Being accepted

One of these last evenings I was walking outside and, on an impulse, attracted by I don't know what, I unexpectedly entered a building where the old, beautiful, wooden double doors were wide open. A muffled music, at low volume, was coming out. I found myself in a long corridor, like in a high school or a hospital; old tiles, woodwork, etc. At the end of the corridor was a room where I could see a small window. At the far end was a room where people (mostly young, in their 20s and 30s) were dancing. I finally realized, when I saw them exchanging in sign language, that they were deaf mutes having a little party of their own. The building must have been an institution and a place for them to live, and this evening was a kind of "open house" event.

I walked away and explored the place a bit, which was dark on the whole, in a nice and intimate way, without anything scary. I entered a room at random; it was a kitchen. Both in the hallway and in this kitchen the architecture and decoration had a decidedly old-fashioned feel to it, but there was nothing unhealthy about it, on the contrary, it was welcoming like a home, a place I would have known or could have known in my childhood or youth. I took some pictures.

A little later, some people I had seen dancing came to greet me, some of them must have been accompanying people or educators, since they were talking, and we chatted a little, obviously they didn't mind my intrusion at all. I stayed there for a good part of the evening. Some of the young deaf-mutes joined in the conversation in their own way, and I felt a kind of fascination with their silent, peaceful, smiling exchanges. I had never lived in such a structure, not even in a boarding school at the time of my schooling, and yet I felt a kind of indefinable nostalgia.