Do You Hear What I Hear?

I’m taking a chance here, dear readers, but for you, it’s worth it.  I’m pretty sure that after reading this post, my mother will call me to remind me “you know what you need to do.”  And I will grudgingly sigh, roll my eyes, and say “I know,” and then ignore her advice.  Of course, I know what I should do.  Doing it is an altogether different matter, however.  Oh well, here goes.

You guys know I’m hearing impaired – by the way, I just found out this is politically incorrect!  But it’s okay if I say it.  Just don’t you say it.  Anyway, I’ve never considered it to be a disability although according to this Q&A paper about hearing impairments and the American with Disabilities Act (ADA), I’m pretty sure I’m Example 2:

If an individual uses mitigating measures, such as hearing aids, cochlear implants, or other devices that actually improve hearing, these measures must be considered in determining whether the individual has a disability under the ADA. Even someone who uses a mitigating measure may have a disability if the measure does not correct the condition completely and substantial limitations remain, or if the mitigating measure itself imposes substantial limitations.

Example 2: An individual with a hearing impairment uses a hearing aid to amplify sounds. With the hearing aid, he can detect sounds such as traffic, sirens, and loud conversations at a very low level. For this reason, he must be in close proximity to the origin of sound in order to hear in a meaningful way. This individual is substantially limited in hearing even with the mitigating measure (i.e., the hearing aid).

Granted, this paper was written in 2006 so maybe things have changed.  I’m too lazy to find out if there’s anything more recent on the subject. 

While I’ve never considered myself to be an American with a disability, I am grateful for the ADA and its impact on my life.  And not just because of all those ramps that businesses had to put in.  No, my ADA victory came in the form of volume controls on public pay phones.  (My mom’s Norma Rae moment – making my high school install volume controlled pay phones!)  Of course, when’s the last time anyone used a pay phone?  But it’s nice to know that I could if I needed – or wanted – to.

So, I don’t consider myself as having a disability.  More like an inability.  I’m unable to hear – without mitigating measures, of course – just like I’m unable to smell or unable to use chopsticks.  Generally, I do pretty well.  Or at least I think I do pretty well.  Maybe I just hang out with loud people.  Or they’re all speaking loudly because I’m there.  Oh gosh, that would be embarrassing!

Sometimes I don’t hear everything and I’ll try to make sense of it in my head – like when I might not hear all the parts of the story about how hard it is to get your kid to nap and in my head I’m wondering who got kidnapped and why you're even at work if your kid was kidnapped.  It just gets all scrambled up and I realize the conversation quickly veered off track somewhere along the line, well, along my line at least.  Usually I think, gosh, they must think I’m a total space cadet. 

Overall, I compensate well.  At least that’s what my mom always used to say.  I work a little harder.  I focus a little more.  And while I only fall back on it in dire circumstances – like when my hearing aid battery dies mid-conversation – I’m a fairly good lip reader.   

I’m also a strategic positioner.  I know where to sit in meetings or at lunch to make sure I’ll be able to hear.  I know who has to be on my right, who can be on my left, and who really should be directly in front of me so I can read their lips.  It’s a pretty good strategy except when I forget who the lefties are.  Walking down the hallway, it’s best if people are on my right side.  I’ll usually maneuver myself so that I’m on the left and my good friends usually drift to the right – without any comment or awkwardness or shouts of "get on the deaf girl's right!".  It’s not something codified in the ADA…it’s just something they do because they’re kind, caring people.  Or they don't want to have to repeat themselves.  

Is it embarrassing when I don’t hear something?  Occasionally.  Is it frustrating being hearing impaired?  At times.  Is it frustrating for my friends and family?  I imagine - and worry - that it is. 

Do I wish I could hear like everyone else?  Yes. 

But then I wouldn’t get to turn everyone off.  And that's not such a bad ability.         

The story of my life.
(I'm not sure how to give credit - I found this on Pintrest.
I'm assuming it's from itotallyrelate.tumblr.com.)

