Another Voice

Note: Big D for Deaf refers to people who identify themselves as culturally deaf. They will have a strong Deaf identity, attend schools for the Deaf, and mainly associate with other members of the Deaf community. Small d for deaf refers to the condition as well as to deaf people who identify more with the hearing or mainstream, and regard their hearing loss only in medical, not cultural, terms. From deafness.about.com


When my speech problem emerged just before high school, I was desperate to find another way to communicate. With the voice as my sole means of expression in 1960, it was no wonder that I wanted to learn ASL, American Sign Language.

As a hearing child of hearing parents, attending a Deaf school was out of the question. In those days my parents had a perception that the deaf were inferior. Many misconceptions about them resulted from deaf peddlers back then – probably the only deaf people that most hearing people knew about.

I remember seeing deaf peddlers in the street in the 1950s, and some of them even showed up at our front door. The peddler would present their card. It often had the ASL alphabet printed on it and a phrase that said something like, “I am deaf. Can you please help me?”

All I knew about the peddlers is that they didn’t speak or that it was very hard for them to do so, just like me. So I liked the idea of going to school with them or anyone who was deaf. I saw how they used their hands to say things, and I wanted to learn how to do it too.

I wasn’t able to learn ASL until much later in life, when I was 58 years old. By then I had been diagnosed for my speech disability and was getting treatments for it. Yet, my treatments didn’t always work, or I might have to wait months to get one. I knew that, without medical intervention, I could never speak normally so I still wanted to learn how to use my hands to express myself; to simply replace my voice with another one.

As hard as it was for me to learn ASL, I could see how easy it was for many of my younger, college-age classmates. They made me think back to when I was their age and earlier as a teenager, struggling to communicate without speech.

Throughout my teens, I often asked myself, “How will I earn a living?” Even though I excelled at typing and stenography in high school, I questioned, “How good of a secretary can I be with my speech problem? I can hardly use the phone. What am I actually capable of?” It was obvious that I couldn’t teach or do anything that relied on my voice.

While studying ASL, I wondered how different my life would have been if I had learned it early on. Perhaps I could have become a teacher of the Deaf, and would have been spared the anguish I experienced whenever I was forced to speak at school, in social situations, interviewing for a job, working at a job, trying to use the telephone, or even out with friends. If I attended a Deaf school growing up, would I have found the support and understanding that I felt lacking in my youth and for much of my life? Would I have become more confident? I don’t remember ever doubting my intelligence. But, throughout most of my life, I felt that I couldn’t express it.

In one ASL course, the instructor discussed how the Deaf suffered a history of being forced to speak in schools and in mainstream society. He signed, “Can you imagine that the Deaf were forced to go to schools where ASL was forbidden and they were made to speak?” Even though his question was rhetorical, I raised my hand. I told the class interpreter, “I u-understand this. I’ve h-ad a speech disability s-ince ch-ildhood and I’ve been forced to s-peak all of my life. I f-feel that I’ve l-ived with the s-ame problem.” My instructor stared at me, looking shocked. He asked, “You’re hearing but you can’t speak?” I was able to respond directly to him this time and simply signed, “Yes.”

This common inability to speak, while often being forced to do so, was the connection I always felt towards the Deaf. Yet, I was a hearing adult who only knew other hearing people. Was this shared experience with the Deaf what made me feel that I might have a lot in common with them? I was curious to find out.

My ASL program involved volunteer work for one semester, but I extended it. I worked for almost a year with a Deaf advocacy organization, for six months at a school for the Deaf, and I also studied privately with a Deaf tutor for almost a year. The majority of people I met were always patient and glad to help me with ASL, but the best part was the special closeness I almost always felt after I told them about my speech problem and our unique commonality.

No Deaf person I met ever knew a hearing person who couldn’t speak, so I was something of a novelty. I’d often sign with them about my take on the ASL sign for the hearing, where the index finger circles outwardly from the mouth as if to indicate the utterance of words. I would say, “I think this needs to be changed. It has nothing to do with me!” They would laugh and tell me how that’s part of the language so it probably won’t change anytime soon. Then, I’d usually add, “Seriously, I always wanted to learn sign language because it was so hard for me to speak. You know, there are hundreds of thousands of hearing people in the world who, for one reason or another, can’t use their voice. Wouldn’t you love to see them learn to use sign language too?” No one ever laughed at this idea. They readily agreed.

Learning ASL did give me a new friend from all the Deaf acquaintances I made along the way. Although I met Laurie because I know ASL, our friendship has little to do with the fact that she’s Deaf or that I’m hearing. Like all of my other friendships, it is based on mutual respect, a strong sense of humor, and an ease and joy of being in each other’s company. The remainder of my personal life is in the hearing world.

Luckily, my ASL studies brought me employment with preschool Deaf and hard-of-hearing children. Here I am often with other adult hearing ASL signers, as well as hard-of-hearing and Deaf adults. The goal of my work is to teach the children ASL, as it will be their first language and become their native tongue. In this arena I may witness a child use their hands to communicate for the first time, and I am reminded why I wanted to learn sign language in the first place.

In the hands of an expert, sign language can be a thing of grace and loveliness. For me, though, its greatest beauty lies in giving a voice where there was none. As a Deaf instructor once said, “If others rely on your speech and you have none, it’s impossible for them to realize your strengths.” Thank goodness for the strength of a people who cannot speak, and their incredible creation of another voice.