Personal Narrative: Love Is Deaf

The book “A Journey into the Deaf-World”, by Harlan Lane, Robert Hoffmeister, and Ben Bahan, is about the different people who are considered deaf: hard-of-hearing, deaf, and CODA. People who are hard-of-hearing are people who don 't hear well; people who are deaf lack the power of hearing since birth; you can be born hearing and throughout time lose some or all of your hearing sense. People who are CODA (children of deaf adults) are often signing because their parents are deaf and CODA’s often are helpful by being interpreters. CODAs become a great link between their parents and the hearing world. This book explains about deaf culture and how sign is a visual and manual way of conversing. The benefits of sign language are many and the ASL “foreign language” is growing among hearing as well. About more than 500,000 people sign in America alone. ASL is dated from 1779, but probably even earlier. Sign language promotes cultural awareness; deaf culture uses sign language as their main form of communicating.

As I was laying on the cushioned couch on a Saturday afternoon, my phone began buzzing in my dark black Nike basketball shorts. As I read the caller ID I noticed that it was my mom. As soon as I picked up the phone I knew something was wrong. My mom's voice was scratchy, and depressed. As I picked up the phone she immediately told me the horrifying news. For a few seconds I had to comprehend what I was hearing. After I analyzed what she had said I screeched my lungs out, bawling hysterically, as if I had heard that the world was ending. For a moment I couldn't breathe, hearing that our healthy Chihuahua had passed away. After that tragic day, about a few months later, even though I was still awestruck by that wretched day the question finally

In the 1985 movie “Love is Never Silent” it is set during the great depression and follows the Ryder family, Abel and Janice two deaf parents of two hearing children Margaret and Bradley. Abel works for a newspaper company on the printing press, Janice is a seamstress. The parents rely on the oldest child Margaret as their link to the hearing world by being their voice.

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

I landed hard on the asphalt, I probably bruised my ass, as if I didn’t have enough from Yaqui beating me up. I stood up. Where was I? Was I still asleep? I pinched myself, no I was definitely awake. I looked around, I was in a parking lot. There was nobody around, wait! There were some people I ran over hoping that they knew where the heck I was. I stopped short these were boys about my age maybe a bit older and they looked like they were in a fight. The fight seemed unfair because it was four against two, I wanted to help, but I didn’t know what I could do. I watched as one of the older boys pushed one of the two not as well dressed boy’s head into a fountain. He was drowning him! His buddies were laughing. “Ponyboy!” The other boy who I

I was so terrified. All I could think was how I was going to continue working with my finger bleeding and being in so much pain. The other children who were working with me ran and got towels to try and stop the blood and at one point it had finally stopped bleeding. I couldn’t wait to go home to my parents. I was so anxious to just get out of this factory and get some rest, it had been a long day full of misery and pain. The owners of the factory told me “You’ll be fine, come in tomorrow by 7 am, don’t be late!” I had no choice but to come in the next day, I couldn’t afford to lose this job because I had lost a part of my finger. I know that from that day on, I had to be really cautious and work slower to protect myself from being harmed again. I had come to realize that numerous companies similar to the cotton mill wanted children my age because our hands were tiny and swift enough to do work those elder employees could not do and that’s why they needed me. Even though we children did as much work as our parents did, what we got paid was lesser than what our parents were getting. My mother and father were struggling to make a living, working so much that I hardly saw them. We would all go out in the morning, kiss each other goodbye and come back at dark in our overpopulated home.

I must acknowledge I do not exactly remember. It was during a Field Hockey game where we had no substitutes and the other team was brutal. In total I was collided with three times that game. The first blow was insignificant. The other girl only bumped the side of my head. The second and third time occurred virtually simultaneously. An aggressive girl and I both went for the ball at the same time and rammed my head straight on and she pushed me back then so I clobbered onto the ground, smacking the back of my head on the ground. After the girl was carded for rough play I continued to stay in the game because as I said earlier, we had no substitutes. I continued on the field, very confused, and quite nauseous. After the game I told my coach how I felt. She did not give much attention to the problem because she did not believe I was hit that hard. Going home, I called my father to tell him how I felt. My speech was slurred and my thinking process was not clear. I could not tell him what happened in straight sentences. I had long pauses in between my single thoughts. Getting home that night my parents still pushed me to do my Calculus homework. Looking at the textbook, I was completely lost. Even more lost than normal. I could barely remember what the equations and symbols meant. The next day I went to the doctors and I left with an official diagnosis of a

