Self-Actualization in the Real World–A deaf View

Lately there has been a lot of discussion about “deafhood” and self-actualization.  See Deaf Pundit’s blog.

Below is a chart of age at onset of biological hearing loss taken from the Gallaudet website.  You can find the raw statistics here.

Three-quarters of all deaf people lose their hearing after age 19.  I’m not sure if I fit in that spot or in “unknown” or ages 3-18.  My hearing loss was diagnosed at 19, but it began much earlier.  No matter.  My first language was spoken English and I am biologically deaf.

Presumably any North American who became deaf after age 19 would be fluent in English and would have a hard time picking up ASL, or changing their entire lifestyle in order to fit into the Deaf community.  Yes– I realize it can be done– but the bigger question is why would someone want to?

The older one is at age of onset, the more hearing friends one has.  Unless you’re trying to escape your real life, the best plan of action is to accept the medical model of deafness, get good hearing aids or a cochlear implant, join a deaf advocacy group for empowerment and support– then move on.  You may or may not decide to learn ASL, depending on your interests, relationships, and what you do for a living.

As for self-actualization, all that means is to develop or achieve one’s full potential.  That’s all.  Whether biologically deaf or not, all people seek to make the most of their assets in order to self-actualize.  For some of us, that may mean speaking.  Others may decide to work with Deaf people or for a Deaf-centered company.   I could be wrong, but collecting SSDI seems to be the opposite of self-actualization, and Paddy Ladd’s vision of Deafhood.

I realize it’s tough out there.  I know a lot of hearing people won’t give Deaf people jobs.   You have to eat.   There is nothing wrong with collecting those checks.  But please do not tell me I haven’t embraced ‘deafhood” simply because I speak and have a job working with hearing people, or because I have developed friendships with co-workers who hear.  Realize that because I speak I do not qualify for ‘disability’  Yet, because accommodations are needed, hearing people are often reluctant to hire oral deaf people like me too.

Am I an deaf audist?  No.  I’m a deaf realist.   A self-actualized deaf realist.

 

Audist or Frightened?

In my last blog post, someone commented–

“Are all Hearing people audist? No. But until they become aware of Deaf culture, I think you would agree that Hearing people would think to be Hearing is the “only” way, . . ., and not to hear is seen as devastating and incomprehensible.” 

 I agree with this to a certain extent, so I don’t mean to be picking on you specifically.  I realize the audism debate has been argued to death already, but the statement above kinda made me cringe when I first read it.  Yes-I’m deaf, but I still identify with hearing people.  Are hearing people ‘audists’ simply because they don’t understand Deaf culture or what it’s like to be deaf?  

 Let’s step back and consider why some hearing people may think that, “Hearing is the “only” way, . . ., and not to hear is seen as devastating and incomprehensible.” 

I’ve already explained the many losses hearing people experience when they lose their hearing– friends, relationships, sometimes a job, hobbies, a social life and much much more.  Hearing culture is based on HEARING, so the loss of hearing impacts every aspect of their lives.  Hearing parents, like all parents, want to share their culture and lives with their children.  When they have a Deaf child, they realize that their child’s life is going to be different from anything they’ve ever known or imagined. 

 In a word they are frightened.

 Now let’s go back and change the above statement substituting the word ‘frightened’ for audist–

“Are all Hearing people frightened? No. But until they become aware of Deaf culture, I think you would agree that Hearing people would think to be Hearing is the “only” way,. . .and not to hear is seen as frightening.”

Wow!  It gave me a whole different feeling.  I don’t know about others, but I think it would be easier to deal with a frightened hearing person than an audist.   

What do frightened people need?  Compassion, support, understanding, education, hugs, encouragement, hope.  

 What do audists need?  I just don’t know.  Not only that, but I don’t care.

If our goal is understanding (which it should be if we wish to battle audist attitudes), then we need to be careful of the words we use to describe those who need our help.  While I agree there are audists out there, I honestly feel the majority of hearing people are kind and compassionate, but maybe misinformed about deafness and Deaf culture. 

 

Seedy Thoughts

Seedy

Originally uploaded by bp6316

It happened again. This time I was at Home Depot, off in my own world looking at seed packets and dreaming about working in my butterfly garden this summer.

“Excuse me!”

I look up. A young woman with a clip board in hand smiles. “I’d like to ask you some questions. It will only take a minute. Can you tell me which room you plan to remodel next? Your bathroom or kitchen?”

“I’m not planning to remodel anything. Thanks.” I try to turn back to the seeds, but notice her staring at me, jaw agape.

“Not planning to remodel?!” she looks aghast as if I just told her I wasn’t planning to brush my hair ever again.

“Well,” she continues, “we’d like to send someone to your home, a decorator. You see many people think they aren’t planning to remodel, but after they see our decorators, they remember they want to remodel something. . .”

“Uh– well no thanks, I’m not interested in having a decorator out to my home.” I turn again, frustrated now that my summer reverie has been spoiled.

“Where are you from, anyway?” she asks.

“FROM?!” I hesitate. I know what’s coming next. “I’m from here.”

“No. . . I mean where are you FFRROMM??” Emphasis added. She’s certain I am not from here, or haven’t always been from here, or something.

(OK, OK– It’s true I was born in the midwest, but I moved to the Seattle area by age nine, and dropped the mild midwestern twang by age ten. No one has asked where I was from until the past few years when my hearing dipped into the severe-profound ranges.)

“I grew up just north of Seattle,” I say.

“OH!” she says in surprise, “You sound . . . different. . . like you have some kind of accent. . .” Her eyes squint suspiciously.

“Yeh– that’s because I’m practically deaf. I’m reading your lips.”

“OH MY GOD!” she exclaims, “That’s so COOL!”

(Riiight– I really, really wish she would go away now. I’m getting annoyed.) I stare over my glasses with my best ‘are-we-done-here?’ look.

This kind of thing happens just often enough that it bugs me, but not so often that it doesn’t catch me by surprise each and every time. I know I sound a little different. I can accept that. It’s part and parcel of being deaf. I do not mind being different. My hearing isn’t the only area where I stray from the norm. I could probably think of at least fifty ways I differ from others.

I turn back to the seeds.

And then it hits me. . . How boring gardens would be if all flowers were exactly the same.

Happy Almost Spring!