3 Lucky Fish

“Mama, me Deaf?” asked my littlest a few weeks ago.

“You are correct,” I answered. I answered her with smiling eyes, as I want her know that I think that her being Deaf is okay.  In the beginning, the burden of arriving in unexpected, unprepared for, un-welcomed “Holland” made everything I said and thought seemed grey, and I certainly didn’t think that my girls being Deaf was okay. I would have done anything to have changed that. Anything. But change that I couldn’t. Despite any efforts to teach them to speak, they’d always be deaf and most importantly to me, is that they know that they are loved and accepted irrespective of their communication mode/s or audiograms. There was one thing that I could change,however, and that was the way we saw “Holland”.

“And Tahlu? She also Deaf?” she continued to question. It was evident that she was trying to make sense of her reality.

“She’s Deaf too.” I smiled back. “She’s Deaf and clever, beautiful and special, just like you!”

The inquisitive face lit up with the affirmation as she nodded to herself, as if to say, “Yes, clever…beautiful, yes.”

“Dassie? Is she Deaf or hearing Mama?”

“She is Deaf. The same as you and Tahlita.” I replied.

Hadassah joined the conversation, “Is Dada hearing or Deaf?”

“What do you think?” I replied with a smile, realizing what a compliment to her dad’s efforts at signing, her question implied.

“Hearing!” Was her confident answer.

“And you, Mama, you’re Deaf or hearing?”

“I’m hearing too, my Little Duck” I answered using one of her gazillion little nick names.

Then with a face filled with compassion, she signed emotively, “Mama, you are hearing, I’m sorry!”

Trying very hard not to laugh, both at the sweet face that evidently thought that being Deaf wasn’t too bad a thing at all, and at how this little conversation had unfolded, I was interrupted by a final summary from the little one who had initially started trying to piece things together.

“You and Dada are hearing; Dassie, Tahlu and Me, Deaf?”

“That is right!” I answered enthusiastically.

The smallest member of the family replied with a satisfied nod, and as her cheeks wobbled, she signed, “I’m a lucky fish!”

“You sure are! Sometimes Mama wishes mama was Deaf too, because then we could sign fast to each other and Mama wouldn’t have to stop and think first. But God made us all different, so please be patient and help me sign. I’m hearing and can help you sometimes, and you are Deaf and you can help me sometimes, okay?”

Holland you crazy place! I kicked and screamed as I set foot on your land, but all the while the little people that I love most like it here. Oh yes, I’ve grown to like it here too, sometime I absolutely love it, and sometimes I wonder what Italy’s like. But they like it, and I want them to like it, I want them to know that I’m not dreaming all day of “Italy”, but rather enjoying exploring “Holland” with them too.

When I introduce myself at seminars, I almost want to prepare the audience with a, “Now before I tell you anything about me, I want you to control your foreheads – do NOT frown!” Because as soon as the words, “three Deaf daughters…” have left my lips, there is an inevitable and painfully predictable synchrony of groans and a sea of furrowed brows. Like a mass assumption that there is something broken, rather than simply, something being different.

I often go on to challenging the medical model of disability, and challenge even further than “differently abled.” On so many levels in several different ways, my girls are truly ENabled.  I showed them a little video clip on my cell phone recently from a friend who had taught her little boy to sign. He had sent the girls a signed message. They giggled and signed “cute” emphatically as they watched on, and as the video came to an end, one of my girls giggled about how sweet and cute this little munchkin was and very flippantly mentioned that my friend’s floor rug was the same as ours. Huh? I hadn’t noticed the rug, or anything else in the somewhat darker and insignificant background of the video. I replayed it and had to strain my eyes in concentration just to spot the mat. Sure enough, we have the same taste in carpets, and noticing this detail, was utterly effortless on her part.