That One Time at the Ice Cream Parlor

Last year, I royally screwed up the walls of my powder room when I got the brilliantly dumb idea to scrape off the painted-over (yes, they painted it) wallpaper.  Hint, when you scrape down to the cardboard-y stuff of the drywall, it’s not a good thing.  But hey, I’m not much of a DIY-er.  And this isn’t a DIY blog. 

So now my powder room is super scary with walls that are waiting for my brother to come fix them to be redone and repainted.  In the meantime, I’m left with interesting wall art to stare out when I’m on the toilet.  Oh come on, we all sit on the toilet.  It’s okay to talk about it.

This is my favorite -

Depending on how you look at it, it can either be a giraffe taking a dump or it can be a boob.  It’s all about how we interpret the things we see – or don’t want to see, maybe.  It’s funny how everyone has a different perspective on things, even if they’re in the same exact situation. 

And now, I will tell you about that one time at the ice cream parlor.

When I was 17, my family went on our annual summer vacation to the Jersey Shore.  One night, we went to Tory’s, the local old-fashioned ice cream parlor where the waitresses wore poodle skirts, the Cokes came in old-fashioned bottles, and the guys working behind the counter were jerks – soda jerks, that is!  It was a great place and the model for the ice cream parlor that I’m going to open one day and we went there a lot when we were on vacation.  This particular night, my mom, brother and I, and some cousins were waiting outside in line to get seats for our large party. 

Behind us were a couple of teenage boys.  It didn’t take long before they began making fun of me and the way that I looked.  Look, I’ve dealt with teasing and rude comments and stares for much of my life.  I took a pretty passive approach, well, by passive, I mean avoidance – duck my head, take the long way to bypass certain hallways, sit at the front of the bus – so, yeah, I’m an avoider, not a fighter. 

But that night, I was with my big brother.  And while my mother was completely oblivious to what was going on, my brother was there and he listened to these non-soda jerk jerks make fun of me.  How I wanted him to say do something.  I don’t know what - maybe punch them or kick them in the, well, you know where.  Basically, I would’ve been okay if he had hurt them anyway he could’ve.  But he didn’t.  He just stood there and he made lame little jokes and I just stood there getting madder and madder – not at those mean boys behind us but the very, very mean boy who wouldn’t stand up for me.

The whole situation made me so mad that for years I threw it up to my brother – remember that time at the ice cream parlor when you didn’t defend me?!  Remember that time when you didn’t do anything to help me?!  I held onto that anger pain for a long time.  Too long, probably.

With age, comes wisdom, right?  For years, I focused on what my brother didn’t do.  But here’s the thing, he didn’t do what I wanted him to do…but he did do something.  He tried to make me laugh and ignore those awful boys because, in the grand scheme of things, those boys just didn't matter.  But because I was so angry, I didn't learn the lesson from that night.  A lesson that I only pieced together while I was sitting on the toilet.  Oh right, like you’ve never had an epiphany on the toilet before?      

The world is filled with giraffes and boobs (stupid dumbasses, not breasts – although there are a lot of them in the world too.)  Back to the lesson. Giraffes stand tall, they rise above it all, they’re noble and graceful.  And they tower over the boobs of the world because boobs are just boobs and they don’t matter to giraffes at all. 

It’s up to you to either be a giraffe or a boob. 

Be a giraffe.      

Thanks, But I’ll Take the Sticks and Stones

This is my first post in a series inspired by Craniofacial Awareness Month.  We’ll see how long it lasts... 

Remember that old nursery rhyme chanty thing when we were little?  Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.  I always thought the guy who came up with that little ditty must’ve had a heck of a lotta self-esteem.  That; or he lived in a bubble.  But unless we’re channeling John Travolta circa 1976, nobody’s living inside a protective bubble.  The world’s out there and we’ve gotta take it on – even the sticks, the stones, and the words that are hurled our way.

Last week was an auspicious week for a couple of friends and colleagues.  They were sending their daughters off to kindergarten!  Starting school is such a huge step and as I listened to and read their stories, I couldn’t help but think back to when I started elementary school.  I think that was when I first realized that other people – people totally outside of my safe family bubble – saw me as being different from all the rest of the kids on the playground.   

