deafbajagal
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- Nov 6, 2007
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People who know me well know that once I start working on a puzzle, I must remain at task until it is completely put together. I cannot stand for the puzzle to be uncompleted and left to be done at a later time. I hate missing pieces.
One time there was a new puzzle that I had worked on for nearly 48 hours, nonstop. I barely ate. When it was nearly done, I realized that there were two pieces missing. I know it sounds silly and trivial, but this really irked me. I cannot stand unfinished puzzles. I searched relentlessly for the two missing pieces. Finally, I bought another one of the same puzzle just for the two pieces so my puzzle could finally be completed. I was exhausted, but I persisted. Of course, it bothered me that the second box had two missing pieces, but I threw the box away and convinced myself that it didn’t matter because it was never a project to begin with. This puzzle, the one I worked on, was the project at hand. And it was finally completed.
My life is a series of missing pieces. I remember vivid details about the houses we lived in, especially the one in Germany. I remember the smell and taste of Mom’s cooking. I can smell and feel the crisp October air that I felt against my skin while I played on the monkey bars. I remember the ice cream truck and our pets. I can still feel the texture of freshly cut grass against my tricycle wheels as I pedaled behind my big sisters. Yet, there are so many missing pieces. I thought, as I got older, the world would make more sense. High school didn’t prove to be any better. Jokes that were shared with laughter while I sat motionless, waiting for the delayed explanation of just what were so funny. Second-handed jokes were not funny, but I always laughed anyways. You learn to do things like that- laugh on demand. Smile when you feel clueless. And nod when you do not understand. Most important of all- avoid being put on the spot by acting shy. It’s very important to look as if you are part of the group. You must mainstream.
I remember my daydreams while I sat in the classroom, virtually clueless about what the voiceless teacher was saying. Speechreading from a distance is just as possible as striking gold from a Hot Springs spring well. Let’s not forget the pointless box they made me wear, telling me it made me hear things better. All it did was amplify the teacher’s cough and the squeaking chalk as she scrawled on the chalkboard. Does anyone ever realize how stupid it was to try to make a deaf person hear? It’s like trying to make tofu taste like the Boston Cream Cake.
Sitting in the cafeteria was probably the most lonesome experience in high school. It is such a paradox how I felt so alone while in midst of many people. After a while, it became too much to try to blend in like a lost sheep among goats. Daydreams followed me through the day, and met my dreams of the night. Somewhere in between, I became lost to reality. I was a deaf person, “mainstreamed” in a world of people who would never understand the glass box I lived in. I became “that deaf girl” in school.
What did you say? What is so funny? Why are you crying? Where is everyone going? What? Where? How? When? Why, why, why? Questions, questions, questions. Never answers except for the phrases: “I’ll tell you later” and “it’s not important.” Impartial memories, unsolved mysteries. I learned to hate sitting at the dinner table, where I felt like a part of the furniture. I hated sitting in church, staring at the pastor until his head became blurry like a smudge on the wall. I understood little; I pretended a lot. Watching TV without captions. Owning an unused TTY. I was a stranger in my own home, and worse, to my own life.
Books saved me. An open book allowed me to be part of a world without rejection, fear, and lonesomeness. I was a part of something. I understood what everyone was saying, and I never missed a single word.
One day I was sitting in class when the teacher gave us “free time.” I realized I left my book in my locker, so I asked her if I could go get it. She refused to let me because I should just be able to talk with other students or do my homework (which I had already done). I sat there, watching my peers chatted freely. Of course, the desks were in parallel lines, making it nearly impossible to speechread anyone. I was never comfortable in my own skin when I had to speak in a foreign tongue…in a language I’ve never heard in my life but was supposed to be fluent in it nonetheless. I sat there, fuming. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Then I realized…today was Friday. I had sat through the whole week without a single soul speaking to me, nor I to them. Communicating was just too much work. Kids were nice to me, always smiling at me with occasional waves. But on that week, no one spoke to me. Not a single soul.
How was it okay that I managed to go a full week without talking to anyone? I arose from my desk, feeling but ignoring the puzzling look from my teacher. I walked out of the classroom. I grabbed the book I wanted to read from my locker and threw it away. And I walked out of the building of the “hearing school.”
I made a point not to have any more missing puzzle pieces from my life story. From that point forward, I wanted to be my own character in my book rather than being a reader of my life.
