If you came here for politics, come back tomorrow. Today it’s personal.
In the before times, people who lacked the ability to vocalize were called dumb. The word was often accompanied by deaf, since people who were born deaf (or who have been deaf for a long time) often had trouble articulating because they had no verbal associations.
These days most people don’t associate the word dumb with being speechless. That usage fell out of favor decades ago, especially when much of society realized that people with hearing or vocalizing challenges could understand and communicate.
The words dumb (or mute) referring to humans with these characteristics are now considered impolite or offensive, except in circles where a lack of empathy is considered a badge of honor. (See: Rogan, Joe or Maher, Bill)
No thanks to cancer, I’ve spent most of the last decade sans vocal chords, but able to communicate in some fashion by way of a prosthetic insert.
On a good day I could make myself heard well enough to speak about alt-media to a room full of people at the San Diego Leadership Alliance. On a bad day what came out was garbled enough for a young counter person at the Wise Ox butcher shop to mock me as I tried to order a half pound of bacon.
A couple of years ago the prosthetic stopped working. An exam revealed the cancer had returned. While they got the cancer in round one of that surgery; putting everything back together hasn’t been quite so successful, in four tries, even for some of the world class surgeons at UCSD.
Try number five will happen next week May 12; the bar has been lowered for now. If I come out of the hospital after ten days or so and the chronic pain is gone, AND I can go back to eating ‘people food’ instead of pea-protein based formula through a feeding tube, I’ll be happy. I’ll settle for sharing coffee with a friend.
Suffice it to say, I’m coming to grips with the reality that my speaking days are over.
The last words I uttered were in the fall of 2020. I’ve learned to communicate with those in my immediate circle with a combination of facial & hand gestures, and a dry erase board.
I’ve had to learn to live with the silence. My poor brain wants me to say so many things but can’t do so in a practical matter. The whole masking thing with COVID cuts down on the amount of expressions that might help me communicate. And the occasional encounters with people who expect a verbal response can be awkward and embarrassing.
(What’s the matter? You too good to say good morning back to me?)
Then here are the people who realize I can’t speak and assume that I can’t hear or am mentally challenged. The little sign I carry in my back pocket letting people know I can’t vocalize also includes the lines “hearing okay” and “yelling not necessary.”
***
A few decades back I managed a restaurant on Capitol Hill. We had a great happy hour trade, in part because we could easily accommodate large parties, the music was good, and –maybe, just maybe– because we gave away pizza.
The closest college was Gallaudet University, the only higher education institution in which all programs and services are specifically designed to accommodate deaf and hard of hearing students.
Free pizza! What college student could pass that up? So we had bunches of people (they usually came in groups) communicating in ASL. What I couldn’t understand at the time was the perceived innate hostility toward the waitstaff; it was one thing if they were lousy tippers (‘cause they were college students) and another if they made the server miserable along the way.
Much of the staff had to be told to wait on them regardless, and I’m sure those orders just added fuel to the fire. We spent way too much time playing referee, and it seemed like nobody was satisfied with the result.
Now I know. The students weren’t mean on purpose; they were frustrated. My employees didn’t have time or the inclination to try and communicate at a pace that made them comfortable. It wasn’t that they couldn’t hear; it was that we weren’t listening.
These days, by the time I’ve conveyed a thought in public situations, the conversation has moved on. If it’s a serious matter, I have to knock on a table or wildly gesture or stomp my foot to communicate “Wait a minute! I have something to say.”
That’s exactly the behavior that used to rub our restaurant staff the wrong way.
***
There are upsides to this not speaking stuff, namely that I’ve become a much better listener and don’t get many opportunities to express thoughts that other people take offense to–you know, saying stupid stuff. And I’ll never have to deal with a telemarketer again.
Mechanical devices exist that produce a robot-like sound when held next to the neck. Unfortunately, I’m left with deformities from muscle flap surgery and lymphatic drainage issues that make an already poor sounding vocalization method even worse.
There are text to voice apps out there, and they work fine for telling Google to play Rhiannon Giddens or NPR Morning Edition. But I’ve discovered those apps are not useful in conversations involving more than one other person.
I’ll be 72 this year, and therefore qualify as “old.” I’m not immune to the "epidemic" of loneliness among the millions of older adults in the U.S. I have a wonderful home and an understanding family, but not being able to have a conversation sometimes really gets to me.
Researchers have associated loneliness – if not necessarily being alone – with cognitive decline. Having watched my father go through progressive stages of dementia, there’s not a day when I pause to wonder if I’m losing it.
I don’t think I am. Yet. But I am more motivated than ever to make sure my keyboard shares the insights I have to offer. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? And I’ll feel damned silly if I’ve frittered away my opportunities.
I have no “ask” here, other than readers take this post to heart and remember that being empathetic is a full time job.
Email me at: WritetoDougPorter@gmail.com