Prompt: “Today my blind and deaf granddaughter put her hand on the top of my head as I was eating an apple, and she laughed.”
OH! TO BE THAT GRANDPARENT HEARING THAT UNIQUE LOVED ONE’S EQUIVALENT TO LAUGHTER!
So happy to hear this prompt because I find I tend to waddle in the dour, sour, and sad. Yesterday after my doctor’s visit, I went to Central Perk Café and happened to sit next to two women signing in American Sign Language. One was an earnest Black woman, head in turban, and her facial expressions where the same as you would expect in any animated 20- or 30-something person – very intense gesticulations, the pointing-finger wagging the rest of the upper body for extra effect. In fact, I think the queer community has appropriated this animated style of gesticulation under the rubric of “extra.” There was an occasional sound uttered, but just watching these women talk to each other was so mesmerizing, I found myself rudely staring. They stared back at me; I then caught myself and I had to slowly spell out in my limited ASL “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Anyway, I had been to my doctor’s, was fasting, had my blood drawn, and made my way to the cafe un-caffeinated, hungry, maybe even hangry, when I sat down at the table next to these two women. The cafe is near the Texas School for the Deaf and there’s a large active vocal deaf community here in Austin. Also a large blind/visually-impaired community – TX School for the Blind. And also nearby, a scaled down state hospital for the mentally ill.
The disabled community separated itself from the mentally ill a long time ago for a variety of reasons: political, societal, stigma, funding streams, etc. But people overcoming whatever their disability is the single most continuous inspiring wonder to me in the world ever since I can remember remembering. I tear-up; my voice catches with emotion; I find I can go on.
My last boss at the hospital is a well-respected psychologist, wheelchair-bound, born with only mere stubs for legs, married, and bore a healthy child. And I understand that it took a village, meaning she needed and received a ton of help. Working with her has been one of the high points of my career. She has since moved on and I miss her. The occupational nurse at work who gives us our flu and COVID shots is deaf, can read lips pretty good – but imagine this when we were masked for three years. She couldn’t read our lips. I always booked my time with her when she wasn’t busy so I could slowly letter-by-letter sign her my questions and answers. Sometimes we would default to old-school paper and pen. But at least I tried. I think the last time with this last shot I signed “Love you” instead of “Thank you.” I left, awkwardly.
My daughter was severely speech delayed. We had to learn simple sign language for a 4-year-old in three-times-per-week speech therapy so that she could catch up for preschool. She was the happiest kid in the group, always giggling and taking the lead in their group activities that also served to coax them to speak. I can still hear her laughter when it matured from giggles to a child’s belly-laugh for the first time for her at age five.
Recently there was a short film nominated for an Oscar about a troubled teen meeting a deaf, mute, and blind man at a bus stop, played by an actor who really was deaf and blind, and in the scene was writing out he was lost. The story was based on fact and was transformative for the teen. He learned that empathy softens, just a bit, a 17-year-old’s antipathy for the world. There’s a funny Netflix comedy about the trials and tribulations of a cute gay guy with cerebral palsy. And remember the son on “Breaking Bad”? So much visibility for the disabled as actors nowadays - surely for the good.
But I do not romanticize their pain and suffering. I stopped saying long ago, “There but by the grace of God go I.” That’s still ‘othering,’ simply put. NO! Pain in this life is unavoidable. We all share in its suffering. And just like people overcoming their disabilities, the manner in which we suffer is a matter of choice.
—Todd Cornett
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