya sing, dance, act, draw, paint, write, or sweep a stage, I guarantee the goils'll find ya some extra work. *winks* You can tell me about any non-artistic talents while you's at it.

I can sew, knit, and embroider.

Any ghosts hauntin' ya that I should know about? I don't mean the kind that supposedly haunts the attic--I mean the bad things that follow ya from yer past, or the bad habits ya just can't seem to shake.

No.

Who ya know in the area, hon? Friend or foe, I wanna hear about it. An' have ya got any fam'ly left?

My brother, Ernest, lives at the Duane Street Lodging House. He takes care of me, and helps me sell my papers, and keeps me fed, and pays for my lodging. He says that because I can’t talk, he has to take care of me. And he’s right, you know. But other than Ernest, there’s nobody else.

Seein' anyone special, dear? *smiles slyly*

No.

Now, last of all, baby, I need ya to tell me why you's here. Where'd ya come from, an' what kinda life did ya have before?

I don’t remember much when I was little. Just a lot of heavy machines. I don’t remember any sounds. I’ve always been deaf as long as I can remember. For a long time I couldn’t speak to anyone. Not even my family. A lot of this I learned after me and Ernest went to live at the school. But I’m getting ahead of myself. When I was around three, my mother died in child birth. My father, a worker at the lumber mill, provided for my brother and I until he died two years later. My brother and I sold buttons on the street. He would use his deaf sister to get sympathy, and we got money that way. It was enough to keep my stomach full, but not enough to give us a place to sleep. The streets were always dark and cold. But one day, this man. I don’t know who he was, but he took us out of the streets, and took me and my brother to my first real home: The New York School for the Deaf. That’s where I flourished. For two years, I was taught to read and write. My brother and I learned sign language, so we could talk. They gave me lessons, so I could speak like the normal hearing children, but it only worked so well. I can speak a little bit, but really only Ernest can understand me. They also taught me how to read a person’s lips, so I can know what they’re saying.

But when I was seven, we were told that the school was being converted into a boys’ military school, the only military school for deaf children in the world, they said. I wasn’t a boy, so I would have to leave. My brother wasn’t deaf, so he had to leave too.

Being thrown in the Refuge was my brother’s fault. For three years, he supported us, finding the money to rent a cheap apartment in the Bronx. It was only after the arrest that I realized how he did it: stealing. They threw us both in jail. It was supposed to be six months. That’s what Ernest said, six months. But the warden, Mr. Snyder, kept finding ways to keep us inside. It wasn’t until he was arrested himself, that my brother and I were let go.

Now Ernest is determined to give us a decent living. We live separately, but we sell papers together. Ernest thinks I’m not able to do anything, but he’s wrong, because I can sell just as well as him, even if I can’t hear my customers. But I guess you didn’t need to know that did you?

OUT OF CHARACTER

Profile By: Mallory/Ryder

E-mail Address:mallfacee@aol.com