She had no choice but to take me to the audiologist, since the school required it. A big man in a white coat gave me another test. "Just keep her away from loud noises and keep her ears clean," he said before talking to my mother alone.
Our chores were assigned daily and, on some days, Mother would tell us to take out the trash or clean the bathroom. Sometimes, I did not hear her correctly, and she proceeded to scream in my ears, "Now, do you hear that?"
Other times, I would have to stand in the corner until I "remembered" what I was told to do. I would stand from morning to late night on some occasions. One time my mother had to get up in the middle of the night to tell me to go to bed. She had forgotten that I was still standing in the corner.
The next year, I failed another annual hearing exam. When the report came home from school, I got a whipping. I made sure to never fail another test again, even if it meant I had to cheat -- and so I did.
In the seventh grade, our hearing and sight evaluations were underway, and it appeared that I was in luck. The evaluation team was understaffed. An older lady had to conduct the examinations alone. An obnoxious classmate was making noises and laughing so other students could fail the exam. The boy thought this was funny, and the lady who administered the hearing tests could not seem to control him. I found this was the opportunity of a short lifetime.
It was a sunny day, and I sat down and noticed the reflection of the evaluator in the window. Every time she pushed a button, she looked over at me to see if I had a reaction. I could not hear virtually all of the tones that blared at me, but I raised my hand every time she pushed a button to indicate that I could nevertheless.
I could pass my hearing test and not get punished.
Since my parents were divorced, I was able to ask my father if I could come live with him when I was twelve. I was so glad I didn't have to go into the eighth grade living with Mom, as I didn't know if there would be another opportunity to cheat on a hearing test again.
The time came for the eighth grade evaluations, and I failed again. Dad took me to a brand name retailer for a hearing aid, rather than an audiologist who could recommend the best model available for my needs. At least he tried.
By the time I entered high school, the guidance counselor asked for more support from my parents. She suggested special education for a disabled child, and regular meetings at the school so my parents could learn new ways to help me succeed. Both of my parents refused, insisting that the work and other costs associated with this would get not be feasible. My father said, "I bought her a hearing aid, what more do you want?"
Unfortunately, I embarrassingly lost my hearing aid one night. My father had it insured, but he made me pay for gas to go and get another one. My allowance at the time was $1.10 a week. It took five weeks to earn enough money to pay for the gas to get there. When the new hearing aid came in, I told my father it was not working like the other one, even though the previous one was only a small help. "I can't do anything else," he said.
It wasn't long before social services had to intervene. A judge determined that both my parents' homes were not suitable for me. He sentenced my mother and father to make weekly deposits into a fund for me while I began a long voyage into the foster care system.
Foster parents could only do so much. Everyone seemed helpful in making me understand what I could not hear, and they were patient about it too.
I was finally placed in a foster home where the foster parents had a deaf child who boarded at a deaf school during the week and came home on the weekends. Social services thought that this was a perfect match for me. However, it was not. I didn't know sign language, and the foster mother didn't take much interest in teaching me. No one in my family wanted to learn it or use it. I felt ashamed to inquire too much about it. She introduced me to closed caption television, and I found out what I had been missing all along.
When I was 18, I participated in a program for young adults aged 18 to 21. A woman from social services who was involved with the group was the first person to help me achieve success and grow my ambition. She was eager to learn about the hearing impaired and treat clients with my condition the best way possible.
She was able to get me into a vocational rehabilitation program, allowing me to learn about my disability and get support. I also had regular meetings with her where we both learned to use the teletypewriter (TTY) together. She taught me to socialize with hearing people by letting them know up front that I am hearing impaired and that I need them to look at me when they speak. I was surprised at how easy this was and how much cooperation I was getting from others.
It was a learning process for her as well as it was for me. We would laugh, and sometimes it seemed we were in competition to learn to use the resources first. She insisted on using the TTY first, with no help from me or anyone else, as if she were a staking claim on her new toy. I'd go home and laugh so hard. She seemed so eager to make things right, as if she were trying to undo the damage or neglect that was already cast upon me. I saw, through her, how a disabled child could deeply bond with a caring parent. It is a warm fuzzy feeling.
Neglect can worsen social, academic, vocational, and personal development. The laws and social services were by my side, but it took a smart judge and a nurturing social worker to introduce me to resourceful world.
