Last weekend the twins and I watched a volleyball game. The college team up the road was only able to muster up six players, so there were no substitutions. Being tired mattered not a whit. Everyone played the entire time. The other team had twenty players suited up and ready to bump. 

Also they were deaf.

It was fascinating to watch their hands blur through signs both between and during plays. Often the girl at the net would signal to teammates behind her without turning around. That takes a dose of trust, not being sure they are looking in your direction. Plus they were good. The score reflected their ability to work together, to share the volley, to cooperate. They trounced us.

The six woman team worked hard, slamming the floor on their knees to retrieve a low ball, spiking it over the net when they had the chance. The chatter between them flowed loudly, with no need to use codes. Each side had their own language. With no overlap.

I thought about the dialects that divvy us up. Males and females. Adults and kids. Spanish speaking and French. Employees and employers. Each group has vernacular, with imagery and nuances that are hard to translate. A young man from a different generation told me that my quilt was sick. 

Is that good?

One of the repercussions of facing an opponent like disease or weather, is that we can, if we choose, unify. It can be tempting to argue with John about strategies, when what we desperately need is solidarity.