It wasn’t like I was completely unaware that I looked a little different.  My mom has told me that when I was four years old, I looked in the mirror, and asked her why I had a boo-boo on my eye.  So, obviously I was aware of appearances – mine and everyone else’s.  Starting school made me acutely aware of something else – looking different wasn’t exactly good and unless you were Punky Brewster, looking different wasn’t something to be celebrated.  Nope, in the mid-1980s in the hallways of a suburban elementary school, looking different made me an easy target. 

And nobody’s an easier target than the girl at the water fountain.

Now, don’t get all scared.  This isn’t a sticks and stones story.

I wasn’t any old girl at the water fountain.  I was a Fourth Grade Safety, complete with an orange belt, authorized by Glenside Elementary to protect the water fountain in the main hallway during school dismissal.  It was definitely the cushy spot in the rotation; a spot that I had lusted after ever since I saw my big brother standing guard when he was a Fourth Grade Safety.  I loved it.  Except every day that I was on duty in front of that water fountain, a second grader would come by and call me Monster Face.  Sticks and stones?  I would’ve preferred them. 

Something that I loved, something that I had wanted to do ever since I was in the first grade became the thing that I dreaded most in the world.  When I saw his class coming down the hallway, the knot in my stomach would grow bigger and bigger, as he got closer, I would duck my head, and silently pray that he didn’t say it, not that day.  Usually, my prayers went unanswered. 

Words will never hurt me.  Words hurt me most of all.

I wish I could say I stood up for myself.  I wish I could say I held my head up high and soldiered on.  I wish I could say that…but I can’t.  Ducking my head – hiding – became the norm.  In fourth grade, sixth grade, high school…all the way up to college.  I worked very hard to create my own little bubble where I was safe and nobody could hurt me.  I did a pretty good job for a while.

But bubbles burst.  And I’m not in fourth grade anymore.  I’m taking on the world.  Even second graders.  Especially second graders.

Dancing Queen

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  
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So, a couple of interesting things happened to me at BlogHer. 

The first happened on Friday morning at the Newbie Breakfast.  Out of over 3,600 bloggers, I met someone who graduated from my high school two years before me.  She told me that she saw me at the 5K and she thought that I looked familiar.  I don’t like when I look familiar.  Brown hair, brown eyed girls are a dime a dozen.  I want to look just like them.  Boring brown hair, brown eyed girls who kinda fade into the background and who don’t look different from all the other brown hair, brown eyed girls in the world.   And who sure as hell doesn’t look familiar to you.  But you know what?  I decided to change my overly sensitive reaction.  Yep, I’m familiar alright.  I’m not just your average run-of-the mill brown hair, brown eyed girl…I can’t fade into the background; heck, I don't want to fade into the background anymore.  Yeah, I stick out a little from all the rest.  But, do you know what that means?  I’m memorable, damn it!    

So, this encounter with my fellow brown hair, brown eyed high school alumna (who I confess wasn’t familiar to me at all) brought memories of high school flooding back. 

Ahh, high school.  High school was where I perfected the “everything is great!” façade.  I was happy, smiley Denise.  The nice girl with the disturbing number of over-sized tee-shirts.  That style choice sure took a long time to grow out of! (Anyone?  Anyone at all?  Okay, no more jokes for you!) 

I was always happy, smiley Denise.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom because, well, her face wasn’t worth primping or preening over.  Happy, smiley Denise who knew what hallways to avoid so she didn't have to hear the mean taunts and rude comments.  Happy, smiley Denise who loved to dance but who didn’t get asked to dances because girls like her didn’t get asked.  Happy, smiley Denise who didn’t feel worthy of being asked to the dance. 

That’s not to say that happy, smiley Denise didn’t go to dances.  Oh no.  My friends and I hit them all up, except for Prom, but we had other plans.  When we went to the dances, we danced together as a group.  There was never any boy asks girl, boy puts hands on girl's hips, twirl, twirl, dip, dip, kinda dancing.  At least, for me.  But that was okay, really.  Besides, that kind of dancing is how babies get made.      

