In the olden days, libraries were quiet places policed by tut tutting librarians with long-distance, laser stares. These days Gwen (who is researching images of disability in nineteenth century fiction) is able to create her own biblio-oasis merely by removing her hearing aids and descending to tranquil and solitary pools of silence. It’s a gift, one of few afforded to those with partial hearing.
A similarly gifted woman, Suzanne, sits nearby (researching the interface of technology and the partially hearing, and currently scouring disability studies journals for references). Time for a coffee. Suzanne engages her chunky NHS hearing aids and makes for the exit noticing, en route, the similar artefacts of hearing loss lying idle on Gwen’s table.
A kindred spirit, perhaps? Suzanne gently taps Gwen’s shoulder, points to her own ears and to Gwen’s idle machines. Then the international sign language for ‘fancy a drink?’
Seated behind their large cappuccinos, the topic of deafness is an obvious starter. Both are considered moderately to severely hearing impaired, (although neither embraces the term impaired, preferring the Disability Rights position that it is society that does the disabling and impairing).
Soon they reach a core issue as partially deaf people, where to fit in. The Deaf Community, they feel, with its various approaches to signing and medical intervention seems self-sufficient and highly articulate. On the other hand, the Hearing World, in which they are both, inevitably, semi-invested, expects good comprehension and response. Deafness, in particular, does not attract the general empathy which other disability paraphernalia – white sticks, wheelchairs, guide dogs and so on – may evoke (although not always). Partial hearing loss is too often mistaken for poor comprehension, an affront to the speaker, an amusing foible, a tiresome quirk, stupidity. It can be lonely.
The talk segues from the general to the particular:
“Have you ever been in a group where you don’t even know what the conversation topic is?” Suzanne asks, “And then someone asks what you think about it?”
Gwen certainly has, “Yes, and you have to apologise for being deaf, and people start rolling their eyes. Horrible.”
“And what you really want to say is ‘look, if you look me in the face and speak clearly, I have a much better chance of knowing what you’re talking about’. “
“Yeah, but you can’t, can you? It’s your job to save everyone’s embarrassment. You have to tidy yourself away. Living in the Hearing World has a cost and you have to pay.”
They roam freely through their experiences of death by a thousand pinpricks (battery failures, mishearing a key question in an interview, rude shop assistants, hearing aid whistles and so on). Then they touch on the benefits of controlling silence in a noisy world (peace, opting out of boredom).
“Hey it’s really great we met. I don’t often get to talk about being half deaf”
“ Half-deaf? Or half-hearing?” Gwen wonders.
“OK, half and half,” Suzanne concedes. “Better to travel in hope, I guess.”
