How much of me is my deafness? I dance with this question throughout every moment of my life. How much of me does my deafness determine? How much of me does it control? How interwined are its fingers with the path of my destiny and how much of my future does it manipulate?
When I was a child and had first lost my hearing, I refused to allow people to call me “deaf”. “I’m hard of hearing!” I’d say. Because to me, “deaf” implied a total devoid of sound, and I could still hear sounds. Whispering murmuring twittering ghostly sounds. All of the detail and none of the content.
I was also terrified of being labeled “deaf”, because I had heard the story of Helen Keller. “How horrible.” I thought. Not that she was deaf and blind, but that she was known for being deaf and blind above all else. Anything she accomplished in her life was “despite” her afflictions.
I thought being “hard of hearing” would prevent me from carrying that label and that obnoxious annoying uppity sense of pity that accompanies every introduction. “This is Sara, she is deaf.” “Oh, poor little girl.”
Truth be told, I wanted to sink my teeth into their ankles whenever that happened. Whenever I was introduced that way. Whenever people made excuses for me, or mentioned the deafness in-step with any accomplishment that I had achieved.
“Sara won a writing award. She is deaf.”
So I’d snap at anyone that used the “d” word.
I wanted to achieve MY destiny, I wanted to own MY accomplishments. I didn’t want to be a Marlee Matlin the talented deaf woman. I didn’t want to be that Heather chick, the deaf Miss America.
Then I realized that my hearing loss was shaping my destiny, no matter what word I used for it.
“I want to be a veterinarian.” you can’t, you need to be able to hear through a stethescope. You’d never forgive yourself if an animal died because you couldn’t hear a symptom.
“I want to be a lawyer.” you can’t, you need to be able to hear in court.
“I want to be a teacher.” oh, that’s nice. You’d need to learn sign language before you teach in a deaf school. (who said anything about a deaf school?)
My hearing loss was shaping my destiny because I didn’t want to fight against the morons that were slapping labels onto me and saying all the can’ts and won’ts. And I had this nagging suspicion that the “hard of hearing” label wasn’t helping as much as I thought it might.
Truth be told, I had very little language comprehension by ear alone. Ok, that’s a lie. I had zero language comprehension by ear alone. 0% word recognition. Practically speaking, how “hard of hearing” does that sound to you? Practically speaking, screw all the things I could hear. To Joe and Jane average, I was stone cold deaf no matter what label I was using.
I realized then that I have a choice. I can be that deaf girl or I can be that hard of hearing girl. Or I can be me, and not give a damn what labels are bandied about.
“How much of me” is my deafness? I don’t know. How much of me is my right-handedness? How much of me is my tallness? It’s not something that I can extract at this point. All I can say is that it’s not my primary feature, it’s one of many that bands together and controls my identity. And what I call it matters little more than what I call myself. What’s in a name, afterall? Just a few brief first impressions that every interaction with me will either confirm or deny.
And in this world, I’ll always be that girl Sara with the ear-problem who also does all sorts of stuff. Heck, what do I care? I’m Sara o’ the Ears of Dysfunction. And as long as you don’t try to limit me, I don’t give a damn what of a million names you assign to my ‘condition’.
