Children of Deaf Adults Inc.

CODA Scholarship Essay: Egg Drop Soup

It’s a nightly ritual. Before dinner, my father sits watching the television, watching the Chinese news broadcast. The television blares quietly, but the sound never reaches his unhearing ears: he can only read the Chinese subtitles. My mother bangs around in the kitchen, preparing the strange-smelling concoctions that she swears is a staple dish in our native Taiwan. Meanwhile, I sit at my desk, scribbling out English essays and endless derivatives, trying to ignore the racket that both of my parents are oblivious to.

My mother emerges from the kitchen, steaming dish in her hands, and signs to us: “Dinner is ready!” Her signs don’t faze me; they are as much a language as if she had spoken to me in English or Chinese. Tonight, as we crowd around the dinner table, I notice the egg drop soup: my favorite! Eagerly, I reach for the ladle. As I watch the steamy broth seep into my bowl, I realize just how odd the language my parents and I speak is. Like the soup, it is a mash-up of a myriad of ingredients, each its own entity but somehow working wonderfully well together. I sip the hot liquid, careful not to burn myself. “Mmm…it’s good!” I sign to my mother. She’s pleased; her American daughter doesn’t usually like the food she makes. She tells me that the broth is a mixture of stock and water; but no matter how hard I try, I’m unable to differentiate between the two. The two parts are indistinguishable: it’s the same with our sign language. As we converse silently over the dishes, our mouths full, we sign in a mixture of both Chinese and American Sign Language. Perhaps others would find this ritual strange, but it’s in this atmosphere of love that I grew up in.

Certainly, it was – and is – hard at times, being the daughter of two deaf Taiwanese immigrants. Sometimes it’s the worry that gets to me; that one day, I won’t know where they are and won’t have any way of getting in contact with them. Sometimes, it’s the clash of cultures – my adopted American individualism colliding unpleasantly with their traditional Eastern values. Other times, it’s the frustration of constantly being their ears and mouths, translating for them for friends, doctors, teachers, car salesmen, and eve n the occasional police officer.

But for all the difficulty I’ve encountered by being my parents’ daughter, they’ve given me so much more. While working their hourly-wage jobs at the supermarket down the street, never complaining of monotony or throbbing feet, they found the time to chauffeur me to and from afterschool study sessions, science competitions, soccer games– anything that I wanted to experiment with. Even though money was always tight in our household, they tolerantly paid for AP manuals, standardized test fees, and school trips. The example my parents set for me was not in the form of a glamorous career, but the in the diligence and humility with which they performed their humble vocations. They showed me that no obstacle – not even one as all-encompassing as deafness – could compromise discipline, unless you willingly allowed it.

It’s this sense of unrelenting effort and my parents’ support that I hope to take with me to Williams College, where I will be studying during the fall. Though I’m officially undecided, I’ve always held an affinity for the sciences, especially biology and anatomy – the synchronicity in which our organic parts work together simply fascinates me. Perhaps this path will lead me to pursue a career in research, study medicine, or maybe even something different altogether. No matter what I choose to become, I’m confident in the belief that I can always come home to my parents’ unfailing love and a nice steaming bowl of egg drop soup.

My Double Life

I used to think that “lettuce” was a box of soft white sheets meant for wiping tears and blowing noses. Now, I wasn’t an especially advanced child, but I could tell the difference between salad and tissues. However, whenever my mom whipped out a crumpled tissue from her purse, she’d ask me if I needed a Kleenex. Except, in her stilted Deaf voice, the word “Kleenex” fumbled into “lettuce.” So, for years, I asked for a “lettuce” when I had a runny nose and thought I should bring a box of “lettuce” to school every fall for a sticker.

Having parents who don’t speak English is hardly uncommon in America, but my family is different than most multilingual households. There are no rough foreign words or soft, rolling cadences of a faraway tongue floating out windows. In fact, there is no sound at all. In my house, there are eloquent flicks of the hand and swift, twisting fingers.

When others find out that I have Deaf parents, their reactions always amuse me. Most of them are fascinated, bubbling with questions about sign language. But some apologize and tut sympathetically, patting my back like it’s some sort of tragedy. I know, though, that it is a blessing to be a part of the Deaf culture.

My life at home is constantly filled with reminders of my double life. Multi-tasking takes on a whole new meaning for me: I can chat on the phone while signing to my mom with music blaring in the background. The television always has the volume way up and the captions on, strips of words constantly running across the screen. When the phone chimes its particularly grating “Entertainer” tune, the house lights flash on and off. And—most of the time—I love it. I love being able to have access to two different cultures, having the opportunity to slip between the barriers of hearing and signing. It’s almost as if I’m a spy, listening and looking, always observing. As a CODA, a Child of Deaf Adults, I’ve been a part of two very dissimilar worlds: the Hearing and the Deaf.

Other times, this role as an intermediary is overwhelming. I sigh when my parents ask me to interpret at restaurants and roll my eyes when calling the insurance company, parroting my mom’s angry gestures into the phone. When I was younger, her clumsy voice made my cheeks turn red as I sheepishly interpreted for her, pulling her by the sleeve to hurry up and leave. Waiters and cashiers spotted my parents’ hearing aids and relied on me, never looking my parents in the eye. Their smug dismissal of my parents made me redden even more. This embarrassment is fleeting, though. Being a liaison for my parents is not a disadvantage, not at all. It is just part of my life as their daughter, as a CODA.

I realize that my admittance into this silent world is unusual. My dual citizenship provides me with the passport to slide in and out, back and forth over the threshold of two completely different cultures. This opportunity allows me to fully appreciate what my parents have done—obtain a college degree, have successful careers and own a warm house with happy children. I see that my parents are strong, stronger than Applebee’s waiters think they are, and smart, smarter than telemarketers believe.

And their perseverance has changed me. Observing—both hearing and watching—has taught me so much about independence, about diversity. People who society labels as “disabled” are not helpless or weak; I see that every person has value and strength. My parents are Deaf but they are not incapacitated—they just can’t hear. From my experiences as their daughter, I strive to look at everybody in this light. As for the future, I am undecided about career aspirations but I do know that I want to major in English. My parents taught me the value of language—verbal and signed—and I have always been intrigued in how people communicate their thoughts, hopes, emotions, and stories.

I have learned so much from being a CODA. I’ve also learned that lettuce, the leafy good-for-you vegetable, is not Kleenex.