Somewhat Silent

I lost my hearing at 6 years old, and was propelled into a community I had never heard of, never known, and didn’t want to be a part of. My community easily ceded ownership of me, the new community easily claimed ownership of me, and I balanced there delicately on the edge resenting the idea of being a part of any culture other than the one I had been born into. Circumstance could not dictate my family, my friends, or my identity.

The Deaf community pulls–not intentionally, but seductively. The language is easy and tickles my eyeballs, I see two people signing from across the street and a part of me gravitates in that direction. It’s a promise, an allure. Therein lays the ability to belong, to understand, to not be perpetually on the outside struggling to break in.

The hearing community pushes. I’m told that I should join Deaf groups, or it’s assumed that I know sign language.. Or they constantly talk about what they know of the Deaf community–showing off their knowledge of Gallaudet, or the language, or the Deaf people that they have known. The undercurrent is there. “You are deaf, you are different, you are here as an outsider”. They acknowledge my difference constantly, unaware that by “embracing my culture”– a culture that is not mine, they are pushing me away. Putting up walls.

Neither side understands why I do not capitulate, give in to the ease of understanding, and the acceptance. Sometimes, neither do I. It’s a balancing game that I’ve been playing since I was very young. It’s a pattern that I’ve embedded myself in, and a fight/struggle that has defined my life. In some ways built it, in some ways destroyed it.

I want the freedom to define the culture in which I exist. I want the freedom to move about and explore things. I view the Deaf culture as an “either, or” choice for myself. Because I know that if I were to take the plunge, I’d never want to come back out. I’d never want to speak another word in this alien tongue. I’d never want to struggle to understand the words on a person’s lips. The convenience would own me, and suck me into a culture that I’ve never really felt was my own. A culture that, aside from language, does not enthrall me.

Does that sound horrible? I want the language, not the culture.

Sometimes the silence smacks me upside the head, making me wonder temporarily if I’ve died–since everything sounds so eerily quiet and distant and far away. And I’ll listen to those tiny sounds that I hear, and snap my fingers close to my head, just to remind myself I’m not in absolute silence.

But for that split second before I remind myself, it’s surreal.

They’re painting my apartment building. When I went to do my laundry, I walked by several men that were wearing masks, one of them said something to me that I didn’t hear and that I couldn’t lipread through the thick white paper that covered his nose and mouth. I reached the end of the hall, and turned right, only to be blocked by more men in masks, with a ladder that obviously wouldn’t move for me. They stared at me with dark eyes, and their masks moved slightly so that I could see that they were talking- I couldn’t hear them over the hum of their painting equiptment, and couldn’t have understood them even if I heard them.

They may have been telling me to walk around, or they may have been telling me that the laundry room was closed, I don’t know. I turned around and walked out.

I hate masks.

I hate it when my dentist or my doctor wears a mask. I hate it when I can’t understand what is being said, and they know I can’t understand what is being said, but they say it anyway.

I remember the first doctor that I encountered who realized what an issue this was–she had to wear the mask, but called another person (a nurse?) over and had her stand by my head and repeat everything that was said to me. It was a moment of startling realization of all the things I typically missed at the doctor’s office.

Why now? The day before the semester starts properly, I’ve got some nasty infection thing in my outer ears which means I can’t actually put my hearing aids in without a lot of pain and considerable annoyance. This is bad. Tomorrow I meet all our new students, and particularly the ones I will be advising for the next three years. Thus, tomorrow I shall be in pain, as I will have to wear my hearing aids, even if it’s only for an hour or so. And as I’ve just discovered, that is not easy at the moment.

I’m posting about this here only because I’m pretty sure every single other person on this forum will have had exactly this happen at some time or other. And it feels sore, and I’m feeling sorry for myself.

I’ve been cleaning my hard drive up a bit, and came across some old writing. The poem below is from around 2001-2002ish, most likely. I thought it was appropriate to post here.

Edges

On the edge of a conversation,
I can hear the words, just barely
Quiet whispered mumbling
the sound a waterfall makes,
or the way a bird warbles,
not a language at all,
but a disjointed sound..

I’m lonely,
like I’m standing at the edge of cliff
on a dead world
where I’m the only one breathing,
and where the wind is the only sound,
as it howls across a barren plain
and whistles through the rocks.

I’m quiet,
Like the ’savage’ kidnapped from his homeland
put on display for people to look at, to feel sorry for,
or to ignore in their political correctness.
In my silence, I trace the corners of my glass cage,
my fingers feel for cracks-
holes that I can press my ear against, to listen..

I’m masquerading,
like I belong, laughing at the sound of laughter,
at words I don’t understand,
throwing an ‘alert’ look into my eyes,
I move my head back and forth
like I’m understanding the conversation,
like I’m understanding every word.

I’m trying,
This quiet creature in the corner isn’t me,
I’m the one who’s on top of everything,
furiously debating and joking,
fingers flying as I talk with several people
in a language I can understand.

I’m watching,
as you talk, as you joke, and laugh,
your mouth moving too fast for me to follow,
I smile because I see you smile,
and something inside lies to me and says
that if I pretend I understand,
I’ll be less lonely on the edge of the conversation.