There are many more ways that my girls are extraordinarily enabled, I will share some of these another time. These three pretty much blow me away daily. The point is they are different, they like being different and I want them to know that I celebrate them being different. They also know that I sometimes find this whole journey hard, but not because of their insufficiency, but rather mine. It’s not that they can’t hear or don’t speak intelligibly sometimes, but rather that I don’t sign fluently yet. We’re on this journey together, a journey of living, loving, persevering, hoping, teaching and just being who we were made to be.

They are not flawed, not broken and nothing less than extraordinary. May they know that, love that and truly believe that different is beautiful.

(reference made to the poem “Welcome to Holland” by Emily Perl Kingsley http://www.our-kids.org/archives/Holland.html)

Kintsukuroi

kintsukuroi[1]

This July marks two years of my journey of knowingly mothering Deaf children. I say ‘knowingly’, as all the frustration, unanswered questions and deep seated concerns associated with the many months before their identification, were all part of my journey too. I think as each year passes, I will stop and reflect; reflect on what is behind, take a few moments to be very present in the ‘now’ and muse over what this interesting path is hiding around its next corner.

What has the past allowed me to be mindful of in the ‘now’?

I am aware that the ‘little’ things are not little at all. No language, meant minimal bonding with my girls in spite of loving them beyond measure. We now are able to express our love for each other. I can remind them daily that they are precious, beautiful and loved, strong, smart and brave. Every now and then, one of them will look intensively into my eyes and tell me, “Mama, you’re precious.” My relationship with them matters, and had they been hearing, I may not have acknowledged it as a priceless treasure.

We are extraordinarily ordinary. Ironically, being comfortable with this makes us extraordinary. We live in a culture where anything less than perfect, just doesn’t cut it. We are so influenced by this, that exposing our brokenness, hurt, fears and the stuff that doesn’t work out as planned, leaves us feeling so vulnerable, that we’d rather risk normalizing the deep sense of isolation inside, than chance the sting of judgment and rejection. I’ve been broken, my everything seemed shattered, and it seemed like everyone was a spectator at my vulnerability. We now embrace that which is real, we stop and examine our feelings, and appreciate that some of the unpleasant ones are just as important as the more celebrated ones. We appreciate that people are hurting. The glossy airbrushed portrayal of ‘normal’ seems glamorous yet is intimidating. I’m so relieved that we no longer feel the need to live up to that, and in our freedom, able to engage with other people in their brokenness and pain. We are learning to keep things real, and learning that real can be quite perfect.

We are learning to listen. Here I’m referring to listening with our hearts and our eyes. One of the things that I admire most about my girls, is their ability to sense other people’s emotions and well-being.  They know that I am sad before I know that I am sad. They are attentive, and their example is helping me become a more attentive parent. Attentive to their needs, fears, frustrations, joys and dreams. Attentive to what they are truly communicating to me.

We are becoming resilient. We hope, we dream we try. We try harder and never give up. We know what disappointment tastes like, and have experienced the sweetest of hope. We expect people to say that we can’t…but we continue to believe that we can. We ‘can’t hear’, ‘can’t speak’ but we CAN communicate, we can learn we can be our best, and our best will be good enough.

We are becoming good at celebrating. We celebrated keeping the hearing aids in for a whole day, then our first signs, their first day at school, or first 4 word phrase … the first easy session in the sound booth. On this journey there are endless opportunities to celebrate.

We are learning to be humble. This journey is one of trial and error. What works today, may not work next year. What works for one may not be the right fit for the other. Admitting that I don’t have all the answers, is not easy; we want to know what lies around the corner. This journey will see countless decisions, some harder than others, but my hope is in knowing that all will work together for our good. The unknown need not be scary, but rather can be exciting.  Learning to say sorry to my girls has been a frequent lesson in humility. There is no two ways about it, parenting kids without language is tough, when they get language it is much easier, but still often hard. I’ve snapped and shouted and misunderstood, and have had to say sorry, many times.

