Sarah Hercod: My Quest to Learn BSL – “BSLet Me In!”

I discovered sign language 15 years ago and it was like coming home. My housemate had learned a few signs for work and was keen to try them out on me. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. After work, our conversations went like this:

‘Tea?’

‘Please!’ 

‘Sit down.’

‘Thank-you.’

Such an easy change to make, yet communication was suddenly less stressful to navigate, especially when I was tired and in need of a cup of tea and a good sit down. The problem was I didn’t know anyone else who used BSL, so when we both moved on it dropped out of my reach.

Since then, the one and only time I have ever seen a real-life BSL conversation is through the window of a pub in Bath a couple of years ago. Approximately 14 people were seated around a large table and they all struck up conversation by signing with each other. I was mesmerised because I wanted so much to be involved. I’m used to hanging back in social situations, waiting to inevitably miss out. Not because I’m shy, but because I’m deaf.

I have a degenerative congenital high-frequency hearing impairment. I’m told it’s known as deaf with a small ‘d’. For 45 years, I’ve existed on the fringes of the hearing community, whilst struggling with an inability to decode the sounds around me – yes, even with hearing aids.

I learned, at around nine years old, that I had this ‘problem with my ears.’ A really hairy man came to my school and squirted cold play-dough in my ears to measure me up for hearing aids. Until that point I’d quite enjoyed existing in my own little world, although I knew I exasperated my mother – she threatened to install a gong at home – I just couldn’t hear her calling me for dinner when I was playing in another room.

I couldn’t quite grasp cartoons on tv or the lyrics of my favourite pop songs either. But I didn’t mind, I simply made it all up in my head. I mean, everyone makes things up, right? Like the time I emphatically told my family that Santa’s sleigh-bells could actually be heard jingling on our roof on Christmas Eve. D’uh!

At school, I made friends easily. Friends who let me glance at their work in class, to check I was doing it right. Friends who heaved their giant tennis bags on to our shared desks so we could duck down behind them and surreptitiously ensure that I was following the teacher’s instructions ok. We were good kids, studious and conscientious. I just had ludicrously kind friends and I hated asking questions in class. I could never guarantee I wasn’t going to mishear and become a laughing stock.

Friendship was vital. You see, my friends were my interpreters. Therefore I didn’t need hearing aids. As I saw it, those cacophonous and cumbersome ear-pieces could jolly well whistle away in my bag for all I cared. I couldn’t hear them. It was only the teachers who minded the disruption of their consistent, high-pitched, single-toned shriek. My friends thought it was hilarious and, seeing as they didn’t tell me until break time, I remained blissfully unaware. Devious!

I developed a love of languages at school and, thanks to some clever interventions from my teacher, I did quite well in my French GCSE. Unfortunately, there was no provision at that time to support me with progressing through A Level French. I was told by the college that only French was spoken in class – no English – and therefore I would struggle to keep up. I was so disappointed.

Despite my stubborn refusal to accept my deafness, I wasn’t immune to the impact it would have on my self-esteem. You’ll notice I’ve attached the words ‘d’uh,’ ‘devious’ and ‘disappointing’ to the last three paragraphs. They’ve been carefully chosen to highlight the labels which became attached to me as a result of my experiences.

In adult life, thanks to a few gentle shoves from friends, I’ve managed to develop a more confident attitude towards being deaf. My university pals fashioned an ear-trumpet from note-paper and shoved me towards the front of the lecture theatre every time I refused to wear my hearing aids and attempted to hide at the back. This enlightened bunch of revolutionaries were determined to make me face facts. Plus, plagiarism was very much feared; it was the early nineties and no-one wanted to have to hand-write an essay more than once. There was zero chance of me finding someone to copy in class!

Hearing therapy has helped too. With the support of a trained therapist, I discovered that every time I was told, ‘it doesn’t matter,’ when I had asked someone to repeat themselves, this had fed the misconception that I didn’t matter.

Recently, I’ve also linked my occasional episodes of paranoia to the fact that I rely so heavily on clear communication. I support my decoding of the spoken word with gestures and body language, so if someone’s words don’t match their actions I feel massively misled. I’ve reframed the paranoia and now consider it to be a ‘superpower.’ Despite what you’re saying, I can tell from 2 metres away, even while you’re wearing a mask, what you really mean. Haha!

Over the last 15 years, despite my best efforts, it has been difficult to find opportunities to learn and practise BSL. In that time, I have:

• Connected with a clergy woman who is a BSL interpreter for church goers. Beautiful.
• Trained to communicate with young people using Makaton. Brilliant.
• Accessed support from Hearing Rehabilitation, who fitted my doorbell with flashing lights, and Action on Hearing Loss, who trained my colleagues in Deaf Awareness. What a boost!

All of these experiences have continued to propel me towards BSL like a heat-seeking missile. Yet I still, ultimately, have no-one to practise with. If I learn French, I could (one day) go to France to practise. But where could I go to find a BSL community? What comes first? Learning BSL or finding BSL users?

Then, during Lockdown III, a string of connections on Instagram led me to Anthony Sinclair and @signsourcelearning. Anthony offered a free four-week introduction to BSL via Zoom and Facebook at the start of this year, so my husband and I signed up.

It’s been a fantastic experience, and we’re both hooked! Anthony has taught us how to greet people using BSL, how to use BSL to tell people about our feelings and family, how to describe the weather, order food and ask questions, and how to share what we do for work.

I’m far from being able to hold a conversation in BSL but, in our house, our most frequently used BSL exchanges tend to revolve around food and our two dogs, eg.

‘Dinner.’

‘Thank-you.’

‘I, feed, dogs.’

‘Please.’

And my firm favourites:

‘Tea?’

‘Please!’

‘Sit down.’

‘Thank-you.’

I even signed Happy Birthday through the window, for my Step-mum the other day while she’s self-isolating. It made her laugh and I think it helped us to feel a sense of connection as we wait for the day when we can physically hug each other again.

When I asked Anthony how many other people had seized the opportunity to learn BSL with him for free, he told me,

‘I had over 20, 000 people who engaged with the 4 week course and zoom was maxed out each week.’

Being curious, I also wondered how many of those people, have expressed an interest in continuing to learn BSL journey, and Anthony kindly shared that,

‘In some form or other, 76 people have chosen a course to continue learning. It is so encouraging.’

From one incredible act of generosity, an accessible community of BSL learners is forming before my very eyes. Thank-you Anthony!

We have now happily secured our places on Anthony’s upcoming Accredited BSL Level 1 Course. It does seem odd, however, that to find a way into this language and the amazing community of BSL users, money needs to change hands. Whilst I completely appreciate that BSL specialists must earn an income, would it be provocative of me to suggest that all languages really ought to be free?

There are 11 million people in the UK who are deaf or hard of hearing and less than 2% of these people are BSL users. I can’t be the only person who is compelled to learn this beautiful, brilliant and positivity-boosting language; I think I’m going to be brave, to be visible and to do my bit to introduce BSL to the masses. If you live in Cornwall and want to meet me in the pub one day for a spot of BSL conversation, do get in touch!

BSL I’m coming in!

Sarah Hercod is a Primary School teacher and an illustrator. She lives in the South Cornwall riverside town where she grew up, with her husband and two dogs. Sarah would love to hear from you if you’re keen to communicate using BSL. You can connect with Sarah on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter @sarahhercodillustrates