(Ch. 40 of my story of my journey into Deafhood…)

Photo by: “Dana”

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.

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.

Photo by: Andrew and Peta Finden

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.

Photo by: Max Boschini

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.”

Photo by: Alena Navarro-Whyte

“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.

Photo by: Matt McGee

“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 our 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.

Photo by: “Maureen”

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 my journey into deafhood. 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.

Photo by: “Girl. In. The. D.”

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 American Sign Language, relied on interpreters, assistive listening devices, e-mail, text pagers, TTY’s and VP’s (video phones) to communicate. 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!

(Footnote: You have been reading the chapters in my summer storyblog entitled: My Journey Into Deafhood, which tells of the first recognition of my deafness and waking up to a world of silence. It also tells of how I grieved, coped, adapted and then thrived as I learned to embrace my Deaf self. Thank you for reading! The final installment will show on August 8th, 2007. More coming soon…)

Posted by LaRonda on Monday, July 30th, 2007 at 4:50 am.