Learning Lisha's Language
In the beginning, communication between Lisha and me was often frustrating—for both of us. My ASL was limited, and she would frequently point at things, expecting me to know exactly what she meant. From her point of view, it was obvious. She saw what she was pointing at, she knew what she wanted, and the confusion didn’t make sense. But from my side, without context or clarity, it felt like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. She didn’t always want to get up to show me what she meant, and honestly, I understood why.
Finding our rhythm in communication took time, trial, and trust.
But we’ve come a long way. Just in the past month, Lisha has begun to form full sentences in ASL. It used to be just one word at a time—“apple,” “water,” “walk”—but now I get messages that are full thoughts, like:
“BROWN BEAR. MEGAN ROOM. BED.”
It might seem simple to others, but to me, it’s everything. It’s growth. It’s expression. It’s her voice.
One of the most meaningful moments in our journey together happened when Lisha gave me a name sign. It’s controversial to some because it’s not a Deaf name sign—Lisha isn’t Deaf. But I call it my “autistic name sign,” and I treasure it deeply.
Fingerspelling isn’t her strength, even though she knows the alphabet well. So she came up with her own way to refer to me when I’m not there. It’s a name sign that’s hers to give, and hers to use. In her world, where spoken words are absent and affection isn’t always shown in typical ways, this small gesture carries a massive weight.
She created a name sign for me.
That’s how she “says” David.
And for someone who doesn’t often show outward affection, this was her way of naming our bond—of claiming it. Of saying, in her own language: You matter to me.