Soon, both parents came. When the boy's father saw his child, he rushed over to his boy and saying something bad to me. As same as my teacher, she also began to criticize me. She repeated what she had just said to me in front of the boy’s father. She might want to show the father that she was worthy of his “red packet”. My mother also became angry, and she began to complain why I had caused her trouble again. At that time, I felt dizzy and wanted to suicide. I cried out of fear, but no one comforted me. Everyone was looking at the boy, whether he was good. "Why are you crying?” When I was crying, the boy's father said to me, "You might let my son into a concussion! If my son has some problem, I won not let you go!” I only knew that concussion

The sun’s rays somehow find a way to penetrate the clouds on a dismal Saturday morning. When I turn to see what time it is, a sharp pain hits me like a truck. The lower left-hand side of my body is purple and blue, with the ugly yellowing of the skin. The clouds somehow symbolize what the bruise looks like. It’s about the size of a small apple, an upside to being the size of a softball a week ago. As I walk to the bathroom to check it in the mirror, I make sure that my brother and mom are still asleep so I can have my privacy.

The large cut on the right side of my forehead had begun to bleed again; my own blood threatening to choke me. “Calm down its ok. You're going through a rough phase that's all. Try to get some rest,” was all the comfort dad could manage before choking up into tears. He turned away as streaks of auburn curls lightly brushed against me, the owner tending to my wound. Rest, he says; not so easy when every time your eyes droop, the dreams begin. They have been getting worse, the closer I become in finding a way to bring her

Everybody has memories they will never forget. The first of mine is playing baseball when I was six years old. My dad had always played sports and I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Baseball was my dream at a young age and it all started with the Tigers. I’ll always remember stepping onto the field for the first time and feeling the excitement rush through me. I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to be the team’s starting catcher. I liked the feeling of being in command behind the plate and felt like I had some sort of control over the game. I don’t remember a whole lot about the first game, but I do remember my first hit. I can tell you that I’ve never felt so excited in my life as I connected with the ball and began running to first base. I knew that made my dad extremely happy.

“Fine,” she looked up as a man with a scar running down his cheek smiled sinisterly. She didn’t trust him, she moved to try to get out of his reach but he pulled his arm out. Her eyes widened in horror as his fist came forward, she had stopped crying, watching the fist as if it was coming at her slowly. When it hit her face she barely registered it, it didn’t hurt, only stung and sent a shock through her body. Another fist came, then another. Her vision was going blurry, she heard them say something but she couldn’t make out what it was as her body fell limp against the seat and her eyes shut, unable to handle the pain in her

I still remember the calmness with which she looked at me when I entered her room. A stranger had attacked her in her apartment building, and the gruesome details of the incident produced the image of an utterly devastated victim. But her composure stood proud and tall and defied my expectations. Astounded, I asked her what she wanted to do. Without reluctance, she said no to pressing charges, and defended her attacker. With a firm and unrelenting voice, she said that she did not want to ruin the kid’s life and that people made mistakes. To hide my surprise I said that although the nurses had

What is going on? Shouldn’t the medicine be helping not making it worse? Did we even got to a real doctor?” I cried out. As I moved my head to look at my mom her eyes turned glossy like glass as she looked away not even able look at me. My dad took care of me that night so my mom could get some sleep. I didn’t sleep for longer than 10 minutes at a time. The stabbing knife in my stomach, throwing up at the sight of my medicine, and not being able to care for myself. These feelings overwhelmed me and I couldn’t bare it.

Ellie and I lay in our beds, neither one of us knew what to say. In the other room, our host parents were arguing. We didn’t know what about, but we knew it was serious. Then we heard a “THWACK” followed by silence. Ellie and I sat up in our beds and looked at each other, I could tell she was as scared as I was. “Was that? Did he just?” she asked me. Then the arguing started back up again. We calmed back down until we heard it again. “THWACK” We knew then, the noise we heard, was him beating her. We got up, our hearts racing; neither of us knew what to do. We got our nerves together to go get help. When we opened the door to our room we saw the children sitting on the couch crying out for their mother. I could see the fear in their face and I knew something needed to change.