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Friends.
My best friend is hard of hearing. She became hard of hearing in her early twenties. When she got her first hearing aid, we cheered. She has only one…I'm already thinking about the day she might get a second, for her other ear.

Family.
I had a grandmother who was hard of hearing and only tried hearing aids a year before she died. This is the same grandmother to whom my parents were afraid to reveal my hearing loss, because they knew she’d cry and treat me like a poor little thing. I think my parents thought she would blame them. However, my mom just got a hearing aid and it was nice to be the expert, for once, even though she misses the way she used to hear and thinks her aid is uncomfortable.

Family, of a different kind.
I came into deaf awareness late. You find out when you find out, but sometimes people don’t see it that way. It's hard for me to trust hearing culture and deaf people because often, I have been welcomed as a person who seems similar and then turned back. I might call a plague on both your houses, if I could only find my own.

Deaf or hard of hearing?
Inside, I never think about which label I have. I would be more comfortable if I knew, but I’m neither culturally deaf or hard-core hard of hearing, in the sense I want to be a hearing person. I’d like the label “Visual Superstar,” or “Eyes on a Skateboard,” maybe.

Respect.
You may be given respect based only on the way you speak or sign. A lot of people feel uncomfortable with a person who does both. I used to be this way, before I started learning sign language. When I was a lot younger, I used to think deaf people were stupid. I didn’t understand that I was not alone.

What happened.
Everybody asks this. I don’t care if you’re a doctor or a new acquaintance, it gets old; but then I know I will always have to tell. I don't know when I lost my hearing. I don't know how. I don't know if I've ever heard perfectly. I got hearing aids when I was four and when I was eleven I opted out of speech therapy. It wasn't cool and they ran out of exercises anyway.

Assembly.
Hearing aids make you different, but it’s hard for me to remember that they are in my ears unless someone is staring at the side of my head. When I assemble myself in the morning, or in other words put my hearing aids on, I am basically turning over the engine of compensation. For me, the most obvious part of my disability is that I behave like a compensator…I have to make up for whatever I am missing.

Buying what you need.
Aids make me hear, make me normal, make me a lot like you, only I’m oblivious to high pitched tones and soft sounds. Aids aren't insured, so I have to spend time being pissed at the insurance company. I have to empty my own pockets so I can function in a world with more choices. I test for them, buy them, and have them adjusted, and then I wear them. And then what?

Beige.
Not to mention, aids are always beige or dark brown. You like my hearing aids? They’re so…BEIGE.

Listening.
This is for hearing and deaf people both. I hear a little of what you say. I understand a fair part of what you sign. I watch everything your face tells me. I try to understand not only your words but you. I look for whether you're happy or sad or angry, for whether you think I will understand, for whether you think what you are saying is important.

Lying.
It's impossible for me to lie, and very simple to lie to me. I forget that faces are only faces and minds can be dishonest.

Fighting.
Sometimes I feel hurt by the failure of other people to understand my need for information. Much as I shouldn't, I let them hurt me. Other people think I'm always fighting some kind of battle. They think I'm a hero. They don't understand that I'm really battling against them.

Denial.
If I can't get information, if you won't tell me what's going on, if you don't understand that your voice is way too high or low, I get needy, and you don't have time for that. I starve and you jail me for it.

Discomfort.
After I finish reading this, people won't know how to talk to me. Should I speak or sign? Will she correct me? How loud should I talk? Get over it. Let me correct you and then we'll talk.

Bluntness.
I can be blunt, and Deaf people tell me that’s a Deaf thing. That’s nice, but they still don’t think I’m culturally Deaf. People have a choice of ways in which to accept you.

Memory. I don't remember conversations with my ears. I remember how people looked when they were telling me something.

Voices.
When I wake up in the morning and look out the window, before I put my hearing aids on, I can see trees blowing in the wind, and though I can't hear the sound, my mind automatically supplies a memory of the sound of blowing leaves. The same thing happens when I see someone talking--- my mind supplies a voice. And strangest of all is that when I am with a signing deaf person, my mind automatically supplies a voice to match the way their mouths move. It doesn't matter if the person has ever made a single noise.

Music.
I don't really listen to it. The words of most songs are lost behind the music, and I think, if I can't understand the words, how can I understand why they're sung with that music? So I don't really listen. Road trips have never been about the radio for me; they've always been very long visual meditations.

Dancing.
Now, dancing I get. I can see that you’re listening to the music. You are the music. See? It’s possible to be impossible, it’s possible to be a house, to be a lake, to be an accident. People should be accidents, not blueprints.

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Amber Smock designed the logos for the 2005 Disability Pride Parade and the Disability Pride Parade Planning Committee. Amber is the Youth Leadership Coordinator at Access Living. See some of her past artistic work here.