We are learning to be brave. Making choices that may not be popular is not easy, setting my focus on my children and not the hundreds of other voices out there, has been uncomfortable. This has helped me make changes in other areas; address injustices and challenge the ‘norm’. In this process, I am being strengthened to be brave for others too.

There are so many facets to this journey that we are discovering; gifts so precious, lessons so valuable. This is not a reflection of what I’ve learned, but rather what I am in the midst of learning.  Trials develop character and character, HOPE.

Kintsukuroi. A Japanese art form that I learned about recently. I see this as a metaphor for my journey. A journey from being broken, and having Love pick up the pieces. A journey of being confused and feeling alone, and have Hope whisper that it’s all going to be okay. A journey that we continue, one day at a time, embracing the hills and the valleys. Kintsukuroi means “to repair with gold”, and is described as, “The art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer.” The process takes time and precision. The process embraces that which is unpredictable – broken pieces are different in size and shape, you work with what you have; some vessels may have just a small chip and others may be completely shattered. This art form requires patience, and at times, may even burn fingers. The most significant aspect of all, as so simply explained, is the “understanding that the pottery piece is more beautiful and valuable for having been broken.”

https://www.google.co.za/search?q=kintsukuroi+images&biw=1011&bih=506&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0CCkQsARqFQoTCKmc8qKG8cYCFecX2wod8acFkw#imgrc=3ydz_JyoqK-Z3M%3A (this is the online reference for the photograph as used for this blog).

Cold Risotto

Baklava, Moussaka, olives and gladiator sandals…just some of the wonderful things that I experienced during my recent visit to Greece. Two weeks ago, I was privileged to attend the International Congress on the Education of the Deaf (ICED) in Athens. It was a busy week, full days of lectures and seminars which ranged from topics that I had already thought through to interesting new concepts, some talks that were heavily biased in one way or another, as well as some that were simply way above my understanding.

The actual conference itself, wasn’t the only reason for my excited anticipation during the preceding weeks whilst organizing my visa requirements. I was almost more excited about the people that I would meet, the conversations that I would have and the unlocking of yet another facet of the Deaf world, whilst re connecting with some of the friends that I had made at the FCEI in Austria last year. I won’t pretend that I didn’t look forward to sometime of exploring and shopping! Indeed, that had been budgeted for, and my girls had given me long lists of presents that they were expecting.  The long summer days, made late night shopping and midnight dinners doable in spite of the busy conference schedule.

I hadn’t anticipated that my fourth night in Athens would be my highlight of the conference week. I accompanied my friend to a special dinner hosted at the New Acropolis Museum. If you ever travel to Athens, this is a MUST do experience. History and culture are preserved through original sculptures and artifacts from the legendary Acropolis. An intriguing tour by two Greek archeologists (one in English, the other by a Deaf archeologist in Sign Language), was concluded by the invitation to dine in the museum’s restaurant. The illuminated masterpiece, the Acropolis itself against the sapphire sky, was our back drop.

People were finding their friends, and then choosing a table. As someone who prefers the familiar and struggles with “small talk”, I understood why this was the case. Feeling ever so slightly lonely, we found a table that was empty and chatted about the artifacts that we had just seen. A few minutes later we were joined by six other people. Without hesitation at being seated next to a stranger, they took their places at our table. At this point, my friend whispered over… “These are six of THE world’s most influential Deaf leaders.” She went on to explain that one was the President of the Gallaudet University, and another was the Chairman of the World Federation of the Deaf. My mind was consumed by the juxtaposed emotions of feeling completely honoured and excited to be spending the evening with these people, whilst terrified to communicate in Sign Language and nervous for them to discover that I was no one special in the Deaf World; mothering a bunch of Deaf kids being my only qualification.

