There are many moving stories in the late-deafened community about the life-altering experience of losing one’s hearing as an adult. Yet, we don’t often hear stories of what it is like when a teenager loses his or her hearing. I associate losing my hearing at the age of 17 with the legendary Phoenix. Legend says this mythical bird sets itself on fire and then rises from its own ashes, born anew. For in the days ahead, following the illness that took my hearing, the person I knew myself to be would disappear, and along with the profound discovery of silence, a new identity would emerge.
Photo by: “Dana”
In high school, I had always considered myself a leader among my peers. I had self-confidence, good grades, and was involved in student councils. I was animated, theatrical, vocally and musically talented, and well liked. I guess you could say I was like a Phoenix at that point in that my colorful plumage drew people near, and my song was mesmerizing and sweet.
Naturally, after losing my hearing due to a rare illness that struck me right after graduating from high school, it was difficult to maintain the same close connections that I had previously with my friends, most of whom were from choir, drama or band. Since music was our main connection, parties and events surrounding music such as drama musicals, choral recitals, and holiday band performances put on by our underclassmen were extremely challenging for me, and difficult to enjoy.
Even though I could not hear, I still went along with some of my friends to a few of these performances in the beginning. I even knew some of the songs, but unlike my friends, I couldn’t hear the pitch to sing along, nor find a beat to tap my foot to. I quickly discovered how to wear a plastic smile that would become my protective mask during those early years of adjustment along my silent journey. I used it whenever I felt lost or when I needed to hide my grief.
I also learned I was not alone in my grief. I soon discovered that my presence at these musical events were as as stressful for my friends as it was for me. My peers looked at me with strained, pitiful smiles. Since they were unaware of my ability to lip-read, I learned of their uneasiness as they whispered of the “awe” and the “awful.”
“How sad that she can’t hear music now.”
“She used to sing so good. I was in awe of her.”
“Is she totally deaf? How awful!”
“I would hate to lose my hearing. I’d prefer to be blind!”
“Why does she come to these recitals if she can’t hear them? She’s just making it harder on everyone.”
‘Why?’ indeed. Perhaps I was in denial, still hoping I could hold onto some iota of my former musical identity. But my presence at these events clearly made my friends uncomfortable. Because I didn’t know how to handle their anxiety, let alone my own, I finally chose to stop going to those musical events.
Photo by: Karin Elizabeth
Losing access to music and my musical identity were the most devastating aspects of becoming deaf. It was heartbreaking, yet I had to face my own truth: Music could no longer be a part of my life and identity the way it used to be.
However, I was not ready to let go of my friends or social life. I decided that I would try going with them to the football games instead. I remember attending my first homecoming game as an alumnus of my school, and brand new with a hearing loss. I sat with some of my old band friends like I used to do before. Surely I could still participate in the fun and be a “Rowdy Rooter” there.
“You’re so lucky that you don’t have to worry about how ‘deafening’ the screams and cheers are here,” one of my friends shouted out to me. “Finally something positive about not being able to hear,” I responded, with a sort of gallows laughter. (Yet, what I would have given to be able to hear those loud cheers once again.)
While at the football games, I soon discovered a new challenge: how much volume to use in my voice so that I could be heard. I was having trouble making my voice loud enough for my friends to hear over the roar of the crowd. I wasn’t sure how noisy it was around me and, at times, I worried about being too loud. The last thing I wanted to do was be heard yelling something stupid in front of a hundred people.
Photo by: K. Santos
So, I began exaggerating my speech a bit more. I did this in hopes that my friends would be able to lip-read me if I was too quiet. But, one of my friends finally looked at me, laughed, and said, “Why are you talking to me like that? I’m not the one who is deaf!” It struck me dumb. As I sat there and thought about it, I realized I was probably enunciating more clearly, not so much to be understood, but in hopes that my friends would do the same for me in return.
My friends also loved to joke and tease, but they found it difficult to repeat a joke just for me. By the second or third time, the joke would lose its humor and wasn’t worth the hassle to repeat. So our communication became more limited. I began to lose those “hanging out” kinds of conversations.
My old friends chose only to communicate with me if it was something important, and they were always telling me that what they were saying “wasn’t important.” Each time they said that or “never mind,” I began to feel that I “wasn’t important.” I felt that I wasn’t worth the time it would take to keep me in the know. It was discouraging.
I also began to feel paranoid, afraid that I might be the butt of their jokes. So once again, I slowly stopped joining my friends at these kinds of large group events. At the early stage of hearing loss, we just didn’t know how to deal with the growing frustrations between us, and most of my friends simply stopped reaching out.
In retrospect, though I was lonely, I didn’t really hold it against my friends for drifting away. I understood their anxieties, awkwardness, and fears. I had them too. While some of friendships were clearly severed because of the struggle to communicate or because music could no longer be a common thread between us, it’s important to note that not all connections were split because I couldn’t hear.
