BUG: Deaf Identity and Internal Revolution

Visible Scars

160 C H R I S T O P H E R J O N H E U E R Visible Scars In my dream the old black woman said, “My, but ain’t you an uppity nigger for a white boy?” and threw a copy of the Americans with Disabilities Act at my chest. She said, “What whip were you ever under? What land did you ever lose?” Then she showed me her back, tugging down the heavy sweater that protected her oppression. Her scars were black in the way skin visibly shudders when ripped open, the way melanin reasserts itself in fury. I reached for my ears but could not pull them off. I felt in my ears but nothing was there. I wished for scars like hers; to stand up and scream, “Look! Look, look, look!” I wanted proof to show her, centuries of songs to the Lord, a hearing overseer with a whip. Rows of deaf men B U G 161 in the cotton fields, singing in the sun. Something you could see, so I could point and shout, “Look, look, look!” She said, “Don’t bring your anger in here to me, white boy,” and pointed at the door. I left the interview with a deaf man’s guilt, because I had no proof. It Wasn’t Self-Pity That Stopped Me from Becoming a Telemarketer I often wonder where the line is between self-pity and acknowledging one’s reality. I come from what you would call a “working-class/poor” background. My father was a farmer until we lost our farm. After that, he was either a farmhand on somebody else’s farm or a factory worker until the day he retired (when we didn’t have any money, sometimes he was both simultaneously). My mother was a nurse’s aide who often pulled overtime to help make ends meet. That’s hard work, all around. I don’t say these things to brag. I say them to paint a picture of who my family is, and to honor them. We aren’t lazy. We aren’t too proud to shovel shit. We can take a beating if we have to, sleep for five hours, and still get up for work the next day. 162 C H R I S T O P H E R J O N H E U E R But let me emphasize “if we have to.” Unfortunately we had to—so what? If I could have made $8.50 an hour working as a telemarketer in college, don’t think some sort of working-class pride would have compelled me to be a dishwasher at $4.50 an hour instead. I would have taken the job that paid the most money. Unfortunately, the jobs that paid the most money involved talking on phones or talking with customers. Those were things Hearing America wasn’t (and still largely isn’t) built to allow me to do. Now spare me, please, of your whole “Quit feeling sorry for yourself” thing, especially if it rests upon a foundation of “You can do anything you put your mind to.” I have done everything I’ve ever put my mind to doing. Generally, anyway. I wanted to become an English professor, and I did. I wanted to be a writer, and I am one. It’s just that I got where I am today by working on jobs that were a bit more strenuous than telemarketing. Don’t think I didn’t resent that. Don’t think I wasn’t scared of running out of money. I was, all the time. I still am. But is my resentment and fear self-pity? You might be tempted to say, “It is if you let it stop you.” Well, maybe. But it certainly wasn’t self-pity that stopped me from becoming a telemarketer. ...