My reasons for being intimidated by the Sign Language were multiple. Firstly, I have only been learning it for 20 months. Secondly, I was concerned about the expectations of people; might they think, “How could she possible be mothering her kids effectively when she is not a fluent signer?” Then throw the fact that they were not using SASL but rather mostly American Sign Language, in the mix, and gosh, that made for a stomach full of butterflies! Like losing my breath to the fright of icy sea water on sunburnt skin, I plunged in and introduced myself. Warm smiles and welcoming looks of intrigue slowly eased my tension. I told them where I was from and took great delight in discussing my 3 precious girls. I do however, struggle receptively with fingerspelling. The one thing that unites our languages, but man, as soon as someone starts fingerspelling – it’s as if I get a mental freeze. I can’t remember what the first few letters were, then pick up half way whilst still trying to remember what the letter before was, not knowing whether to spell it out loud or sound it out instead. Simple words end up becoming a finger spelling conundrum.

I admitted my inexperience and embarrassment and was embraced even more, and then for a few minutes I sat back, whilst bowls of steaming risotto were set before us, and observed.  The amazing thing about a visual conversation, is that you can tune into them from across a table without straining to hear. On the flip side, private comments to your neighbor, don’t exist. Everything you say is public, like it or not.

Zoning out to reflect on my own thoughts and feelings, and totally at a loss with most of the conversation at the table, I became very aware that this experience reflected that of a Deaf person at a table of exclusively spoken conversation. Even a Deaf person with access to sound through amplification, would struggle at a table with several conversations occurring simultaneously, whilst the din of background noise competes for the clarity of directed words. Limited access, limited participation, a potentially isolating experience. I enjoyed considering this for a few minutes as I was grateful for the opportunity to step into my girls’ shoes. I did not feel isolated though, as the atmosphere was inclusive. I was tapped on the arm and questioned about how much I was following. I admitted that I wasn’t getting much, but it didn’t matter. This engaging man, invited me to ask him at any point to explain anything that I was missing. I was stunned by the humility and kindness of this world leader. These people did not see me as an outsider, in spite of my difficulties with communication and short history with the Deaf World. My three girls meant that I belonged. As I relaxed, I was able to converse more, whilst having my hands preoccupied in conversation meant that, by the time it came to having a mouthful, my risotto was cold. I’d trade warm food any day for another experience like that.

A marble lane led us back to our hotel shuttle. The air was warm and fragrant. My heart felt full of appreciation. Appreciation for Deaf culture and for experiencing something new. An appreciation for my girls, and the gift that they have given me. The gift of belonging to a brand new world.

Language

Language.

Think about that word. What are other thoughts that automatically pin themselves to this collection of letters that give it any meaning to you? As you ponder for a few minutes…that mind map of little clouds and arrows grows and expands – what fills those little thought clouds? “Words”, “English”, “Speech”? How about “A system of communication”, “Cognition”, “Expression”? It is natural to default to that which is most familiar to our worlds. Three years ago, the thought map labeled “Language” in my mind, would have probably been rather bare, with “English” and “Speech” as key pins.

I was standing in the queue at a party shop recently with my 3 in tow, as the twins “Under the Sea” party was soon to be celebrated. The lady at the checkout had notice us. Who doesn’t? Our family is hard to miss, we’re louder than usual, and our speech isn’t perfect, whilst we use our hands to communicate. We are different, so we stand out. People are curious, and frequently ask some rather interesting questions and say things, exposing their worldviews without realizing what they are actually saying, and I like to believe, intending no real harm at all.

“Are all three of your children uhm,….err….aaah…hard of hearing?” She questioned.

“They are all Deaf.” I replied with a smile, hoping to fill in her awkward search for the right word to use, with a confident, unashamed, sharp “Deaf”. I was also rather surprised at her use of “hard of hearing” as opposed to other options like “dumb” or “disabled” that I had heard before.

“Wow, all three?” She replied leaning over to get a closer look at the twins who were standing just below the counter’s height.

Eden, sitting in the trolley, pointed to the sweet stand on the checkout counter (do they place sweet stands at these points as the final character test for both moms and kids?) and said in her husky voice, “I want red sweetie, Mama!” whilst her sisters, furiously signed a conversation of whether they should have the lighter or darker green edible glitter for their cake and what would happen if they dropped the delicate vial of sparkles that they were carefully clutching.” Two conversations simultaneously; one very simple, the other including some more abstract content; one spoken, the other silent.

