When I was a child, there was an old man vending rice cakes around my home. He never spoke, yet his countenance was always adorned with a warm smile, greeting passersby. Whenever he saw me coming, he would carefully prepare a piece of strawberry-flavored rice cake. Sometimes, he would even graciously give it to me for free.

One bitterly cold winter day in my 9th grade, I saw a group of people gathered a short distance away, surrounding a police car. I found the old man soundlessly arguing with the city inspector. He struggled to make sounds while his hands frantically gestured. Onlookers murmured in hushed tones, “Why don't deaf people stay at home instead of coming out and inviting trouble?” Despite the immense effort, beads of sweat as big as beans fell against his forehead, but no one understood what he was trying to say. The city inspector was yelling at him about confiscating his cart. The man sensed the gravity of the situation, and dropped to his knees, begging. My heart ached, and I felt a lump in my throat. I wanted to help, but I had no idea how to mediate between the old man and the police.

After that day, I never saw him again.

Since then, I started noticing the disabilities. After researching, I found that accessibility is still not accessible in my country. The hearing-impaired group, including the pitiful old man, needs an interpreter to understand their thoughts. For I've always carried the weight of not helping him, I intended to be that person, embarking on learning sign languages.

At the outset, my primary concentration was on recognizing and expressing a sequence of continuous signs but disregarding the underlying rich grammatical and linguistic structures of sign language that differ from spoken language. Consider the following phrase: “Open the door.” Following the logic of spoken language, I would gesture “open” and then “door.” The right sequence, however, should be expressed in sign language as "the door is open.” Aside from that, many hearing people, including myself, suffer from being looked at and creating exaggerated facial expressions while conversing with others. Since sign language is visual, I should use my entire body, not only finger-made signs, to showcase my words. These embarrassments always tormented me. Yet, the memory of that elderly man's desperate expression spurred me on, preventing me from giving in to the urge to quit. Instead of structuring sentences according to subject, predicate, and object, I imagined what I wanted to express, spending half a year overcoming the challenge. With each new sign I acquired, I wondered what the old man was saying on that wintry day. Perhaps he was trying to communicate that this was his only way to provide for his family.

In the 11th grade, I served as the sign language interpreter for the Opening Ceremony at school. In addition, I’ve conducted themed volunteer activities. As Children's Day was coming, I devised a theme titled "Children from the Stars." My fellow club members and I engaged with numerous children on the autism spectrum, aiming to spread joy by sending them mugs and teddy bears featuring our school's emblem. This initiative gained traction, with more students joining our growing volunteer group.

The old man's presence showed me a brand-new realm—a realm where people have the same pursuit of happiness we do. It's essential for society to acknowledge people with disabilities, rather than merely subsisting and coexisting with them. I founded the Sign Language Club to shed more light on these special groups within society, aiding in their seamless integration. Every human being in this world deserves to live a life of value and significance. During my time at university and beyond, I will keep advocating for the rights of people with disabilities, and I hope to utilize my expertise and passion to inspire more people to join the cause.