Deaf

I don't know how to write about being deaf. I don't know how to write about it any more than I know how to write about being a woman or being 33. Being deaf is a physical condition that somehow also exists as a condition of personality. Is personality the right word? I don't know what I mean to say but I know how I mean. Let's see if I can describe it to you.

Consider the age-old argument: nature versus nurture.  The argument, when looking at siblings, leans favorably towards nature. After all, siblings raised by the same parents in the same way, turn out so different. "This is the shy one." "That's the athletic one." "Oh, she's the smart one." Nature accounts for these differences. But one could argue that parents change as they gain wisdom and experience. An older child might not reap the benefits that a younger child does, of a parent that is older and wiser.

So, am I the person I am because I'm deaf or would I be this person regardless? I don't even think, at 33, that I know myself well enough to answer this question. My early experience with deafness imbued me with a "can-do" attitude. My parents pushed, gently but firmly, so that today I stand before you, a college graduate, the holder of a Master's degree, a writer, a former teacher, a traveller, a mother. But maybe it was already in my nature to be "can-do," to be a reader and a writer, a person who seeks out adventure in other countries.  Should we blame nurture or nature for my quick temper, my big mouth, my acceptance of my own mediocrity?

There have been many influences along the way. Early speech intervention, a year at a boarding school for deaf children, years of being mainstreamed in public school, a stepmother that is a speech pathologist, a mother that is an audiologist, a father who said "come hell or high water, you'll go to NYU," the nurturing that I received by going to a small college within a private university, chance meetings with people who extended to me patience, kindness, and empathy, some of those people becoming my dearest friends. (I well up at the thought.)

All this took place within the context of a hearing world. I can count on one hand the number of deaf friends I have. I belong to no deaf community, capital D or otherwise. When I rejoice, when I lament, when I commiserate, when I give, when I take, I do those things not as a deaf person but as me.  To be sure, it becomes apparently rather quickly that I am deaf, if you are paying attention. My eyes will be trained on your face as you speak, maybe making you feel a little uncomfortable. You'll talk to me when my back is turned and get only silence in return. You might have trouble understanding some of my speech, then we'll both feel sheepish and embarrassed when you figure it out.  I might even muster up the courage to say "I'm deaf. I have no idea what you just said to me," and then you'll apologize and repeat what you said, enunciating carefully and kind of loudly. I'll take my punishment humbly and just smile gratefully, while inwardly rolling my eyes.

When I'm asked to write about being deaf, I hit a wall. What does "being deaf" even mean? I am deaf but deafness is not a behavior, as the word "being" implies. For me, it is a condition. For a lot of other people, it is a culture, a way of life and they could probably answer the question more easily than could I. I can write about how my life is affected by deafness or how my relationships are formed as a result of my deafness but I can't be deaf. It seems unfair to me, as a person, to be reduced to that one physical characteristic.

Doing It.

Today's writing exercise is inspired by the chapter titled "Writing as Practice" in Writing Down the Bones.    To do this exercise yourself, set a time limit-- 10 minutes, 20 minutes, whatever. And just write. Just write down the first thing that comes to mind and go with it. Don't think too hard. Like Anne Lamott says, you have to have a shitty first draft to get anything good. Don't be afraid.

Natalie Goldberg says to just write. Anne LaMott says the same thing. But "just write?" About what? What do I write about? Do I write about the long, unsettling gaps in my memory? Do I write about all the mistakes in my past that haunt me? Mistakes innocuous and not so, I am haunted either way, with equal anxiety? {I set a timer here, for ten minutes, because I forgot to do it at the beginning. Natalie Goldberg says that timed writings are a part of a writer's practice.} Do I share my deepest, darkest thoughts that I can never bring myself to say out loud? Why can't I say them out loud? I know why. Because I feel that no one will understand that I am not trying to undo what's been done; it's just a lament. It doesn't mean that I'm unhappy. It just means that I wonder how things would be different if I made different choices back then. Not necessarily better or worse choices, just different. There is no value judgement being made. I think it is probably human nature to wonder how things could have been or would have been or should have been, isn't it?
If I admit that sometimes I wonder, "what if I had never gotten married?" or "what if we had waited to have our first child," does that make me a bad wife or a bad mother? I wonder, would I still be teaching? Would I have advanced in my career?
Another thing I wonder often is "why did I buy this apartment?" In a moment of frustration, I will say "why did I buy this STUPID apartment, this EFFIN apartment?" Because here I am, married with two young children, living in a 700 square foot studio that's been impossible to sell in this down market, even at a bargain basement price.
I guess it just goes to show that you never know how your life will turn out. When I bought this apartment, I was 26. My husband and I had just started dating. I was living by myself for the first time. I had no inkling that we'd be married a year later, and that ten months after that, we'd have a baby. I was prepared to be alone for a long time. In fact, I looked forward to my solitude, to not sharing my space. Because I never had that. I like to be alone.
I can admit that now. I am the type of person that likes to be alone. It doesn't make me lonely. It just means that sometimes the world is overstimulating and being alone is a nice refuge. I enjoy my alone time even more now, when I can get it, because all day long, someone is touching me and asking me for something and needs and wants and needs and wants. Sooooo needy. Little kids are needy. I feel like I'm stating the obvious. What wasn't obvious to me in the beginning is how draining it can be, to be needed all the time. And I happen to think that my kids are pretty independent. I give them plenty of space. But it doesn't matter. All kids want their mother, like it's a need.
And that reminds me of how much I loved it when my mother would run her hands over my hair when I wasn't feeling well, my head in her lap. Even now, at almost 33, I can remember so acutely the feeling of needing my mother then, of wanting her, of reveling in her comfort. 

