Personal Narrative : Personal Essay

“Huh?” “What?” “Can you repeat that please?” These are all sayings that people in my life have heard me say repeatedly. I had hearing loss that I was born with but didn’t really know about till I started school. At age 6, I took an eye and hearing exam at the school I attended, and they told my parents that they should take me to an audiologist because something was wrong with my hearing. Upon visiting the audiologist, we learned that I have a unilateral hearing loss, which meant that my right ear was nearly perfect, but my left ear had around 50 percent hearing loss. After knowing this information, my parents asked what any good parents would ask; “So what do we do to help her?” The doctor told us since it hadn’t affected my grades and I was able to adjust to the hearing that I had, he wouldn’t suggest getting a hearing aid, but to tell teachers to keep me close to the front and to the side where my stronger ear was to the middle. My parents sought for extra help with my speech and language, but the school didn’t allow it because of how well I was doing in class. So I lived life as normal as could be.

I had always assumed that my legs were strong and that I had decent muscle control, however, this thought was proven wrong at the beginning of my junior year in high school due to a detrimental injury. It was the first game of fall league for basketball, and within the first five minutes I had succumbed to an injury. Tearing my ACL and Meniscus has taught me to continue improving on my strength, not let this one injury keep me down, and to keep a positive mindset.

I woke up like everyday, in perfect silence. I can’t remember a time when I able to hear. The fact is that I’m deaf so that means I couldn’t hear a thing. I slid from my bed and walked over to my dresser. It was Monday and I had to go to school. School made me feel incompetent, my teachers smiled and pointed to stuff trying to help me understand. A place where my fellow classmate don’t understand that I can’t hear their taunts and bullying. When people heard that I’m deaf, their first thought was that I’m helpless.

Three years later, they resided in Lake Ridge, a predominately black suburban neighborhood, to start their new lives with me on the way to enter the world. After my birth, months later, my parents took me to visit both of their families in Memphis and Rossville, to show off their beautiful baby girl. My parents and I continued to visit our family almost 8 times a year. Once I could literally understand my surroundings when I was a 1 year- old, whenever I would visit my relatives, I could hear the uniqueness of how they spoke. I recall my aunts, grandmother, great- grandmother, and cousins on my mother side, speaking in many different tones, pitches, and speed. I could hear my grandmother telling my mother how cute I was. “Aww, now she ah cute lil girl, she ova here lookin’ like her daddy.” (“Aww, she is a cute little girl. She looks just like her dad.”), said my grandmother. I still remember the high pitch of her voice and the fast speed of how her words came out. But I didn’t think too much of it of course being that I was so young.

After what seemed like an eternity of rigorous tests and dealing with the painful longing of wanting to hold a precious baby of my own in my arms, it happened; my dreams at long last came true. I was pregnant! But something happened; I felt my world come crashing down. The thought of bringing another life into this world terrified me.

Dropping me off at my first day of kindergarden, my parents had high hopes and expectations of how far my mind could take me. Painting and singing was fun, but when it came to a simple letter, I rubbed my eyes in confusion. Letters and words danced across the page as I hopeless tried to make sense of them. My classmates saw a pattern I did not, and I was left with an insufficient performance that caused experts to believe I would never be able to read above a third grade reading level. My parents took their advice of holding me back a grade and enrolling me in tutoring classes during and after school. I spent months in a regional rehab where I was forced to stumble across words and phrases out loud. Endless books, writing worksheets, and tears

There was a small group of friends Jim, Mark, Tom, Mary, and Jane. They were all going on a vacation to a cabin up in the Himalayan Mountains. Marks parents owned a cabin up there for many years and they decided to let the group stay for the weekend. All they had to do was promise to not do drugs and break stuff. This wouldn’t be a big deal since all of them were in their senior year of college and were honors students.

Looking at the broken fences yards away, they stare back at me, and ask if I am broken too. The answer is yes. Ever since the incident, I haven't been the same. I haven't been able to laugh the same, talk the same, or do the same things I could do before it all happened. And trust me, I could do a lot before it happened.

Growing up I wanted to be exactly like everyone else, as every kid does. No one wants to endure something that sets them apart from their peers and opens a vulnerability to be taunted. This why I tried my best to keep it a secret from my friends, teachers and coaches that I am completely deaf in my left ear. When I was born, the hospital ran hearing tests on all new infants and they discovered that I could not hear out of my left ear. Over the course of the next few years, my parents tried to find the cause and a cure through additional testing and an MRI, but learned that nothing could be done. Once I started school, I was old enough to realize that I was a little different than other kids my age.

I always knew I was different from my family. I have green eyes while they have brown. I have curly dark hair while they have straight light hair. I just didn’t fit in with my sister and mom. I would always ask my mom why I was so different and didn’t look like them, but she would just say “You got your grandmas looks, be thankful for that she was gorgeous.” I had never seen a picture of grandma or met her because she died before I was born. I always felt there was more she wasn’t telling me but never prodded. When I turned 18 I decided to take matters into my own hands and go to the court house to look at my birth certificate. I knew if I told mom she’d be hurt, so I went in secret saying I was going to the library to read. I had finally arrived to the court house in town center after an hour walk.

You know that friend that you try to ignore whenever they wave at you in the hallway? At first they were okay but now it’s embarrassing to be around them in public. The friendship sort of just happened and you don’t know how to let them down easy. Playing an instrument is a similar feeling, at least in my opinion. There’s a reason why I’m not as willing to let people know I’m in the band and play the clarinet. The clarinet isn’t even that bad and I’ve had some good memories in band but people don’t need to know that. They should know the struggle it’s been ever since the beginning.

“What do you want to whip up today, sweetie?” my grandmother asked as I ran in the house soaking wet from sitting on the flaming hot bus. Many different pleasurable, delicious foods shot into my mind like a bullet shot from a gun; I wondered what activity we would do after eating. It never failed; my grandmother always had a way of lifting my spirit after a tough day at school. It is the memories of our bond that will forever hold a place in my heart.

Looking back on my childhood, it is clear to me that I was never a very feminine girl. I remember asking to pee outside; trying to be like my older brother when I was only just in diapers. I did wear dresses, and I had some skirts that I enjoyed wearing, but only to church. However, I can distinctly remember getting grass stains on my Easter dress from the time I left the front door to when I reached the car sitting in the driveway. I never really felt the pressure to look nice; this has been permanently documented in any pictures from before middle school in which I was wearing an outfit of my choice. My look until about seventh grade was a slicked back ponytail, a t-shirt, and basketball shorts that were handed down to me from my older brother.

There have been many times I have dealt with this pain. Each time it seems to get easier. Does the pain ever fade or go away? The answer is no, it doesn’t ever lessen or disappear. The pain is still there, but eventually I start to realize what is really happening. I now understand, although I begin to feel more pain, the ones I love no longer do and they will always be there with me in spirit.

Somewhere in the middle east, the sun is displaying exhibiting its full capabilities potential, producing temperatures well over beyond one hundred degrees. While I am standing guard, a motorcyclist is approaching me at a dangerous speed.The dare-devil motorcyclist defying the laws of gravity, weaving maneuvering in and out of traffic, tires gripping grappling dirt with every compound of rubber, and creating enough G-force to rattle stationary vehicles he is passing, exhaust screaming screeching in shear pain agony. Straight hauling-ass. The motorcyclist has a curious cargo carrier that is strapped to his thigh, and most motorcyclists on the streets travel with a carrier on the bike’s frame. He is ignoring the translated warning sign on the back of my vehicle that reads “CAUTION STAY ONE HUNDRED METERS BACK, OR YOU WILL BE SHOT.”