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GREGORIO JESUS JAEN ARRABAL was born hearing. At the age of two I came down with the measles-according to doctors, one of the most frequent causes of deafness. My parents say that this illness did not appear to affect me greatly, but after some time they noticed that I had become distracted and that my vocabulary had stopped growing. In the first years of life, children acquire new words daily; in time, this permits them to hold conversations. I, however, continued to use only the few words I had learned before getting sick. I have the great fortune of having marvelous parents. When they realized that I was deaf, their world crumbled around them, but they fought to get the best care for me. They began a long pilgrimage from doctor to doctor and clinic to clinic. At times they received conflicting diagnoses, but finally several doctors concurred that my deafness was not curable. I still had some hearing in my left ear, and fighting to keep it was my only option. Many tears and much pain found their way into my parents' home. I was then their only son, and they had placed in me all their hopes and dreams, which they now were forced to abandon. They were left with no alternative but to accept the circumstances and look for the best school for me. The Spanish American Speech Institute specialized in working with deaf students, following the oral method. Along with general education, its principal objective was that we learn to speak like hearing people. Therefore, communication through signs and mime was strictly prohibited. But whenever we could, we students broke that rule, which seemed absurd to us. It was more comfortable to communicate through gestures than through the spoken word, which obligated us to read lips. In spite of this preference , I did become a fairly skilled lipreader, probably owing in part to my residual hearing. Owing to the lack of subsidies available at that time, the Institute-"the school," as we called it-was expensive for my father, whose salary as a bank employee was not very high. My parents sacrificed themselves to the point of lacking basic necessities so that I might have an education and a chance to make a life for myself. More than half of my father's salary went toward my tuition, month after month, year after year. Nevertheless, I was a happy child-happy in my ignorance. Even though my parents told me to apply myself and take advantage of my time at school, I did not have a clear notion of what money was or of the high price my parents were paying so that I could have a solid cultural education. The years of my elementary and secondary Deaf People in the Arts education at the school were marvelous, unforgettable years, and the friendships that developed among my classmates have continued through the years. I was fourteen years old and still attending the Spanish American Speech Institute when the first painting contest for deaf children was organized by the Fundacion General Mediterninea and Proas magazine. Encouraged by my parents, I entered in the children's category. All of the schools for deaf students in Spain sent works from their students, and several hundred pictures were entered. Try to imagine my joy upon winning the first prize in a contest on the national level! The prize was a camera, some toys, and a plaque. I was filled with happiness, and my parents and brother felt real satisfaction. Naturally, when the exhibition of the selected paintings opened, my parents went to see it. They looked the paintings over again and again, and finally they arrived at the conclusion that some of the paintings on display were better than mine. So they approached the president of the selection committee, Senor Juan de Contreras y Lopez de Ayala, the Marquis of Lozoya. The MarquiS was a kind man, an eminent art critic, historian, and connoisseur of paintings of all time periods. They asked him why the committee had given me first prize, because they had seen other paintings in the exhibition that they believed were painted better than mine. According to my father, the Marquis answered with a smile: Pardon me-not better painted. Better drawn, yes, but this is a painting contest , not a drawing contest. Your son has an innate sense of color. He plays with colors; he mixes them with the know-how of a professional in...

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