Almost relieved to hear Eden’s voice, the lady at the checkout, after glancing over to the signed conversation, looked at Eden and exclaimed, “You can speak! You are such a clever girl to be able to speak.”

Mmm… her words created a chain reaction of interlinked thoughts in my mind, “She was affirming Eden’s desire to communicate, and surely that can’t be bad?” “It’s understandable for people to assume that wishing my kids the ability to speak, wishes me well” “Being able to speak is an added advantage, isn’t it?” “Why do I suddenly feel guilty for thinking that last thought?” Trying to harness my cognitive chaos, my mouth uttered what my loudest thought was shouting.

“Being able to speak doesn’t make her clever.”

Gulp, yes, that was audible. The lady looked at me surprised. “What’s going on in her head, makes her bright,” I continued, “the way she chooses to, or is able to express that, is totally unrelated.” I glanced over the twins who were totally engaged in conversation and being particularly expressive. They had already glanced over to the variety of animated cake tins hanging on the wall that were for hire, and debating which cake they wanted for their next birthday. “Hey, your next birthday is a year away,” I signed to them, “by that time, you’ll want something else.” Glancing back at the slightly red- faced cashier, I gestured in the twins direction, “That conversation right there…that was far more detailed that this little munchkin’s request for that sweetie.”

Language. The online dictionary defines this as, “Any set or system of such symbols as used in a more or less uniform fashion by a number of people, who are thus enabled to communicate intelligibly with one another.”

Without language, we can’t think, and without being able to think and reason, we can’t unlock our true potential. Whether the “system” that we use takes the form of English, or Zulu, or Afrikaans, having a system in place, is the key. Sign language is just another system. A silent system, yes, but one that in my experience, has unlocked the ability for my girls to think, reason and express themselves. It is interesting that in having this as a scaffold to pin new concepts and vocabulary to, a tool to grow and embellish their brains’ language centers, their speech has started developing. I guess, without vocab to start off with, how do we processes our thoughts to have any vocab to express with in the form of speech?

What I’m continuously confused by, is the contradictory advise that we as parents are told. “If you sign to your kids, they won’t learn to speak.” This is an international voice that causes such distress and confusion for parents. Seriously? Have you read all the evidence that says the exact opposite? My kids are examples of this evidence. So instead, in fear of making a bad decision, deaf kids who can’t access all sounds for whatever reason, are being deprived of language in a form that they can access. No language = no thoughts or building blocks = no “words” to ever hope to speak. The scary thing is, that the brain isn’t able to learn the foundational components of language forever. It’s the first early years that are critical.

When parents hear this, panic sets in. That feeling of racing against time to give your child any hope of having a brain developed enough to reach its full potential, sent fear rushing through my blood at every consideration. One sore ear, meaning no hearing aid for a day or two, and I was wasting a day of precious time. One crackling hearing aid needing repairs, and the stress of losing more time nearly drove me batty. Let’s not mention the first few weeks after receiving the aids. Finally your child has been fitted and intervention can start…the time bomb is ticking though, so you’d better ensure that those aids are in 24/7, but your kid won’t have them in for more than 30 seconds! Your flustered efforts to not waste a single opportunity of language development time (the stress factor even more intense if your child was identified late) just result in tears for both mom and child. This pressure, this extreme stress, is not entirely unnecessary, but is primarily hinged upon a presumption that language is a system of audible words, words that are spoken and consequently dependent on access to sound.

Does intervention only have to start once amplification of whatever kind is in place? Nope is the simple, truthful answer, so why are families being referred for intervention so late? Is it bad to want your child to speak, or not be too fussed if they don’t, for that matter? Not at all. Our desired outcomes are different, our kids are different. Heck, my three have the same exposure to language in two forms, two of them have pretty much an identical genetic makeup, and they have very similar aided audiograms, but they are each responding differently in terms of communication choice and intelligible speech. We consequently continue our bilingual approach and let them figure what works best for them. This is the path we have opted for, different strokes may work for different folks.

