The signs of disability are everywhere in the house where I grew up.
There sits the TTD, a text-phone device made obsolete by the email and text message, on a desk. Along the bottom of the TV screen, words flash as captions. And the lights – in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, along the halls – flash when people push the doorbell.
The little signs said someone in my house was deaf: my mom.
People who meet her soon forget about her lifelong deafness, the result of an under-formed ear drum. They notice her smile and her laughter instead. Most deaf people laugh in two volumes. Their laughs are either hushed, or pure and unrestrained. My mom doesn't hold back.
Now I would be lying if I said I was never embarrassed by my mom. Sometimes, she laughs at full volume, even in a library or a quiet restaurant. When she gets excited, she talks just as loud.
But it’s funny – my mom’s “disability” only made her practical, positive, and tough as nails. She contradicts the word. Less able? It made her a bigger person, and she made me better in turn.
My grandparents sent my mom to hearing school, not the safer school for the deaf, because they knew she had to learn to function in the hearing world. There were no interpreters. She had to read lips to follow lessons. It was a constant challenge, but my mom always loved her parents for their decision. When she raised me, education remained top priority.
People made fun of her all the time for being deaf. Kids can be cruel. Somehow, every time, she rose above it. She was too tough to crack. And when it was my turn to be picked on, those sniffles of mine weren’t tolerated for very long.
That experience gave her a unique perspective, which she later passed to me. When I told my mom I wanted to be a journalist, she said something that burned itself into my mind: “Be fair. Even to people without a voice.”
After she left high school and got married to a hearing man – who said she couldn’t master the hearing world too? – she went to work for more than two decades, supervising dorms at the Kansas School for the Deaf in Olathe. She showed me another side of life, unknown to those without a deaf parent.
The deaf community in Olathe is strong, centered around the school for the deaf. There is a deaf cultural center and a club, not a part of the school. Meeting those people and watching everyone interact taught me how a minority functions in society. It taught me how people can bond together and help each other. It helped me better understand those without a voice and how they fight for themselves. It made me want to help fight.
My mom’s experiences have made me a different person than I would have been otherwise. She found a way to meet evil with good, to turn the other cheek in the face of cruel mockery and hard circumstances. Her unyielding ability to get herself up, dust herself off and keep moving inspires me every day. She’s taught me how to stand taller than trivial smallness like mockery or adversity.
Yet she also has one of the keenest senses of community I know. She understands the wisdom in banding together, in turning a disability into an icebreaker. It’s an extension of how she deals with adversity. She turns losses into wins, and thrives. She taught me the importance of minority groups, why the little guy's voice is important, and how to see beyond someone’s superficial layer.
I didn’t miss out on a thing with my deaf mom. Her lullaby was sometimes the only thing that could put me to sleep – low, gentle, and without a set tune. She didn’t need the tune, and neither did I.
Sure, sometimes I get embarrassed at the library or at dinner. People hear her talking too loud and look over. They see our American Sign Language flying around. They give a sad, pitying smile. They know my mom has a sad, pitiful life. They look at me, knowing my childhood has been sad and pitiful.
In reality, their pity is best aimed inward. She won't notice it anyway. My mother faced adversity all her life. She’s ready for anything that comes at her. She turns the other cheek, too smart for hatred. She knows how to build community, how to turn the power of individuals into the collective. Her disability has made her stronger than anyone I know.
People look at my mom and see limitations. I look at my mom and see broken boundaries.
As I walk around in life, my mom has given me a light burden. I don’t look for the little signs of impairment. I don’t study people to find their shortcomings, that tiring and ceaseless duty of the weak. Because of my mom, I look for the little signs of brightness. I look for the things that draw me closer to another person, that make us both happier and stronger.
The little signs of impairment are everywhere in that house where I grew up. Those are the easiest signs to spot. But the people there stand tall, fight hard, and love without end. There, my mom laughs loudly.
People who meet her soon forget her deafness. It’s that smile, that laughter, that's unforgettable.
My mom has never heard laughter. Naturally, she does it better than everyone else.
