I Think I Hear You

Comments () | Published September 13, 2010

Seth’s talent challenged me to become a better teacher. He wrote beautiful lines, tapped into emotions that transcended hearing and deafness, and created images that bounced around my brain for hours. But he had only a passing acquaintance with the essentials of telling a story: dramatic arcs, character development, the notion that people had to want something and that they had to suffer for that thing. I pushed him to make his characters more complex. He bridled against the pushing.

We also argued about the way forward for Gallaudet. He felt that the university should champion its communal connection. I felt that people were worried about their credit-card bills and where their tax money went. We needed to focus on preparing students to find jobs.

In a way, we embodied the debate that had roiled the campus since the 2006 protests: Which way forward?

Through Gallaudet’s culture and its influential Deaf Studies department, thousands of isolated deaf people around the world had come to appreciate themselves and the subtle gifts deafness brings. They’d made beautiful films and art, received doctorates, gone back to their hometowns in rural states and distant nations and passed along hope and possibilities to another generation of deaf students. The university had become the mecca of deaf culture. Was that enough?

Some on campus, including me, wanted to lessen the focus on pride and self-discovery and focus on workplace skills. Over time, the two camps had hardened against each other. Was there a place they could meet?

In my office in the early mornings, Seth and I struggled to find one. He had deaf parents, a lovely deaf girlfriend, and a boisterous crew of deaf friends. He had been born into a family that included him in all activities. He had attended the Model Secondary School for the Deaf with students from similar backgrounds and had no desire to get an implant or to hear.

I’d come from about as different a communication background as possible for a deaf person. I was the first person in my loud New York City family with hearing loss; I grew up with my head in books and never attended a class with another deaf person. Seth’s first language was sign; I didn’t pick it up until I was in my thirties. And though I had never found such understanding of my condition as I did on campus, I didn’t think that was enough.

“The world only cares what services you can provide and what money you can make for it, Seth, not who you are.”

“So then change the world!” he signed. “Show people all this place is.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“I don’t know. But shouldn’t we be trying?”

“How, Seth?”

He turned to his computer and angrily banged out another couple thousand words.

“He’s stubborn,” I told his academic adviser.

“Oh, I know,” said the adviser.

“He doesn’t listen.”

“Must be tough.”

“I haven’t done this before. Mentored like this. Had to deal with all this. What do I do?”

The adviser smiled: “Hey—I’m just thrilled he shows up.”

Summer ended, another school year started. Seth was working hard. His computer problems ended, his health improved. Previously, he’d had the air of one of those too-cool-for-school students who can’t let their friends see them trying; now some weeks all he did was sleep, eat, go to class, and come to my office to write.

My own novel devolved into serial backspacing as I continually reassessed what I thought I knew about deafness. All this change brought on by implants and identity: What would the final result be? Would the riches of the community be lost? Would the university close? In trying to be like everyone else, would we lose ourselves?

While Seth wrote, I surfed the Web.