Without A Voice (Based On A True Story)

The Outside World

The classroom was an absolute nightmare. I wasn't able to keep up with the classwork, I never knew what was going on, and couldn't voice my frustrations. Ms. Miller, my teacher's name I discovered after a week of instruction, started to think I was mentally disabled and suggested I be transferred into the Special Education class. One day, Mother received a phone call from Ms. Miller with this concern. She instantly dismissed her suggestion and ensured a possible solution. Still denying my disability is negatively affecting my education, Mother once again didn't mention I was deaf. I felt conflicted; I was trying my best to succeed, but no one was willing to meet me halfway and help.

My hidden issues makes it harder to relate to my classmates. I could write a thousand notes, but how many of them would be read? I could sign until my arms fall off, but will any of them look? I instantly became an outcast among my peers. My classmates thought my silence was weird and undesirable. Why talk with someone who cannot return the fair in the same manner? I was subjected to total isolation, not allowed to play with anyone.

School was where people, not only learn, but show the social caste system in real life. The more affluent children wore the latest clothing brands, had the best school equipment, and ate extravagant meals. My family, as mentioned previously, were not the richest people in the world. We survived on hand-me-downs and simple foods. School supplies were used, clothes were passed down for as long as possible, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were a staple in our diet. Cosmetic luxuries, such as haircuts, happened at least every two months. My hair grew into an Afro, given enough time.  My family's financial situation set me up for daily ridicule. I was teased for: my hair, my clothes, my weight, practically everything about me. It was hell. I was called things like "poor", "homeless", "loser" , and that were those kind enough to say it to my face. They probably said worse things behind my back, but too scared to say it in my presence. It was devastating that the young kids like this held outer appearances at such high regards. I knew beauty standards existed at the time, but clothes and styles change. Sadly, I was alone in that thinking. 

Imagine a five year old sitting alone because no one wanted to play with them. During recess, I would sit at my favorite tree and watch cars go by. I didn't want to face the others running and playing. It would only remind me of how lonely I was. Occasionally, the other kids would stop by but I realized they were using the tree in a game of tag. They tripped over me while trying to escape their opponent. I tried to help them back up, but they would get upset with me. Apparently, it was my fault that they were tagged. Everyday, I looked at the aluminum fence that separated us from the outside world. I would dream of being on that side of the gate, free of my banishment. The ten traffic light cycles were my cue to head back and end the fantasy. I was never going to be free. The treatment didn't stop at school.

When I was in five years old, I was able to start playing soccer. I was looking forward to playing soccer. John played soccer and I wanted to try since he started. Luckily, Mother was my first coach. She took Father's place after his passing. She was a great coach, very tough but reasonable. I never the most physically fit or most coordinated player on the team, but I gave my full effort in every drill. Mother saw this and respected my efforts.

Granted, being the worst player on the team drew a lot of unwanted attention to me; being the coach's son didn't help my case either. But the most attention-attracting thing about me was that Mother needed to speak one-on-one to me. She needed to make sure that I was understanding what the drill was or any adjustments I needed to make. My teammates wondered what was wrong with me; thinking the usual thoughts like I had a mental handicap and wasn't capable of understanding the drills.

I was never picked to be on a team for scrimmages. Mother always forced my teammates to let me play. However, allowing me to play and actually incorporating me in the game was completely different. In that first year of soccer, I touched the ball three times, all of which to fetch the ball after going out of bounds. I hated this; I wanted to practice like everyone else. I wanted to be a part of the team like everyone else. Problem was, I wasn't like everyone else. Mother tried to involve me in the drills and speak to the team about their discrimination. Ironically, all these pleads fell on deaf ears for nothing changed and I was again isolated.

School, soccer, nowhere felt safe. There was no sanctuary where I felt like I belonged. I cried daily from all the suffering and hardship I dealt with. I hated being deaf; I hated myself. My condition defined who I was. Days like this made me miss my father. If only he could be here with us, then everything would be better. He would have sat in class with me and be my interpreter. He would take me out to the park for extra soccer practice. But he was gone, out of this physical plane of existence. I needed to face the harsh reality: I was a five year old with the mind of a ten year old, maturity of a twenty year old, and the social life of a shadow. I was alone in my thoughts and in the outside world. 

"Summer fun" was no different. Mother sent John and I to the local summer fun program during the summer vacation, to keep us occupied. I was open to the idea of a new change of scenery. I wanted to forget what happened at Kindergarten and try to make friends. Well, I did until the first day started. It was the same hardships, but a different season. I was instantly segregated by the other kids for a myriad of reasons. I tried to introduce my self with my note pad, but it was to no avail. Frustrated, I threw my notepad in a nearby trash can remained silent the rest of the day. Our group leaders didn't seem to mind my decisions. They barely noticed I existed; I was only important during a head count. I was nothing but a number to them. Mother would ask me what I did, and I replied with the same answer: I sat down and did nothing. No one wanted to play with the deaf kid. Mother was furious. Not only was the program not cheap, but I was there doing nothing. She pulled me out of the program halfway through and I stayed with Jacob and my grandparents.  

There is a common question throughout the entire chapter, where were the teachers? Where were the adults who were supposed to look out for me? I wondered that every single insult I received. Every time I sat down by myself in the corner, I wondered if anyone would help. I took so much abuse and harassment within a year and not once did an adult step in to stop it. Mother tried, but ultimately failed; I do respect her for trying, if only it worked. No matter the bucketful of tears I shed, I was an army of one. It was me against the world,and I was only five years old.