Laurapenpusher’s Weblog

The cliché is to walk a mile in another man’s shoes to learn and experience his life before casting judgment or making assumptions. I discovered in less than a day that I didn’t have the courage, the strength, or the emotional stamina to stand in the shoes of my two-year-old granddaughter.

Having married for the second time, at age 50, I took on the role of “Gramma” to eight beautiful, loving children. The sound of the title from any of them filled my heart with a great pleasure. The title was never spoken from Cheyenne, who when she recognized me, brought her thumb with open hand off of her chin in sign language and presented me with a wide grin and dimples as deep as the Grand Canyon. Cheyenne was profoundly deaf. Many of the family members attended weekly sign class; we learn sign upon sign and our vocabularies were growing. We became quite knowledgeable. How adept we were was questionable but we continued for Cheyenne’s sake.

During one class, Michelle, Cheyenne’s mother, complained that her three other children rarely signed outside of class. As a result, Cheyenne was being left out of activities. Her three siblings love her dearly and would never think of hurting her deliberately. But none of them, none of us as a family, really considered the consequences of not signing, always, in her presence. Regardless of our love, Cheyenne’s world was continuing to shrink to the point of isolation.

Lynn, our sign instructor, suggested Michelle get earplugs for the other children and have them experience at least a small bit of Cheyenne’s world. Perhaps then they could see what an important role they play in her life and how the simple act of always signing could make a huge difference in each of their relationships with her. My husband, Corey, and I were thrilled with the idea and decided to do the same thing. We would each get a set of ear plugs and alternate days wearing them. I was anxious to get started.

The following Saturday, Corey and I were scheduled to shoot in a scotch doubles pool tournament. On the way we stopped and bought our earplugs and I agreed to use them first. My thinking changed almost immediately. While my husband is a good driver, not being able to hear surrounding traffic noises made me anxious. I was thankful when we got to the tournament, but I again noticed a difference in my own attitude as soon as we pulled into the parking lot. I had visions of Corey having to yell to me or having to run and tap me to get my attention if I headed to a table location not suitable for both of us. Instead of my usual confidence, I put my arm through Corey’s and we walked in together. Once inside, I followed.

Throughout the afternoon, we practiced simultaneous communication, talking and signing at the same time. Prior to that time, I had always been a little embarrassed to sign around hearing people even when they understood why I was learning the language. I didn’t want to bring attention to myself. With the earplugs, signing was a necessity and I felt no embarrassment. In fact, I experienced a certain smugness knowing that simply by not speaking, others didn’t understand our conversation. The feeling disappeared when frustration set in.

A close friend of the family who also attends our sign class, sat next to me in the booth across from Corey. She attempted to sign often throughout her conversation, but I was suddenly excluded when she simply faced my husband. As a hearing person, I never realized how much we depend on sight to engage in a discussion. While she faced me, I was a participant. The moment she looked away, her face and mouth no longer in my line of vision, I was apart and alone. I became annoyed and started to remove the earplugs, to rejoin the room of hearing people, when my conscience reminded me that Cheyenne didn’t have the luxury of removing earplugs. The earplugs remained.

Shooting the pool tournament itself was an experience and I began to realize why Cheyenne was sometimes reluctant to wear her hearing aids. “Table talk”, little verbal jabs or innuendo designed to distract a pool shooter, is a common occurrence in any barroom pool game. In a tournament setting, they are good natured, fun jabs, but a distraction all the same. Being “deaf” for the day proved to be a two-edged sword in this instance. I was able to approach the pool table, deliberating my next shot in silence, oblivious to the banter among the other shooters. While my attention to the game was somewhat intensified, the enjoyment of one-on-one table talk with my opponent was eliminated.

