coming to stand at the bathroom mirror, shaky, with eyeliner and mascara in hand. Trying to conceal her tears, to makeup her eyes. Makeup: make believe, invent. Or: cover over, camouflage.
Throughout my own childhood, my mother’s eyes—alternately cast on me, then turned away—always held her
father’s leaving. She identified with her father, he who had also been left, he who left her behind. I sought to retrieve her, yet my eyes, too, filled up with the look of departure. And now I clutched, unmoored, to my Sophia.
In Massachusetts, Bill maneuvered our bright red rental car up a steep, narrow Northampton street, marked with an engraved metal placard for Clarke School for the Deaf. Signposts in the shape of yellow diamonds marked each crosswalk with the word “DEAF”—a descriptor I still couldn’t weave into my thoughts about Sophia without an internal revolt.
Just a week before, back in California, we had brought Sophia to the audiologist for another hearing test and a review of her hearing aid settings. Her diagnosis was “severe” on a scale of mild, moderate, severe, and profound. I had stepped into the thick sound booth full of groundless hope: my girl would hear today, and her diagnosis, like a judge’s sentence, would be lessened or even reversed. With Sophia, three and a half months old, cradled on my lap, I had sat completely still as my own ears filled with the sounds piped in, and I had waited for Sophia’s ears to register the pure tones, for her eyes to widen with each beep. It
was not the last time I would teeter out of a sound booth, crestfallen.
We parked on the street, the fresh air a relief after the artificial cherry scent of the rental car. Bill looked at maps of Northampton and Amherst while I nursed Sophia. An extra feeding, because she wasn’t gaining weight fast enough.
Toting Sophia in her infant seat, we toured the Clarke preschool. The classroom was cheery and bright, and the children were playing—really playing. They had a make-believe lemon tree and a lemonade stand. They were squeezing, tasting, puckering, sugaring, stirring, pouring. They were buying and selling. They were talking!
“You want lemonade?”
“Yes. Ooh. That sour.”
“Want sugar?”
“Yes! I pour it myself. Here my money.”
We observed the preschool for over an hour. From within the observation booth, we listened in with headphones to the wondrous sound of deaf children talking! Some more advanced than others; some in need of intense prompting. But all of them talking, and all of them playing . Afterward, we drove around Northampton’s neighborhoods with a real estate booklet. We gawked at turn-of-the-century houses that we could actually afford, then ate decent
Tandoori at an Indian restaurant while Sophia slept in her infant seat under our table.
We returned to the Clarke School to meet with Jan, the director of the parent-infant program I had spoken to by phone. Jan had a light in her eyes even brighter than the fuschia hair ribbon she wore to dazzle her young charges. She greeted us warmly and spoke with enthusiasm about child development, parental bonding, and play. She led us through the school, founded in the 1860s, before even Nellie was born. Jan, herself, had worked at Clarke for almost thirty years.
By now Sophia was wide awake. We settled ourselves on the floor in Jan’s office and played with Sophia as we had grown accustomed. We sounded off toys by rattling maracas, squeaking a rubber cat, or pressing a fuzzy duck for its quack, then made a big show by widening our eyes, pointing to our ears, and proclaiming “I hear it” in response to each sound. Jan watched us for a long while. Eventually, she spoke up:
“Sophia is going to be fine, no matter what school or what communication method you choose. You may decide to come here. But you needn’t move all the way from California. Sophia is alert and engaged. Above all, you are connected—you are an intact family.”
I felt my
Throughout my own childhood, my mother’s eyes—alternately cast on me, then turned away—always held her
father’s leaving. She identified with her father, he who had also been left, he who left her behind. I sought to retrieve her, yet my eyes, too, filled up with the look of departure. And now I clutched, unmoored, to my Sophia.
In Massachusetts, Bill maneuvered our bright red rental car up a steep, narrow Northampton street, marked with an engraved metal placard for Clarke School for the Deaf. Signposts in the shape of yellow diamonds marked each crosswalk with the word “DEAF”—a descriptor I still couldn’t weave into my thoughts about Sophia without an internal revolt.
Just a week before, back in California, we had brought Sophia to the audiologist for another hearing test and a review of her hearing aid settings. Her diagnosis was “severe” on a scale of mild, moderate, severe, and profound. I had stepped into the thick sound booth full of groundless hope: my girl would hear today, and her diagnosis, like a judge’s sentence, would be lessened or even reversed. With Sophia, three and a half months old, cradled on my lap, I had sat completely still as my own ears filled with the sounds piped in, and I had waited for Sophia’s ears to register the pure tones, for her eyes to widen with each beep. It
was not the last time I would teeter out of a sound booth, crestfallen.
We parked on the street, the fresh air a relief after the artificial cherry scent of the rental car. Bill looked at maps of Northampton and Amherst while I nursed Sophia. An extra feeding, because she wasn’t gaining weight fast enough.
Toting Sophia in her infant seat, we toured the Clarke preschool. The classroom was cheery and bright, and the children were playing—really playing. They had a make-believe lemon tree and a lemonade stand. They were squeezing, tasting, puckering, sugaring, stirring, pouring. They were buying and selling. They were talking!
“You want lemonade?”
“Yes. Ooh. That sour.”
“Want sugar?”
“Yes! I pour it myself. Here my money.”
We observed the preschool for over an hour. From within the observation booth, we listened in with headphones to the wondrous sound of deaf children talking! Some more advanced than others; some in need of intense prompting. But all of them talking, and all of them playing . Afterward, we drove around Northampton’s neighborhoods with a real estate booklet. We gawked at turn-of-the-century houses that we could actually afford, then ate decent
Tandoori at an Indian restaurant while Sophia slept in her infant seat under our table.
We returned to the Clarke School to meet with Jan, the director of the parent-infant program I had spoken to by phone. Jan had a light in her eyes even brighter than the fuschia hair ribbon she wore to dazzle her young charges. She greeted us warmly and spoke with enthusiasm about child development, parental bonding, and play. She led us through the school, founded in the 1860s, before even Nellie was born. Jan, herself, had worked at Clarke for almost thirty years.
By now Sophia was wide awake. We settled ourselves on the floor in Jan’s office and played with Sophia as we had grown accustomed. We sounded off toys by rattling maracas, squeaking a rubber cat, or pressing a fuzzy duck for its quack, then made a big show by widening our eyes, pointing to our ears, and proclaiming “I hear it” in response to each sound. Jan watched us for a long while. Eventually, she spoke up:
“Sophia is going to be fine, no matter what school or what communication method you choose. You may decide to come here. But you needn’t move all the way from California. Sophia is alert and engaged. Above all, you are connected—you are an intact family.”
I felt my
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