Writing Down The Bones

This is an exercise I used to do with my students, to get the writing motor going. I took the name of it from an excellent book of the same name by Natalie Goldberg.

Here's how the exercise works. Come up with three words or phrases, related to the same theme. Since identity and environment was a big theme of the 9th grade, I often used "My City," "My Neighborhood," and "My Block." Having nothing in front of you except your writing utensil and a piece of paper (or your computer), write non-stop on the first phrase for 2 minutes. When time is up, write non-stop on the next phrase for 3 minutes. Follow that with writing for 5 minutes non-stop on the final phrase. If you get stuck, just write the same word over and over again until you get unstuck, or until time is up for that round, whichever comes first.

For awhile now, I have been trying to work out an essay on motherhood, in relation to my deafness. So, for this exercise, I am going to focus on the theme of "Motherhood," using the phrases "Identity," "Experience," and "Value."

Identity (2 minutes)
I am not afraid to say "I am a mother." But I am afraid to think that will be my primary identity for the rest of my life. Of course, I will be a mother for the rest of my life but motherhood is a role. I am not so sure it can be an identity. Maybe I have no clue what it means to have an identity or how to define it, either in general or for myself. What else am I? I am a wife. That's a role, too. I am a reader. I am a writer. I am a caucasion, Jewish woman raised in a middle-class family in the suburbs. That is where my identity find its source. Or does it? 

Experience (3 minutes)
Motherhood is an experience. Experience. Experience. Experience. Experience. Experience. I can only relate to the experience in terms of how it makes me feel at any given moment. I feel frustrated a lot of the time. I feel tremendous affection. A lot of love. Some sadness. It's a little bittersweet. Sometimes, I feel amazed and awed. Sometimes, I look at my children and think about how surreal it is that these little people were once inside of me. That I nursed them with nutrition from my own body, then I set them free to become their own people. This is probably the oddest experience of motherhood. It's surreal to think about how primal it is, even as we consider ourselves an advanced civilization. 

Value (5 minutes)
What is the value of what I do? What is it that I do anyway? I keep two small beings alive. I nourish them, heart and soul and body. I love them. I guide them. I teach them. I let them go. I bring them back to me. I scold. I admonish. I yell. I discipline. I shape. I mold. And I don't do this alone, of course. I have a partner but for most of the day, they are mine. Some try to relate the value of motherhood to the value of gainful employment. Yes, I gave up my full-time job with excellent benefits but I did so willingly. I can't even use the phrase "gave up." "Gave up" implies sacrifice. It was no real sacrifice at the time. It was a luxury afforded to me by a generous partner. But maybe now, I realize that it was a little bit of a sacrifice. What did I sacrifice? I sacrificed my value as a worker. As a teacher, I had value in society. As a mother, I don't have the same value. Never mind that because of my motherwork, my children will be productive members of society.  Never mind that. No one sees it that way. I think most people think raising your own children is a selfish endeavor. And maybe it is. But selfish is not always bad. Sometimes, selfish serves a purpose. 

I used to tell my students, "Don't pay attention to spelling or grammar. Don't try to be perfect. Just write." But I have to admit, it's hard not to correct myself and I did so here, most of the time. Though I see that I left my  misspelling of "caucasian" as is.

The next step in this exercise is to choose one of these passages and expand it into a larger piece. I'm not sure which passage I'll choose as none of them are speaking to me right now.  Writing is pretty easy, but writing authentically is hard.  A writer has to overcome self-consciousness and find the strength to be real in her writing, to put down words that are meaningful and not just fluff or filler. It has to be raw and can't skirt around the edges. There is no power in that. But that kind of power is a little scary. So, I must summon up the courage. Maybe tomorrow.

A Writer

For someone who claims to be a writer, and even purports to coach others in writing, I don't write a whole lot, neither in frequency nor in volume. Seems kind of silly, doesn't it?

Can I say "I am a writer" because that is closest thing to a marketable skill I possess? For a long time, I said "I am a teacher" but that seems false now, even though I tutor. "Teacher" implies a career based on shaping impressionable minds and hopefully bringing out the best in one's charges. If the definition hinges on "career," that is no longer part of my "I am." I can say that I am a sewist or a crafter but it doesn't ring as true as "writer." And so, I better start acting like one.

 I just finished reading Mile Markers, by Kristin Armstrong. Kristin Armstrong is a mother, a writer and a runner. I am one of those things and aspire to the other two. The book is made up of short bursts of inspirational missives in which Armstrong weaves together the common threads that course through running and life. Metaphors abound. In fact, the author refers to herself as "metaphor girl." She does have quite a talent for it. One of the metaphors that resonated deeply was the section on resistance. In this section, Armstrong recounts a yoga session in which the instructor says that the inability to flow through to a difficult pose comes from an internal resistance based on fear or insecurity. Armstrong connects this idea to being afraid to push herself harder in other aspects of her life, like running or writing.

I have this internal resistance. It rears its ugly head everyday. I am running in place, trying to summon up courage to make the next move. I've been running in place so long, I've worn a divot into the floor beneath my feet. Part of my resistance comes from insecurity, and part of it is because I think I don't know what I want. I am pretty sure I know what I want but it's buried so deep that I can't dig it out. I have a mental block that is preventing me from articulating my desire. I thought it was apathy but now I believe it is just resistance and I need to find the security to push through, to flow to the next, difficult pose.