Jenny Willetts: The moment that taught me that we need to become a more deaf-aware society

I’ll start with a bit of background information. It might be a bit long winded but I think it’ll offer a bit of context to my tale.

I’m the second child of two profoundly Deaf parents, I have many Deaf extended family members and I grew up sliding on my knees around the local, and not so local, Deaf clubs with the other CODA’s.

When we became too old for that, we graduated on to shoving ha’pennies and playing pool in the back room of whichever dilapidated building the local council decided was appropriate for our Deaf club at that time.

I have been a Teacher of the Deaf for over twenty years and have worked with Deaf children, teenagers and adults. I am called upon to interpret for every family speech, christening and wedding we have and am very proud to do so.

I have a moderate hearing loss and although my parents dutifully took my sister and I on regular visits to the audiology clinic, I chose not to wear my hearing aids and managed very well without them.

These visits would strike fear into my heart. The anxiety induced while straining to hear those pure tones with those far too large headphones on is difficult to articulate but suffice to say that as soon as I hit adulthood, I never set foot inside an audiology clinic until my oldest child ‘failed’ her Reception year hearing screening test.

She was diagnosed with mild glue ear which she soon grew out of. Despite my steadfast refusal to wear my hearing aids, I like to think I did ok at school and went on to university, still refusing to wear my hearing aids while never wanting to look at a small plastic basket or large wooden beads again.

I told you it was a bit long winded. My point is that I like to think I am pretty Deaf aware and have a reasonably good understanding of Deaf culture and issues facing the Deaf community. Which is why something that happened to me recently came as such a shock and my reaction to it was so surprising for me.

Now you have the context, I can go on to start my story. In my late thirties, it became apparent that my hearing was deteriorating; I found conversations in large groups difficult and stuck to well-lit places at parties.

I didn’t even bother turning up the volume on the TV, relying solely on subtitles and my husband was becoming increasingly frustrated over my lack of ability to carry out conversations from a different room.

I bit the bullet and self-referred via my GP and, for the first time in over twenty years, took myself off to the audiologist still with that fear in my heart as there are some things in life that never leave you.

He was astounded that I had been managing for so long without hearing aids as my loss was now moderate to severe, and we discussed the different options available to me.

I wanted something as discreet as possible so we tried the tiny ‘hidden’ moulds with the super-thin walled tubing, which I was told were an expensive option and not always available on the NHS. They didn’t work for me. I have a lot of curly hair and the thin tubing would get caught up in it and the moulds would work themselves out of my ear – apologies NHS.

I went back to the audiologist and we agreed that the more traditional aids would be best. While all this was going on I still considered myself ‘hearing’ and I live my adult life very much in the hearing world although my hearing continues to deteriorate.

I wish I could say that I wore my aids proudly but I didn’t. I kept my hair down and put it up rarely; I became bored and/or self-conscious of answering questions about my hearing aids and of seemingly intelligent adults staring at my ears while I was engaged in conversation with them.

What I should have done, as my friend Rosie told me, is own my aids.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I went out to dinner with our lovely friends to their local pub. I tucked my hair behind my ears and the waitress handed us our menus, took our orders for drinks and returned to discuss the specials.

As she was speaking to us, she did this bizarre move where she shuffled her feet to the point where her head was almost at table level. I knew exactly what she was trying to do and, while it felt uncomfortable for me, I sort of appreciated her misguided attempt at Deaf awareness.

What she then went on to do was whisper in my friend’s ear and ask her, ‘Is there anything else I can do for the lady next to you?’ I was utterly humiliated.

I like to think of myself as an independent, articulate woman and to be treated as someone who might need ‘help’ and be ignored in this way was a complete first for me and I was shocked to the point where I became monosyllabic for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t a £90 well spent.

This is now my attempt at an apology to the Deaf community. An apology for thinking that I am anywhere near appreciating the challenges that Deaf people face, an apology for not wearing my hearing aids with pride and an apology for not calling out that waitress.

For while she was well-meaning, she disabled me with her preconceptions and I should have challenged her about it, as she will continue to address the companions of other Deaf visitors to this pub rather than talk directly to them. Shame on me.

What this experience highlighted for me was the need to become a more deaf-aware society and I, for one, will do what I can to support this.

So, if you are a hearing person reading this and you come across me at any time in the future, might I suggest that you direct your questions directly to me because if you don’t, I will certainly be challenging you and that could be uncomfortable for both of us.

Jenny Willetts is a CODA, a hearing aid wearer and a Teacher of the Deaf. She likes to think she is an ok signer. She likes walking her dog and has an addiction to Diet Coke.