Unpredictability

It was a Sunday. 

A hot Sunday, when I tucked myself in the very end of  the second row of the long table, with a bitter ice mocha. 

There were four rows of long rectangular tables in the medium sized lecture room. 

After months of sitting in the same seat in the third row, I had decided that I had enough of being short and seeing men’s tall heads in my faces; and made myself comfortable in the second row. 

I wore my long black attire with a black headscarf, sipping my bitter ice mocha, which desperately needed sugar and milk. 

My sister, Emile, was sitting in the third row with her iPad and her bitter mocha- we both got the same drinks and had the misfortune of receiving a bitter mocha, containing two shots of coffee and no sugar- and Mum was sitting next to her, talking to an elderly-looking woman. 

A man dressed in white long shirt and trousers, wore a grey hat over his - what it looked like- his balding head. He stroked his black and white streaked beard, before he turned. He had a black mole on the corner of his eyes. His dark eyes took in my form on the chair. 

‘’This row is for men. Men sit there.’’ he rose, pointing to the second row which I was sat on. 

‘’I am deaf. I cannot hear the speaker.’’ I spoke, sipping my bitter drink, its bitterness slowly suffusing into my heart. 

‘’This is where-’’ he starts to speak, mumbling half coherently, turning to my mum and the woman- who, I assume is his wife- and he turned back, ‘’-for men.’’ 

‘’I cannot hear. I need to sit here.’’ I mumbled quietly, not bothering to look at his lips, sitting firmly in my seat. Mother stepped in, speaking in his language, explaining my situation, that I was deaf and couldn't see the speaker’s lips due to the men’s tall postures and heads being in my way of seeing the speaker’s lips.

The tall young gentleman (who previously taught and revised Maths with me a month before my exams), who was setting up the computer in the front row, looked up at the commotion. I caught his lips saying that it was okay for me to sit here. 

The woman speaks up, and everyone talks simultaneously in another language. 

A language that is not mine nor did I learn it to understand it. 

At last, the commotion died down with the woman and the young gentleman, calming the old man down, telling him to let it go and that it was okay. 

Bitterness filled me up completely, irritation pricked me sharply as I pulled out my notebook. The old man backed down, grumbled as he sat back in his seat in the first row. 

In the corner of my eyes, Mother and Emile moved from the third row to the fourth row, sitting down and calling to my younger brother. 

I stare hard at him. 

What is it with designing seats in a way that women are stuck in the back?

He is an old man- he has a lifetime of knowledge and experience by now. Stop being grumpy. 

I dislike people like him. 

He was the type of person I feared, stopping me from getting the support I deserved. 

I am far too exhausted to pretend that I understood everything. 

I am going to rise. 

I shall rise and take my seat in the second row. 

I will be the start of change. 

A minority change that becomes a majority. 

My phone switched on, I glanced at my message, Emile requested that I smile, I looked far too angry. 

I forced a smile on, irritated as I waited for the speaker to arrive. He walks in, noticing that I sit in the men’s row, and he sets his things up. 

Just let it go, Pearl. I slump in my seat. 

Let it go. 

He’s just an old man, like the rest of them, he doesn’t know about the minority of deaf people. 

Slumping back in my seat. 

Let it go. 

It's fine. 

He’s stopped protesting. 

Just keep sitting in these seats in the weeks to come. 

To claim it.