Two weeks ago, one of the twins stomped into our room early one morning, we could sense her excitement as she bounced across the wooden floor. She had experienced a wonderful dream and wanted to tell me about it. They had never discussed their dreams before so I was enthralled with this milestone. In exclusive sign language, and a little face aglow as she recalled the details, she explained that she had dreamed that she was riding a lion. A big strong lion. He was a kind lion that touched her face gently as he smiled at her. Oh, and he had big pink polka dots all over his fur. There were no language limitations to her describing this extraordinary experience. I don’t think that her dream was an abstract fantasy.  It reminded me of a scene from my favourite film, “The Chronicles of Narnia; the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.” A film that she has never seen. I can imagine that Lion humbling himself with pink polka dots to be more relatable to a very girly little girl.

Language. A system allowing for intelligible communication.

http://uk.mobile.reuters.com/article/idUKKBN0OV2LD20150616?irpc=932

Behaviour Modification with Children who are Deaf or Hard-Of-Hearing ~Bianca Birdsey

THRIVE Parent Support Group has become my daily passion after mothering my precious three. Recently we tackled the subject of “behaviour modification,” and what it means for deaf kiddies…

THRIVE Parent Support and Advocacy Group

“Parenting is not for Sissies,” was a t-shirt caption that I once saw, and I had no idea, that with time, I’d appreciate this statement to be one of life’s simple truths. Whatever your child’s personality, abilities and challenges, sometimes frankly, parenting is really hard work! Learning that there are boundaries that need respecting, certain behaviors that just aren’t okay and that other people in this world matter and need to be respected, are some of the hardest teaching tasks for any parent. We all have ideals of how we desire to parent our children, some of us desire an open nurturing environment where the child largely leads in various areas, whilst some of us prefer to adopt a firmer parenting style. Like all things, there is a spectrum, and like all things, we will need to discover what parenting approach fits best with our individual children and family units…

View original post 7,048 more words

Banana Magic and Balloons

Clinging onto a large bunch of helium balloons, I waited in the school office for assembly to start.  Passing staff and children would have been forgiven for assuming that I was a hired clown for some kind of entertainment. Innately, I’m not a lover of attention. This journey has seen me having to get over myself in that regard….and the 9 brightly coloured swellings seemingly suspended in midair, certainly shone the spotlight. I had been invited to speak about deafness and sign language at a local school for a national sign language awareness day. It’s funny how life works….3 years ago, I hadn’t given this creative form of expression a second thought, 2 years ago, it’s unfamiliarity terrified me, and on this day…I felt like a proud ambassador – excited to share a little of what I’ve learned over the past 2 years with a whole primary school of intrigued children.

I would be addressing two different assemblies…the first all the littlies, and the second, the bigger kids. Their teachers would be there too of course. Thanks to previous advice from a deaf friend in America, I had a few ideas up my sleeve….

I decided to keep the message fun and simple for the first group. I started with asking for examples of different languages. The kids were enthusiastic, “French, English, Afrikaans, Zulu ,Chinese (I just nodded at this one)” were all volunteered from various directions. Great, the scene had been set to acknowledge sign language as not just a fun visual tool, but a complete language of its own, just like any other. We moved onto discussing “feelings” that deaf people may experience in a world where no one tries to communicate with them, a silent world that generally does not embrace people who are different from what is known to be comfortable.

