I Think I Hear You

Comments () | Published September 13, 2010

The first semester, Seth was my student in a survey course that looked at minority cultures at moments of crisis. The Jews in the Middle Ages, the Hmong in the Vietnam War, the Amazonian tribes against the oil companies. Twenty students were in that class, 18 deaf, and I asked them to contrast the current developments in the deaf community against those historical examples.

It was a challenging, upsetting task because in that historical perspective the students saw that minority cultures, pitted against overwhelming societal and economic forces, inevitably assimilated, disappeared, or at the very least emerged radically altered. These students were at the center of the global deaf community and deaf culture—was I saying that with the rise of cochlear implants, assimilation and radical change were the future of their culture, too? Yes, I was. Get ready, I was saying. All you’ve learned from deafness, the beauty you’ve shaped from it, the peace you’ve shared with it—the world doesn’t really care.

It was an evening class, and some students left at the break to drown these new ideas at the campus bar. Others challenged me, said I was a slave to groupthink. Some dropped out.

The thing I remember most about Seth from that class is not the quality of his work but that his papers had the class’s highest concentrations of food and coffee stains. When the debate picked up, he usually sat back.

The next semester, I taught a creative-writing seminar. The workload was heavy: In 14 weeks, the students had to read six novels and lots of shorter works as well as write two full-length stories. When Seth asked to meet with me halfway through the semester, I suspected it was to withdraw. I had the appropriate speech ready—about writing every day and never using deafness as an excuse for settling for less, and about what Einstein said (or at least what my refrigerator magnet said he said) about genius and inspiration and perspiration.

Instead Seth signed: “I’d like to write a book of short stories for my senior thesis. And I’d like you to be my adviser.”

My response: “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I talked to his academic adviser. “He wants to write a book,” I said.

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” the adviser said.

“Do you think he can do it?” I asked.

“He said he wants to do it.”

A month of false starts, excuses, and demon-infested computers followed. The school year drew to a close.

“I’m getting tired of this,” I told Seth. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Okay.”

“From now until the end of the summer, you owe me 15 pages a week, double-spaced, 9 am every Thursday morning.”

“Fine.”

“You miss one deadline, you have one computer fart, you e-mail one paper at 9:01 and not at 9 or before and the whole thing is off. Understand?”

“Understood.”

That hadn’t gone as I’d expected. “I’ll expect your pages on Thursday,” I said.

“Okay.” He left.

“How long do you give this?” I asked his adviser.

“Until Thursday.”