No Need for Walls
For my Adv Trial Ad class, we had to write a two page story on anything - real or fiction. Hours before the assignment was due, I sat down and after thinking up 10 different topics, I finally shared the story of Saturday night in philly. Given the reaction of several friends, I've decided it belongs in here. Please read if you have time. I understand if not. The length is two word doc pages.
No Need For Walls
The other day, a friend told me you never forget the teachable moments in your life because those moments usually come accompanied by some traumatic occasion. Through that moment, you learn a life-lesson, one you’ll take with you forever; those moments are how bad experiences make us better people. Perhaps you have been displaced by a house fire, lost someone close to you, or maybe you were laid off. When these shocking, or sometimes terrifying moments occur, you know it with all of your being. Perhaps your heart races, or you’ve lost your breath; and then with time, you get through it. But there’s another kind of teachable moment in life, especially if you listen closely. They are more subtle, more delicate; they lack giant neon signs that say “take this moment to challenge yourself! You will be changed!” These are moments that carry the promise of changing your life, but if you’re not listening closely you might miss them. Should you be paying attention, you might just learn another secret to life.
It was just a dinner party. My date invited me to a gathering of friends and family celebrating a wedding. I anticipated interesting conversation, after all, he was quite engaging himself; but that was about it. I’d end the night with polite statements of what a pleasure it had been to meet them all, and perhaps some day I’d see them again. Secretly, I would be relieved to go home, to stop lip-reading all these new faces, new accents; and to cease pretending to be engaged. Deafness is an invisible disability and one that can be difficult for others to accommodate if distracted by a cacophony of voices, of stories, and laughter. For those of us who don’t quite fit in, for those of us who can’t follow it all, but have mastered the art of making our disability “comfortable” for everyone else, a dinner party is a show - a chance to display that very talent. I am an expert at this. I know so by the number of times I’ve been told “but you do so well” when I mention how difficult an event might have been, or how tired I am at the end. Yes, I do so well, I do so well at making anyone comfortable with my difference.
And so, as I walked up the steps to an old Victorian home in the outskirts of Philadelphia, I prepared just as I might have back in my theater days; I felt pre-show jitters and prepared for a night of nodding and laughing at just the right moment based on cues from those around me. I would end the night as always, a kind smile, some nice memories, but unchanged.
After an hour of mingling, everyone abruptly gathered around in a circle in the living room, with a few lingering bodies hovering in the adjacent room watching through the entrance. I thought there was about to be a toast, but as I was about to find out the party wasn’t a celebration of a wedding that had already occurred, but it was actually the wedding itself. Despite feeling a bit exhilarated by the surprise, my body tensed up, and in hindsight it was in anticipation of the isolation I experience at most wedding ceremonies. Sitting in the audience removes us all from the bride and groom; and I am barely able to lip-read the vows being exchanged. There is a sort of disconnect present, as if we are watching the occasion through a window. The experience is not much different when the couple is Deaf - the guests still sit far behind the couple (and those of us who are deaf often compete with “Hearing” family members for good seats, and end up even further in the back.) Individuals may “copy-sign” repeating the vows to the audience, but for all of us, deaf, hearing, there is very little eye contact as we smile, laugh, and cry together. This is why I nearly always wish to fast-forward to the dancing, to when we all finally interact.
As a close friend of the bride and groom began the evening with some remarks, I sat in one of the chairs arranged in a circle and took in everything. When the couple moved to a stairway on the opposite side of the room to share their vows, outside of my line of sight, I considered staying still, hiding my difference; and consequently missing out. But because we were in an intimate setting and relatively free to move around (as a one year old baby demonstrated by jumping up and down on a chair every now and then), and because each of us in the room was absorbing each moment fully, I placed myself where I needed to be to lip-read, and to experience it just as fully. As the bride and groom faced the room full of their closest and dearest; they made eye contact with us in moments of laughter, and we could all see them as they exchanged their vows professing their love for each other. The intimacy of the setting tore down any walls strangers or even friends may have with one another. Our own respective walls are usually up to protect us from whatever we fear, most likely rejection. But that night, whatever our pre-existing walls, Ebo and Adelaide & their community of loved ones blew them away with open hearts. And so, I cried and laughed, with people I had never met before.
This openness, and the complete lack of pretense continued for the rest of the night, as I met more family members, and friends. There was no need to feign laughter, to nod at just the right moment, or mute my difference. Perhaps all of us at times put on a show for others to protect ourselves; my talent of making you comfortable has always been just as much avoiding rejection. But in this home full of sincere love, such hesitation and protection would have done far more to separate me than my deafness ever could. Here, we celebrated love and friendship; here we celebrated the beauty of Adelaide and Ebo; and as part of that, all who were in their lives.
I turned to my date, and looking him in the eyes, I said, “This is what I want from life.” I aspire to live a life where all who come into my circle, into my home, feel safe no matter where they came from; where all of our walls are blown away with open hearts. Traumatic moments in life may change us, teach us adversity, teach us what’s important in life; but so do these other moments - these far more subtle experiences that show us another secret to living. I may as well have won the lottery. It may seem like a simple story, a simple slice of my life, but these are the moments I cherish the most, these delicate and quiet moments which teach profound life lessons.