“Lonely”, “shy”, “sad” and even “deaf” were some of the suggestions. Again, I just smiled and nodded at the last one, wanting all these bright faces to know that their input was greatly appreciated.  After calling on 9 volunteers, an enthusiastic army of juniors, marched onto the stage, excited to participate. This was where the helium balloons came in. Silently praying that not one would escape to the lofty ceiling of the school hall, I started to teach them the various colours, with little reminders that I used when first learning them that helped me remember. The children enjoyed that and we had no balloon casualties. This session was concluded with learning the basic greetings and courtesies in sign language, such as “Thank you” and “Hello, how are you?” and the children were left with a charge to embrace those different to themselves.

It was during the second session that I felt a little magic happen. Instead of helium balloons, I had taken 5 different fruit. The children had been shown the fruit so that they knew what to expect, and invited to help me with an experiment. Enthusiastically they agreed. I explained that I was going to switch off my voice (which would be the same as them switching off their ears) and silently say “I want a…..peach,” for example and then they would have to guess which fruit I was referring to. There were only 5 different pieces, of which they could see sitting next to me on the stage…visual reminders of what their options were… should be easy? We identified that it would be easier for the children sitting nearer the front, as they would have a clearer view of my lips.

“Right, are you all ready to switch off those ears and help me with our experiment?” I asked. Eagerly they nodded.

I then silently mouthed, “I want a banana.”

A hand from the gallery at the back shot up, “Banana!” he shouted.

“Wow, you are Superman!” I replied…. “Did everyone else get that?” A sea of blank stares gazed at this little boy in amazement. “Apart from Super Eyes at the back there, the rest of you would agree that it was hard to see what I was asking for?” They all agreed.

“Okay, 4 left….let’s try a few others.” I then slowly went through the remaining fruit, asking for each silently, without an interruption. There was the odd guess, but not one child could accurately identify which fruit I was mentioning. Not one. “Well, it’s hard to see words being spoken, isn’t it?” They all, a little despondent after continuous failure, agreed. “So, let’s continue with our experiment then. I’m now going to teach you the signs for these same fruit, and then we will all try again.”

It took about one minute to teach the signs for banana, apple, orange, pineapple and peach. “Okay are you ready to switch off those ears again?” I then began to sign, “I want an apple.” Hands started flying up from all over the hall.

“Apple!”

“Apple!”

“Apple!”

After an enthusiastic thumbs up, I continued, signing one fruit at a time. Every single child, without exception, understood which fruit was being asked for each time. The experiment was, unsurprisingly, a success. If you cannot hear, visual support certainly makes a difference! And these 200 little participants, suggested a rather phenomenal difference,indeed.

The energy in the hall was tangible, as the children (and hopefully staff too) had been part of something that they had previously hugely underestimated. I brought back some calm with a closing question and urged for honest responses.

“So, who of you think that it is bad to be deaf?” some hesitant hands crawled up sheepishly. I thanked them for their honesty, and interjected with an honest admission from my side.

“My 3 little girls are all deaf, and when I first found that out, I did think that it was a very bad thing to be deaf, so it’s okay to be honest with me, I understand.” Arms started sneaking up for me to see from all over the room, in acknowledgement that deafness, to them, seemed a negative thing indeed.

“Well, what if I were to tell you that deaf people…deaf children even…have special powers!?” Wanting to expose these kids to the one thing that has shifted my way of thinking – the concept of deaf gain, I explored a few examples of benefits of being deaf from having sharp eyes, a sharp sense of smell, being able to sleep through horrible noises and a few other simple ideas that I knew they would understand, using stories from my own girls to reinforce the example. I could feel my face glowing as I spoke about my girls. What a delight they are! Not only have they changed my world upside down and inside out for the better, but they are indirectly teaching large groups of hearing children about the deaf world. Intrigued children today…leaders that can change the future for children like mine, tomorrow.  We ended off with a reminder that things that we are not familiar with, aren’t necessarily bad, but sometimes, just, different –  and that’s quite okay.

The morning’s session ended perfectly. Mr Super Eyes from the gallery, who had been the only child to successfully lip read me, volunteered an explanation. He explained that he had been born with a hearing loss, so had developed the special power of being able to lip read. That was a moment of pure magic!