There was another change in the air, a natural passage that occurs when graduates fresh out of high school begin to mark out new territory. It was a time when the closest of friends might separate to go on to college, set out on new adventures, meet new people, carve out new identities, or find intimacy with future mates. My hearing loss happened at an age when we were all sharing the same universal experience of “transition.” I eventually realized that not all of my friends pulled away from me because of my hearing loss, but that for many reasons, life goes on in new directions and people must change.
Yet, I came to value those few friends who did show the courage and patience it took to understand and grow along with me throughout this experience of deafness. There were a precious few who tried whatever it took to keep communicating with me, and I loved them for it. They were able to see past a broken body part and into the window of my soul, which had in essence, remained the same, and that made all the difference.
Photo by: “Andy”
My late adolescent transitions were compounded by a rather lengthy identity crisis as I struggled to define who I was now with a hearing loss. In the years that followed, I would go through a myriad of labels, such as “disabled,” “hearing impaired,” “hard of hearing,” “deaf,” “late-deafened,” “post-lingually deaf,” “pre-vocationally deaf,” “adventitiously deaf,” “culturally hearing,” and “not deaf enough.” Just who was I and where did I belong, anyway? For some time, I felt as if I didn’t fit in. I was fully accepted by neither hearing nor deaf peers, and I often felt rejected by both.
However, most young adults, like the legendary Phoenix, eventually discover their new wings. Over time, I found that I was still a bright student, a confident leader, an animated performer, a talented storyteller, and a social butterfly. These parts of me did not disappear. They were just temporarily buried beneath the ashes of my own grief and self-doubt. And, in addition to who I was before, I was also a person who now read lips, used sign language, interpreters, assistive listening devices, e-mail, a text pager, a TTY or a VP (video phone) to communicate long distance. After a time, I realized that I was no less a person because I was deaf. In fact, my new plumage eventually seemed even more beautiful as I expanded and become more me!
My name is LaRonda Zupp.
I am Deaf. Welcome to
"The Ear of My Heart."
“I love your blog. I guess it shows that whatever comes up in life you will always have a trial, but family always knows how to make the beat to life. A lot of your story reminded me of my own. I can’t hear the beat anymore nor the sound to my own piccalo.
~ KA”
Left by Administrator on January 3rd, 2007
Dear LaRonda,
….I LOVE your blog. I’m so inspired. I know this story, but I love the way you’re filling in the gaps. I keep the image of the phoenix with me always. I’m in the middle of old dreams dying and new ones not quite coming to be, so I really need it. Thank you for doing what you do so well–reaching out and connecting.
I think of you and Brent so often, with great love.
Love,
Kim
Kim Garcia
Creative Writing
Boston College
Madonna Magdalene and selected poems
available at http://www.kim-garcia.com
Left by Kim Garcia on January 15th, 2007
Oh, My GOD! I had NOOOOO idea that happened to you.
What a brave young girl you were to endure all of that and, now, how you’ve kept such a positive attitude after with you loss of hearing.
Your story was like a good book that I couldn’t put down. I couldn’t stop reading. Seriously. I DO think that you should get that story published. You really have a gift with your expression and words.
Call me silly, but I’m a FIRM believer that everything happens in our life for a reason. Bad and good. Maybe God is revealing this writing path for you.
Anyway, I just had to comment. Thank you for sharing your uplifting story.
God bless you, LaRonda.
Julie (Tammany) Nonini
Left by Julie on January 15th, 2007
LaRonda,
Your story was very powerful, very similar to what many of us [late-deafened adults] have gone through…. very moving to hear your story. There was such a genuine soul bearing that I know for myself was very healing for you.
While I think the things we do for our “people” sometimes are not financially forthcoming at [first], they are a huge connection in spirit that often leads to other pathways. In a way, we educate, and with [this education] comes forth a connection to the right people that can pay for our spiritual journey in the land of hearing loss. Put it out there and it will come.
You have my endorsement should you ever write a book!
If you’ve never been to an ALDA Convention [Association for Late-Deafened Adults] your in for a Huge treat….Such a feeling of “coming home” with other like yourself is overwhelming. New York this year, I do hope you come..
Thank you again… From someone who’s been there and experience all that!
Nancy Hammons
East Bay Alda President/ Past Alda Inc Regional Director 1999-2003
Left by Nancy Hammons on January 15th, 2007
Thank you Nancy for your words of encouragement and support. I value that you feel my story is worthy of your endorsement. That means a lot to me!
Interestingly enough, I have been notified by the current ALDA Inc. President elect, that there is a call for papers coming up for the next ADLAcon in New York this Fall. She has been encouraging me to consider several presentations! I am so honored and am seriously considering this. Will you be there?
LaRonda
Left by LaRonda on January 15th, 2007
I would second Nancy’s comment that your story is definitely worth elaborating and publishing as a book — you have a clear, straightforward and heartfull writing style, LaRonda. I hope you do submit a paper to the ALDAcon — it might just be the public acknowledgment and little push you need to get you to a publishing house! As always, I am honored you are finding so many of my digital paintings and collages relevant to your life. I am honored to have that connection with you, even though it was not intentional on my part, I plan to keep track of you!
warmly,
Maureen Shaughnessy (in Helena, Montana)
Left by maureen on January 15th, 2007