I liked to dance.  I still like to dance.  Nowadays, my dancing takes place in my car (I’m a great driver’s seat dancer), my cubicle, my kitchen, Aisle 3 in the Safeway.  Usually, by myself.  Actually, that could explain the curious glances I get in Aisle 3.  Awkward.  I dance because it’s fun and I like it and if there’s music playing, I like to get my groove on.  I’m totally cool with getting that groove on without a partner.  Although, every once in a while, I think it would be nice to dance with someone.  Well, as long as no babies get made. 

On Saturday night, my pals and I went to the Latina Social Fiesta party.  They hired smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers to entertain the crowd.  I was content to stand to the side, shaking my booty, swaying from side to side as I munched on an empanada and a quasi fish taco and watch as the smoking hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers pulled women from the crowd to dance because, you see, girls like me may go to the dance but we don’t get asked to dance.  

As one of the smokin’ hot, sexy as hell, professional male salsa dancers approached us, my naughty friends strongly encouraged him to lead me to the dance floor.  So there I was being pushed and pulled (for future reference, it’s physically impossible to dig your feet into a concrete floor) into the center of the dance floor. 

“Relax and just follow me,” he instructed as the music blared around us. 
Me in my crazy little brain, Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.  I'm going to kill them.  Isn't this how babies get made?!  Oh my gosh.  A real live boy is dancing with me.  Me!!

Under the stars in San Diego, I danced with a smokin hot, sexy as hell guy who put his hands on my hips and twirled me around and dipped me and led me in the salsa.  It was absolutely magnificent.  And no babies got made!   

Happy, smiley high school Denise?  She was totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  She just didn’t know it. 

Happy, smiley, salsa dancing Denise?  I'm totally worthy of being asked to the dance.  I know it.  And I believe it.    

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As far as I’m concerned Goal 6 has been accomplished.  It wasn’t the right song and my partner wasn't wearing cowboy boots but I danced the salsa under the stars in San Diego with a real live boy!  That deserves a spot on the Goal Board. 

Night

I ate Oreos at 10:45, a late bedtime snack.  Now, it’s a little after midnight and I can’t fall asleep. 

I tossed and I turned and I kicked off my comforter and I flopped from my side to my stomach and back again and all the while I was thinking.  Thinking about all the things that I’m able to push away during the day.  Because when it’s light out, things don’t seem so….dark.   

My thoughts are always darkest at night…well, if I’m awake late enough. 

I thought I was doing so well – I was making peace with the way I "look".  Yes, I look different but everyone’s different and that’s okay.  But I told you once that I still thought about it every once in a while.  More surgery.  A cheekbone here, a cheekbone there.  (Well, not just anywhere, of course; they should go where cheekbones generally go.)      

There was a trigger, naturally.  Because there always is when I start thinking like this.  What was it?  Okay, don’t laugh…but it was my race photograph (the official one they posted on the website for everyone to see, if you think I'm going to link to it, you're crazy!)  I look quite horrible…as I’m sure the other 396 runners do.  In addition to my dreadful running sprinting form, my face is all weirdly distorted – maybe it was from the sprinting, maybe it wasn’t.        

So, there I was a lot after midnight, sitting in front of my mirror dissecting my face.  Okay, really, my profile which I hate.  And to the person whom I just told that I was fine with it…well, I guess I’m not as well-adjusted as I thought I was.  I can wear a dress to work but putting my hair up in a clip is still a little too daring scary for me. 

All these thoughts are racing through my head keeping me awake when I should really be asleep because I have to get up in a few hours.

Clearly, I still have a few issues to work through.

And clearly, I need to stop eating Oreos at 10:45 at night. 

Whisper Down the…wait, what’d you say?

