So, I’m deaf. Partially deaf. Deaf enough that I can call myself deaf without feeling bad about it. Technically hard-of-hearing, but placed next to deaf, “HOH” feels like a mouthful.
I wasn’t born hard-of-hearing, which makes the situation even weirder because I can remember what it’s like to hear fully — a fact that haunted me for a couple of years, but I’ve come to terms with my disability, which is why I’m writing this here, now.
There’s not much of a deaf stereotype, beyond Helen Keller and old people. That’s a blessing and a curse: a blessing that I don’t have to fight much targeted prejudice and a curse that the general population tends to forget hard-of-hearing people exist.
But we’re here! Some of us, like me, speak at a decibel slightly too loud to be normal, and others, like my aunt, you would never guess were afflicted by anything abnormal. Regardless, we’re here, and after seven years, this October, I’m finally ready to talk about it — properly.
I’ve tried talking about it before, and I’ve also tried not talking about it.
In middle school, back when I was first reaping the consequences of a fluke virus that wiped out half of my hearing overnight, along with my homeostasis and sense of direction, I couldn’t avoid it. I left school for a break like normal, and I came back louder and clumsier than ever. When my friends tried to tell me something while sitting on my right side, I had to break it all down — that, to paraphrase, I now have a disability. My mother tried to get me out of telling everyone, considerately reaching out to a guidance counselor to fill my teachers in on what had happened to me in the past three weeks, to spare my already waning adolescent dignity. He had not deemed it important or necessary enough, so I had to tell every single teacher, that first vulnerable morning back, that I needed to be sitting at the front due to the old-person virus that had hijacked my cochlea hairs. When my mom began to raise hell, the guidance counselor proceeded to lie and tell her that I had rejected all offers to move to the front row. Mom continued to defend me, but nevertheless, it was my first experience (out of many) that showed me the world really doesn’t make room for hard-of-hearing people.
As an underclassman in high school, I tried another route, not telling anyone. But the massive hullabaloo of the cafeteria and my inability to distinguish any sort of sound in a crowded area revealed my disability pretty quickly.
Therefore, as an alternative, when I became an upperclassman, I did a full 180 — being deaf became my brand! I mean, it is sort of funny, isn’t it? I go to bed at 10 p.m., and I dress in old-fashioned cardigans and blouses; I’m an old woman, so it’s only natural that I’d have an ailment that only strikes people over 60! When I respond to something I misheard completely and it makes me look like an idiot, it’s sort of hysterical, isn’t it? When my laughter booms loud enough that it becomes embarrassing, it’s just me, Grace, the deaf girl. It was funny! Really funny, turning in circles in the hallway when I couldn’t tell from where you were calling me! My friends took the reclaimed deaf jokes from me too, and suddenly, full-hearing, non-disabled individuals were teasing me playfully about my deafness. By the time I was in my last semester, when I wanted my existence to be greater than what I could or could not hear, it was too late. I cut the jokes out, but my peers sure didn’t. Suddenly, I was right back to where I was at age 12, shifting in my seat, unable to forget the looming shame that came with the recognition of my disability.
Summer came, and with it, ample time for introspection. A rise in representation and the actions of HOH celebrities, such as Nyle di Marco and Chella Man, made me realize that my disability is nothing of which to be ashamed. It is what it is, and the years of living with lapsed hearing have given me the experience to both cope and know that there must be many like me, keeping their heads down low and avoiding the d-words (disability and deaf) like the plague.
I’m talking now though. I can finally talk about what I am and how I live…and I can speak honestly. I can talk light-heartedly, but it’s not belittled with constant jokes. I can live without it being the foundation of my identity, but I’m not ignoring it either.
My name’s Grace. I’m a student of English and History at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, I write a lot, I sing songs off-key, I tend to eat my feelings, I dote on my dogs, I take stupidly diligent notes and yeah, I’m deaf.