Who am I? That was not a question I could answer very easily anymore. I had ambitions for my future, but who am I right now? A Deaf girl suddenly dropped into the middle of a hearing world I was positive I didn’t belong in anymore.

I kept running the question over and over again in my mind as I collected a bunch of charcoal pencils from the supply shelf and pulled out my sketchbook. Kathleen explained that Ms. Phillips was letting us use whatever was in the art studio to complete the self-portrait. My more ambitious classmates were pulling out lumps of clay or paintbrushes and blank canvases.

I flipped open my sketchbook to a clean page, still at a loss of how I was going to do this. Ms. Phillips wanted a self-portrait. Did that mean a representation of who I saw when I looked in a mirror or something that showed who I felt like I was on the inside?

Ms. Phillips made a stop at my table as I was drawing thick, loopy lines with a charcoal pencil, getting absolutely nowhere.

She waved Kathleen over to interpret and Kathleen signed, WHAT’S WRONG?

CONFUSED? Kathleen added, pointing to me.

YES, I signed quickly. VERY CONFUSED.

Ms. Phillips’ frown deepened when Kathleen told her this, and she said, “How can . . . help?”

I thought about how to respond to this question for one long beat, and signed, I FEEL I DON’T KNOW MYSELF.

Ms. Phillips looked thoughtful as she pulled out the stool across the worktable from me and sat down. Kathleen hovered nearby.

“That’s . . . normal. A part of . . . life,” Ms. Phillips said, resting her chin in her hands. “It’s okay . . . take your time.”

Ms. Phillips leaned across the table to pick up the charcoal pencils next to my sketchbook, staring down at them, lost in thought again.

YOU SEE YOURSELF I-N BLACK AND WHITE? Kathleen signed when Ms. Phillips finally spoke.

NO, I signed in answer. DON’T KNOW.

I mean, I liked color. I loved color. That’s why I had so many reprints of Van Gogh and Picasso paintings on my bedroom walls. You don’t have to hear colors. When I looked at their artwork, I wasn’t missing anything.

Ms. Phillips got up and crossed the studio to the massive industrial shelves where she kept every kind of art supply known to man. She rummaged around for a bit before she came back with two trays of bold-colored paints.

“Try . . . these,” she said, tapping the trays.

OK, I replied hesitantly.

I was decent enough at sketching, but I’d never attempted painting before. This was just supposed to be a basic art class, so I hoped Ms. Phillips wasn’t expecting the next “The Starry Night” out of me for this.

Ms. Phillips gave me a reassuring smile and drifted off to the next worktable to see how things were going.