Page 41 of Give Me a Sign
Bill elbows his wife. “Saying ‘impaired’ isn’t P.C. these days.”
“I’m so sorry,” Susan says. “Do you wear hearing aids?”
My hair is frizzy from the lake, down and spilling over my shoulders. I push it back after setting my fork down on my plate, turning my head to show both my hearing aids.
“Look, they’re purple,” Susan says. “How fun, hiding behind all that gorgeous hair. I never would’ve guessed since you’re so pretty.”
“How long have you had them?” Bill asks.
“Um, since I was a baby.”
“You like them?” he asks. “They work well? One of my buddies needs to get a pair, but he keeps dragging his feet on going to the doctor.”
“Audiologist,” I mumble.
“What was that?” Bill asks.
“Audiologist,” I repeat.
“Right, that’s the one.” He chuckles. “Maybe I need my hearing checked, too. As I always tell my grandson, he shouldn’t listen to music that loud on those big headphones of his or he’ll regret it later in life.” Bill takes another large bite to finish off his hot dog.
Bill doesn’t realize he just said that he doesn’t want his grandson to become someone like me.
“Do you use other resources?” Susan asks. “Do you lip-read?”
Uh, yeah, I’ve already been lip-reading this entire time, but I know exactly what is coming next.
Without making any sound, Susan over-contorts her mouth and slowly asks,Can... you... read... my... lips?
I give a polite nod and take another bite of my food, large enough that I won’t be expected to speak. Can Mackenzie jump back in already? Unfortunately, she’s already been roped into conversation with other donors who need her to interpret so they can talk to Honey.
“So, seventeen,” Bill says. “That must make you almost done with high school. Thinking of going to college?”
“I’m going into my senior year. Still figuring out places to apply to, but I’ve got a couple schools on my list.” Never mind the fact that, with my current grades, some of those places might be a stretch.
“Good, very good,” he says. “Go to college.”
“Yes,” Susan chimes in. “You’re so well-spoken. I’m sure you’ll do very well.”
“Well-spoken?” I repeat. I hate what she’s implying. Susan gets fidgety, trying to come up with a response.
“Yes, well, I mean, look at you!” she says cheerfully. “One might not even know you were deaf at all. You certainly don’t sound it. College won’t be hard for you.”
This woman knows nothing about me yet feels perfectly fine making and voicing this assumption. She thinks I’m intelligent because I talk clearly?
“I have school accommodations that I’ll continue to use in college.” I stand with my plate. “Um, Ethan waved to me. I have to go help with something,” I lie, needing to blow off some steam.
“Yes, no problem,” Bill says. “Great to meet you. I’m sorry, I don’t believe we caught your name.”
“Lilah.”
“So great to meet you, Lilah,” Susan says. “We keep all those who suffer from disabilities in our prayers.”
Now I’m walking away, fuming. I’ve gotten “well-spoken” many times throughout my life. It’s meant as a compliment, but what they mean is that because I’m “well-spoken,” I don’t sound deaf, and therefore I don’t sound dumb. It’s not long ago that “deaf and dumb” was the actual label. The incorrect assumption that those who use a visual form of communication aren’t as intelligent. A driving force behind oralism and audism. It’s absurd and plain wrong.
Plus, I’m not always “well-spoken.” I mumble without realizing it... a lot. Hearies expected me to do the years of speech therapy it took to get to where I am today. They don’t know how much it takes to seem like a “normal” hearing person. My brain has to work overtime and process so much just to have a “normal” conversation. Yet I do all this, and they rarely provide accommodations, even when such measures could often benefit everyone.
The fact of the matter is, I have a significant hearing loss. One that impacts my life, no matter how well adjusted I’ve worked to be. It’s not on par with someone who has lost a few decibels to loud music. By telling me I seem “normal,” they’re not only shrugging off my disability but telling me I don’t fit their lowered expectations of people with disabilities. I find no pride in that.
