A Silent House
“Man, you are so lucky. You could probably get away with anything!” My fellow staff member from camp is visiting my house for the first time. Not surprisingly, he utters the first words that all of my peers utter when they learn that my parents are deaf. Saying I could get away with anything is a slight exaggeration, but I am pretty sure I would have relative ease getting away with the simple things. I used to say that having deaf parents is just the same as having hearing parents, but with age, I have realized how far from the truth that actually is.
Friends of mine compare a visit to my house with a visit to The Sharper Image. Both places have nifty electronic toys that most people don’t have around the house. What my friends do not realize, however, is that like the interesting gadgets in The Sharper Image, the items in our house lose their novelty quite quickly. The doorbell that makes no bell sound, but rather causes some lights in random rooms around the house to blink, suddenly changes from “so cool” to “a pain in the ass.” If no one is sitting in a room with a light that is wired to the doorbell, the person at the door could shoot a cannonball at the door and not get an answer. I was heartbroken when we missed Ed McMahon. The neat little type-writer for deaf people to talk on the phone is also transformed from a nifty little gadget to a pure annoyance. Think of the last phone conversation you had. Now imagine having to type every word. Not only is it time consuming, but it can cause some heavy duty-long distance phone bills. I guess that’s the price that needs to be paid in order to communicate like everyone else.
Yet, in this world where it grows more and more vital each day, communication is nothing like it is with everyone else. When arriving home from school, rather than announcing my presence in the resounding voice I use to announce things at camp, I instead have to personally seek out Mom and Dad, tap them lightly on the shoulder so as not to startle them, and then finally tell them that I have arrived safely at home. Because of the communication barrier between my parents and most of the rest of the world, my parents have never chaperoned a field trip, never volunteered with sports teams or cub scouts, and never even heard my voice. Friends are always a little scared to meet my parents and rarely say more than “hi” to them. They talk about wanting to learn sign language, but they never commit. It makes me want to grab them by the collars and scream into their faces that my parents are just like their parents. Just like you, they need food, water, and shelter. I have always wondered why one small difference has caused people to wait out in the car rather than come in for a minute. The communication barrier can seem like a huge, imposing wall from far away, but if anyone bothered to approach it, they would see the unlocked door just waiting for them to pass through.
People sometimes ask me if I like having deaf parents. I always answer that I like having My parents. Being deaf does not make them any less human or any less loving, but sometimes I wonder if they think I resent them for not being able to hear. They couldn’t be further from the truth, but they are oblivious to how defensive I am of them, and the rest of my deaf extended family, for that matter. I have often bitten through my tongue after hearing statements about deaf drivers not belonging on roads or even on this planet. I am tired of it and have recently vowed to never let anyone who ignorantly says something about the deaf get away with it. My parents are college-educated adults, which is more than some kids with hearing parents can say. If I could be reborn with parents that had the ability to hear, I would have to decline the offer. I think having deaf parents has made me very aware that there are so many different kinds of people in this world, and none of them should feel like any less of a human because they are different. If everyone knew this, then I would sleep a thousand times better at night.
