Page 23 of Quiet Beautiful Things

I sometimes speak verbally around my family. It’s how I practice speaking. Though they tell me I sound great, I’ve been reluctant to speak in front of others for a long time. As someone who is profoundly deaf, I have no clue what I sound like. I know I have an accent. Many deaf people do. A lot of us have a thickmonotone or guttural accent since we can’t hear all the sounds letters make.

As a professional, especially one who advocates for deaf children, I know I shouldn’t feel the way I do about speaking. But after being bullied about the way I spoke back in middle school, I simply just stopped using my voice except around those closest to me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Dad made a reservation at Lloyd’s,” Beth says and signs.

My family are all proficient in ASL and most of our conversations are held that way. But in the car, like we are now, we SimCom—speak and sign at the same time—so nobody feels left out.

Mom turns. “Are you all unpacked?”

“I finished yesterday. I still need to buy a TV.”

I’ve had my eye on a big screen, but I’ve been waiting for it to go on sale. Large screen televisions are really nice for deaf people as the closed captioning is much more visible, making it easier to both read and watch.

“We’ll pick one up after dinner.”

I shake my head. “I have a job, Mom. I can buy it myself.”

Beth elbows me and signs without speaking. “She’s been going crazy. You have to let her pamper you a bit.”

I roll my eyes and sign, “She survived when I was away at Gallaudet all those years.”

“You were in college,” she signs. “That was different. This is you out in the real world. She’s worried about you. But don’t go feeling all special, she goes bat-shit crazy over me, too.”

Mom waves to get my attention. “Hey, you two. Stop talking about me. I know you are.”

Beth and I laugh. Mom hates it when we sign behind her back. When we were kids, we’d literally turn our backs and haveASL conversations with her in the room. She hated not being privy to what we were saying.

Welcome to my world, Mom.

Dad parks behind the restaurant and we make our way to the front. I stop and point left and sign, “The school is right down there.”

“We know where it is,” Mom says. “We toured it when you were younger.”

My jaw slackens. I had no idea. “You considered sending me here? To live?”

She shakes her head. “We considered moving here. Research told us this was one of the best Deaf schools in New York. But you were adamant about going to a hearing school, so we dropped the subject.”

“You would have moved.” I point to myself. “For me?”

Dad wraps an arm around my shoulder and signs with his free hand. “Of course we would have.”

We step inside and are escorted to the table. It’s dark, and when the hostess speaks, Beth interprets for me. My family has always been great about making sure I don’t miss out on conversations going on around me.

I watch the hostess, wondering if she’ll assume I’m not intelligent—a mistake many hearing people make—but she simply smiles politely and tells us the name of our waitress. Maybe with the school just around the corner, she’s used to deaf customers.

Once seated, I sign to my parents, “Thank you for not insisting I go there. It’s a great school. But allowing me to choose for myself is one of the reasons I love you guys so much.”

Mom reaches over and clasps my hands. She knows sometimes you don’t need to speak to get a point across.

Beth looks at me, walleyed. She’s the only person who knows what a hard time of it I had in school. But I was out to prove Icould do whatever hearing students could—even if I went about it in the worst of ways.

I think my parents were the main reason I pursued my degree and this job. Giving me options and letting me participate in the decisions was paramount to my upbringing. I saw what happened to kids who were forced into environments they didn’t want to be in. It’s why I wanted to become an advocate for children who may not have been given the same opportunities I had.

After we order drinks, Beth asks, “How’s work going?”

“Good.” I find myself biting my lip and stop. “Really good.”

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