ABC Family premiered a new show last week called Switched at Birth.  It’s about two teenage girls who were, wait for it…switched at birth.  But here’s where it gets interesting – the girl who was supposed to go home with the family who lives in a big house and made their fortune from a chain of car washes but who instead ended up with the single mom who raised her in the not so nice part of Kansas City (I’ve been in Kansas City, I know where those not so nice parts are) – that girl, she got meningitis when she was three and now she’s deaf and wears a hearing aid.  So, now the rich family has to grapple with the fact that 1) the daughter who they thought was theirs…isn’t and 2) their biological daughter is deaf.  Interesting wrinkle, don’t you think?

It got me thinking.   Mainly because I haven’t really seen many deaf/hearing impaired people in central roles on television and movies.  Sure, there was Children of a Lesser God but that was like a gabillion years ago although Marlee Matlin did do quite well in this season of Celebrity Apprentice.  Now, there’s this show and there’s this character who wears a hearing aid and who signs and who goes to a school for the deaf (until this week’s episode when she transfers to the “mainstream” school) and everything’s out in the open and she’s a-okay with it all.  It got me thinking some more. 

Digital D...the 2009 model

What’s this?  A hearing aid.  You might’ve seen one before – maybe your coworker wears one, or your grandma, or the crazy cat lady on the corner.  What makes this one special?  Well, it’s mine.  And why’s that special?  Because it’s something that I very rarely share.  You might get a glimpse of it if I tuck my hair behind my ear.  If you’re curious, you might even ask me about it – that question always begins with “Can I ask you a personal question?”  I always panic a little when that happens because those questions can go quite a few different ways, if you know what I’m sayin’. 

I’m gonna go off on a quick tangent.  I don’t know what the difference is between being deaf, being hearing impaired, or being hard of hearing.  There might be a legal or medical definition but as I said before, I never pay attention to those things.  My family and I have always referred to my brother and me as “hearing impaired.”  Whatever term you wanna call it, at the end of the day, when we turn off our hearing aids – we can’t hear.

My first hearing aid.  My mom used to 
sew fabric pouches to hold the battery
case that I wore under my shirt. 
Clearly, this was my Valentine's Day pouch.

Wearing a hearing aid requires some adjustments to one’s life.  A girl always has to be prepared – so I carry a pack of batteries with me wherever I go.  Except when I forget.  Then there are the cascading waterfalls that I have to avoid…hearing aids and water don’t mix.  (I’ve actually run this scenario through my head…what if I am somewhere where there is a cascading waterfall and I want to dive in…do I holler, wait, I just have to take my hearing aid out?  It’s a bit of a mood killer, I think.)  When I ride roller coasters, I always take it out because when you’re going on the Double Loop O’Terror, you definitely don’t want to worry about your hearing aid falling out and hitting someone in the head…oh yeah, then you have to try to find it!  And I really, really stink at the game “Whisper Down the Lane.”  Trust me, I will screw it up.  There are some benefits though.  I can turn myself off whenever I want…but generally I limit that to when I run the vacuum or when I’m trying to ignore my mom.  So, not that often.  Because it’s not really fair to all of you hearing folks   

I have an interesting relationship with my hearing aid.  I need it to function and operate in the world.  But it’s also something that I’ve always been embarrassed about…it’s something that I felt like I needed to keep secret.  It wasn’t always like that.  I have a vivid memory of being at my cubby in kindergarten with my friends changing my hearing aid battery – it was the neat thing to do.  But as I got older, and all the voices inside of me screamed “you’re different!” over and over, I hid the one visible thing that I had the power to hide – my hearing aid.  I never wore my hair up (to this day, my hair dresser has a standing order – don’t show the ears).  I figured - if no one saw it, they wouldn’t know my big secret. 

Here’s the thing with secrets.  Everyone usually figures it out sooner or later.  Without fail, the few friends whom I felt safe enough to tell that I wear a hearing aid, have looked at me and said “yeah, I know….and so does she and so does he.  And I think the guy down the hall knows too.  Where are we going for lunch?” 

Everyone knows.  They’re a-okay with it.  You know what?  So am I.    

But I am bummed about all those French braids that I missed out on all those years when I apparently wasn’t hiding anything!