Later, I went to the restroom; the single stall was occupied. Not once in my life do I ever recall two women in a restroom without any conversation passing between them, if nothing more than simple acknowledgement. While waiting in the tiny ladies’ room for the stall to become available, I refrained from commenting about anything, knowing if the other woman replied, I wouldn’t be able to hear her. I waited in silence. When she emerged from the stall, I recognized her as Dixie, the woman who regularly orchestrated the tournaments. I started to say something to her but in that split second, she looked at me, we made eye contact, and she immediately looked away. The window of opportunity was gone and once again I was alone. That was a profound instance for me. I normally don’t have issues addressing people whether or not they acknowledge me, yet instead of saying whatever was in my thoughts at the moment, I fell into silence when she looked away. I’d like to think she looked away because she simply didn’t feel she was able to communicate with me, thinking I was deaf after watching me sign all afternoon. I’d like to think that, yet in the back of my mind, after having experienced prejudice of a different nature firsthand, I also wondered if there wasn’t a hint of bias present in a hearing person when confronted with what she perceived as a non-hearing person. In that moment, my heart ached for my granddaughter and I prayed fervently that she would never have to experience that kind of heart wrenching, soul breaking prejudice. I knew the prayers were in vain.

When the tournament was finished, Corey and I decided to seek out more competition before calling it a day. We went to another restaurant/pool hall where another tournament was about to begin and we entered our names. I vaguely heard my name when my turn to shoot was announced. Because of the similarity of sound between “Laurie” and “Corey”, I wasn’t sure. In the earlier scotch doubles games, Corey’s name had been called with mine; he heard and signed to me. This tournament was for individuals and for the most part, I was on my own with communication. Thus began the chore of explaining to people throughout the evening that I was unable to hear them. For this, I was relatively prepared.

Most people have preconceived ideas when it comes to the word “disability” or “impairment”. I appear able bodied to the outside world. To those that know me, they’re aware of arthritis in my spine, of my limitations in standing, walking or sitting for any length of time. Running, jogging and aerobic exercise are out of the question and it becomes tedious when explanations are necessary. In most cases, I’m able to function without bringing attention to my limitations. In this instance, explaining to people my inability to hear – to my opponents, the officials, the waitress, everyone with whom I needed to communicate in the least – became monotonous. I found myself apologizing not only for my inability to hear, but also for the additional effort on their part to accommodate me.

The tournament official would walk across the room, tap me on the shoulder or arm and point to the pool table to indicate my turn to shoot and where. Rather than talking across the pool table, my opponents would come around the table and communicate directly. The waitress tapped me or rapped on the table to get my attention and then would speak directly and loudly to me. In this establishment, I didn’t need Corey to run interference because others around me, as they became aware, were more than willing to take the extra step to be helpful. After taking a more in-depth look at the restaurant and its patrons, I realized the owners, from Thailand, probably had their own firsthand knowledge of hardships with language and communication. In looking around the place, I realized the diversity of the patrons and realized too how they consciously fostered the environment of tolerance. My initial guilt and apologies may have stemmed from my own knowledge that my “deafness” was not genuine while their reactions to it were. Hopefully, Cheyenne will be surrounded by this type of caring people as she matures. She’ll certainly have no reason to feel guilt or shame of any kind.

When we arrived at home late that night, I removed the earplugs. Only then did I become aware of the many sounds I’d taken for granted over the years and in an instant, felt an overwhelming gratitude and appreciation for the sense of hearing and the sounds that come with it. Experiencing “deafness” for a single day made me realize the prejudice that Cheyenne will have to face. It won’t always be blatant – the subtle brand is more insidious – and after she’s recognized it the first time, she’ll know when its ugly head appears from then on. This is the prejudice that will be devastating to her self esteem and no amount of love, without communication, will cure it. Communication, alone and without love, stands a better chance. My sincere hope for Cheyenne is that her first realization is a long time down the road when she’s had time to build her strength and courage and emotional stability to handle it and, when it does happen, and it surely will, it won’t be necessary for her to seek out support from understanding foreigners and the deaf community alone. Hopefully, she’ll be surrounded by family who will be able to communicate to her all of the love and all of the support that’s in their hearts.