(As posted in my Facebook Notes)
One time there was a new puzzle that I had worked on for nearly 48 hours, nonstop. I barely ate. When it was nearly done, I realized that there were two pieces missing. I know it sounds silly and trivial, but this really irked me. I cannot stand unfinished puzzles. I searched relentlessly for the two missing pieces. Finally, I bought another one of the same puzzle just for the two pieces so my puzzle could finally be completed. I was exhausted, but I persisted. Of course, it bothered me that the second box had two missing pieces, but I threw the box away and convinced myself that it didn’t matter because it was never a project to begin with. This puzzle, the one I worked on, was the project at hand. And it was finally completed.
My life is a series of missing pieces. I remember vivid details about the houses we lived in, especially the one in Germany. I remember the smell and taste of Mom’s cooking. I can smell and feel the crisp October air that I felt against my skin while I played on the monkey bars. I remember the ice cream truck and our pets. I can still feel the texture of freshly cut grass against my tricycle wheels as I pedaled behind my big sisters. Yet, there are so many missing pieces. I thought, as I got older, the world would make more sense. High school didn’t prove to be any better. Jokes that were shared with laughter while I sat motionless, waiting for the delayed explanation of just what were so funny. Second-handed jokes were not funny, but I always laughed anyways. You learn to do things like that- laugh on demand. Smile when you feel clueless. And nod when you do not understand. Most important of all- avoid being put on the spot by acting shy. It’s very important to look as if you are part of the group. You must mainstream.
I remember my daydreams while I sat in the classroom, virtually clueless about what the voiceless teacher was saying. Speechreading from a distance is just as possible as striking gold from a Hot Springs spring well. Let’s not forget the pointless box they made me wear, telling me it made me hear things better. All it did was amplify the teacher’s cough and the squeaking chalk as she scrawled on the chalkboard. Does anyone ever realize how stupid it was to try to make a deaf person hear? It’s like trying to make tofu taste like the Boston Cream Cake.
Sitting in the cafeteria was probably the most lonesome experience in high school. It is such a paradox how I felt so alone while in midst of many people. After a while, it became too much to try to blend in like a lost sheep among goats. Daydreams followed me through the day, and met my dreams of the night. Somewhere in between, I became lost to reality. I was a deaf person, “mainstreamed” in a world of people who would never understand the glass box I lived in. I became “that deaf girl” in school.
What did you say? What is so funny? Why are you crying? Where is everyone going? What? Where? How? When? Why, why, why? Questions, questions, questions. Never answers except for the phrases: “I’ll tell you later” and “it’s not important.” Impartial memories, unsolved mysteries. I learned to hate sitting at the dinner table, where I felt like a part of the furniture. I hated sitting in church, staring at the pastor until his head became blurry like a smudge on the wall. I understood little; I pretended a lot. Watching TV without captions. Owning an unused TTY. I was a stranger in my own home, and worse, to my own life.
Books saved me. An open book allowed me to be part of a world without rejection, fear, and lonesomeness. I was a part of something. I understood what everyone was saying, and I never missed a single word.
One day I was sitting in class when the teacher gave us “free time.” I realized I left my book in my locker, so I asked her if I could go get it. She refused to let me because I should just be able to talk with other students or do my homework (which I had already done). I sat there, watching my peers chatted freely. Of course, the desks were in parallel lines, making it nearly impossible to speechread anyone. I was never comfortable in my own skin when I had to speak in a foreign tongue…in a language I’ve never heard in my life but was supposed to be fluent in it nonetheless. I sat there, fuming. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Then I realized…today was Friday. I had sat through the whole week without a single soul speaking to me, nor I to them. Communicating was just too much work. Kids were nice to me, always smiling at me with occasional waves. But on that week, no one spoke to me. Not a single soul.
How was it okay that I managed to go a full week without talking to anyone? I arose from my desk, feeling but ignoring the puzzling look from my teacher. I walked out of the classroom. I grabbed the book I wanted to read from my locker and threw it away. And I walked out of the building of the “hearing school.”
I made a point not to have any more missing puzzle pieces from my life story. From that point forward, I wanted to be my own character in my book rather than being a reader of my life.
(As posted in my Facebook Notes)
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I am sure that you will rest easy knowing that your words have had an impact on a hearing parent of a deaf child.