Day by Day: The Chronicles of a Hard of Hearing Reporter

Acknowledging Differences

1  Acknowledging Differences As I walked up the steep front steps and opened the massive doors, a familiar aroma filled my senses. The fragrance was a mixture of paste, crayons, ink from mimeographed work papers, wood desks, apples, peanut butter, and the lilacs and daffodils on teachers’ desks. Even today if I get a whiff of this concoction, I am transported to my school days. Voices echo through hallways of tall ceilings and wood floors. I can still hear the sound of my saddle shoes on the stairs as I ran to my fourth-grade classroom to find my smiling , kind, and beautiful teacher Mrs. McGlish. Flowers inevitably graced her desk as the immense windows let sunlight flood our room. Emerson Elementary School was only one block from my house, so I could quickly run home for lunch. Some days, I toted a metal lunch box and for a nickel would buy milk in a glass jar with a white, cardboard top. I loved this building—well, I loved school and learning , especially reading. In my memory there is something magical about this place with its vast size, wide stairs, and cloakrooms where we stashed our coats, boots, and lunch boxes. Our desks were our private place where no one, save our teachers, was allowed. We had to keep them neat, and at the teacher’s will, she would raise the wood lids and inspect them. Third grade was one of my most miserable years in school. Mrs. Freeman, my teacher, at Whittier Elementary put me in the corner the first day of school for talking to my friend Dee. She yelled all the more when I tried to explain I was telling Dee we weren’t supposed to talk. Unfortunately, my voice carried like a fog horn, so I could never get away with talking in class. This same teacher also criticized me, as we were learning cursive, “Elizabeth, you will never learn to write.” I felt so small. That is also the first year I remember telling a bald-faced lie. Mrs. Freeman asked each of us to share the plans we had for the upcoming spring break. My answer truthfully should have been, “Nothing really, just playing.” I’ll never know what possessed me to say, “Our family is going to New York.” As the words slid out of my mouth, my face must have turned bright red. She knew I was lying; I’m still a lousy liar. In contrast, fourth grade remains one of my favorite school years, albeit one that holds a vague mystery in my mind. My teacher, Mrs. McGlish, was sweet and good. I sat next to Donald, who had the largest box of Crayola crayons I had ever seen in my life. Silver, gold, and all sorts of reds. I knew it was going to be a good year. A Dark Room One school day when I was in fourth grade, Mrs. Agnes O’Keefe, the school nurse, took me to another classroom to have my hearing tested. All I remember is going into a dark room. As I sat in the makeshift testing room, I remember a stillness as the nurse placed the headset on my ears. She asked me to raise a hand when I heard a sound. I can still remember looking around the dark room to take it all in. I was chilled and wanted the cardigan sweater my grandmother had knitted 2 Day by Day for me. For what seemed like hours, I heard nothing. “When will she start?” I wondered; then, finally, I heard a beep, and I raised my hand. After this test, Mrs. O’Keefe said something about telling my teachers and parents that I had a big hearing loss. I kept waiting for something to happen after that hearing test. Time passed, but nothing drastically changed. I figured I had imagined it all. Somewhere deep inside, I knew I was on my own in dealing with my hearing loss. I became more visual in conversations and read lips and body language to know what was going on without even realizing I was using this as a coping strategy. At home, when banter flew around the room among my two older brothers and younger sister, I remember feeling lost and just smiling while picking up bits and pieces of their conversations. It became a part of my survival tactics. In elementary...