No Need For Walls
The other day, a friend told me you never forget the teachable moments in your life because those moments usually come accompanied by some traumatic occasion. Through that moment, you learn a life-lesson, one you’ll take with you forever; those moments are how bad experiences make us better people. Perhaps you have been displaced by a house fire, lost someone close to you, or maybe you were laid off. When these shocking, or sometimes terrifying moments occur, you know it with all of your being. Perhaps your heart races, or you’ve lost your breath; and then with time, you get through it. But there’s another kind of teachable moment in life, especially if you listen closely. They are more subtle, more delicate; they lack giant neon signs that say “take this moment to challenge yourself! You will be changed!” These are moments that carry the promise of changing your life, but if you’re not listening closely you might miss them. Should you be paying attention, you might just learn another secret to life.
It was just a dinner party. My date invited me to a gathering of friends and family celebrating a wedding. I anticipated interesting conversation, after all, he was quite engaging himself; but that was about it. I’d end the night with polite statements of what a pleasure it had been to meet them all, and perhaps some day I’d see them again. Secretly, I would be relieved to go home, to stop lip-reading all these new faces, new accents; and to cease pretending to be engaged. Deafness is an invisible disability and one that can be difficult for others to accommodate if distracted by a cacophony of voices, of stories, and laughter. For those of us who don’t quite fit in, for those of us who can’t follow it all, but have mastered the art of making our disability “comfortable” for everyone else, a dinner party is a show - a chance to display that very talent. I am an expert at this. I know so by the number of times I’ve been told “but you do so well” when I mention how difficult an event might have been, or how tired I am at the end. Yes, I do so well, I do so well at making anyone comfortable with my difference.
And so, as I walked up the steps to an old Victorian home in the outskirts of Philadelphia, I prepared just as I might have back in my theater days; I felt pre-show jitters and prepared for a night of nodding and laughing at just the right moment based on cues from those around me. I would end the night as always, a kind smile, some nice memories, but unchanged.
After an hour of mingling, everyone abruptly gathered around in a circle in the living room, with a few lingering bodies hovering in the adjacent room watching through the entrance. I thought there was about to be a toast, but as I was about to find out the party wasn’t a celebration of a wedding that had already occurred, but it was actually the wedding itself. Despite feeling a bit exhilarated by the surprise, my body tensed up, and in hindsight it was in anticipation of the isolation I experience at most wedding ceremonies. Sitting in the audience removes us all from the bride and groom; and I am barely able to lip-read the vows being exchanged. There is a sort of disconnect present, as if we are watching the occasion through a window. The experience is not much different when the couple is Deaf - the guests still sit far behind the couple (and those of us who are deaf often compete with “Hearing” family members for good seats, and end up even further in the back.) Individuals may “copy-sign” repeating the vows to the audience, but for all of us, deaf, hearing, there is very little eye contact as we smile, laugh, and cry together. This is why I nearly always wish to fast-forward to the dancing, to when we all finally interact.
As a close friend of the bride and groom began the evening with some remarks, I sat in one of the chairs arranged in a circle and took in everything. When the couple moved to a stairway on the opposite side of the room to share their vows, outside of my line of sight, I considered staying still, hiding my difference; and consequently missing out. But because we were in an intimate setting and relatively free to move around (as a one year old baby demonstrated by jumping up and down on a chair every now and then), and because each of us in the room was absorbing each moment fully, I placed myself where I needed to be to lip-read, and to experience it just as fully. As the bride and groom faced the room full of their closest and dearest; they made eye contact with us in moments of laughter, and we could all see them as they exchanged their vows professing their love for each other. The intimacy of the setting tore down any walls strangers or even friends may have with one another. Our own respective walls are usually up to protect us from whatever we fear, most likely rejection. But that night, whatever our pre-existing walls, Ebo and Adelaide & their community of loved ones blew them away with open hearts. And so, I cried and laughed, with people I had never met before.
This openness, and the complete lack of pretense continued for the rest of the night, as I met more family members, and friends. There was no need to feign laughter, to nod at just the right moment, or mute my difference. Perhaps all of us at times put on a show for others to protect ourselves; my talent of making you comfortable has always been just as much avoiding rejection. But in this home full of sincere love, such hesitation and protection would have done far more to separate me than my deafness ever could. Here, we celebrated love and friendship; here we celebrated the beauty of Adelaide and Ebo; and as part of that, all who were in their lives.
I turned to my date, and looking him in the eyes, I said, “This is what I want from life.” I aspire to live a life where all who come into my circle, into my home, feel safe no matter where they came from; where all of our walls are blown away with open hearts. Traumatic moments in life may change us, teach us adversity, teach us what’s important in life; but so do these other moments - these far more subtle experiences that show us another secret to living. I may as well have won the lottery. It may seem like a simple story, a simple slice of my life, but these are the moments I cherish the most, these delicate and quiet moments which teach profound life lessons.