“GROUCH” OR GENTLEMAN
When a man becomes convinced that he is definitely headed for the
silence, he must make up his mind whether he is to be a grouch or a
gentleman. The word “grouch” has not yet been fully accepted by the
guardians of good English, but it seems to me one of the most expressive
words in the language. Perhaps that is because I have spent much time
in trying to escape from the condition which might probably carry this
label. The deaf man may, if he will, excel all others in playing the
part. Here is one case in which he may certainly pose as a star. It
is hardly possible for a grouch to be a gentleman, and it is quite
inconceivable that the gentleman should wish to be a grouch. Yet, if
left to himself, the deaf man will naturally come to play the part,
and it is certainly the one part in the great adventure of life which
he can handle to perfection. The grouch wraps himself in a mantle of
gloom and tries to throw the skirts of it all around his fellow-men.
The gentleman, when under the spell of affliction, struggles to light
a candle of faith and hope within him that will make his whole life
luminous as he walks among men. It costs most of us a struggle in our
efforts to throw off depression and appear content with life, and the
struggle will be long and constant, but it is worth while, and so in
this last chapter I would like to briefly review some of the rules of
life which have come home to me during my sojourn in silence. I have
found in my own case that I paid very little attention to the rules and
regulations of the trouble, but, at any rate, those of us who have been
over the ground like to nail up the danger signal when we can.
The deaf should remember that they are in a way abnormal. We cannot be
like other men. It could not well be otherwise when we realize that we
are deprived of what is perhaps the most important of the senses. It
seems to me far better to face the fact that we cannot well conceal our
handicap. Usually when we mingle with others in everyday life every
person within 100 feet of us will know sooner or later that we are deaf.
Some of the worst blunders which the deaf man can make are those which
come from pretending that he can hear. We shall receive better treatment
and be freer from disappointment if we frankly admit our handicap and
throw ourselves upon the generosity of our friends, or even of strangers.
I suppose that curiosity causes more real torture to the deaf man than
anything else. Some of the deaf are exceedingly curious. They must know
what others are talking about, and they often pester their companions
almost beyond endurance in an effort to learn all the trivial details
of small conversation. They bring themselves to believe that most
conversation going on about them refers to something in which they are
vitally interested, and in this way they come to imagine all sorts of
disagreeable things. This idle curiosity leads to endless grief and
trouble. Forget it! That brief advice is peculiarly applicable to the
deaf, for it is much harder for them to forget things than for those
whose minds are constantly diverted by sound. One of the greatest
troubles of the average deaf man is that he cannot forget the things
which annoy except by driving them out of the brain by new suggestions,
or by forcing himself to think of happier and more interesting things.
That is why every deaf person should have some harmless or interesting
hobby which he can always mount and spur into speed whenever the imps
of the silence come out of their holes. Yet, there is such a thing as
riding a hobby so hard that the rider loses his hat, and the deaf man
makes a very ridiculous John Gilpin when his hobby runs away with him.
Above all things, we must believe in the loyalty and affection of our
family and companions. Remember that they are human, perhaps more so
than we are. We can easily become a nuisance to them. They may perhaps
show their annoyance for the moment, but at heart they are true, and
we should never lose faith in them, if we can possibly avoid it. I
think, too, it is a mistake to allude to our trouble as an affliction,
as too many of us are tempted to do. It is a handicap, and often a very
serious one. Yet, we may easily find people with real afflictions,
worse than ours, and we well know that we would not readily change
our identity if such a thing could be done. I find that successful
teachers of lip-reading insist that deafness should never be spoken
of as an affliction. It is a handicap, perhaps, but the surest way to
make it worse is to go about classing the deaf with afflicted people;
and the intelligent deaf scarcely, if ever, speak of those who are deaf
and dumb. That is a term to be avoided, for education or scientific
treatment is ending that condition. The entire life of the deaf, if they
hope to enjoy even ordinary happiness, must be built on the sunshine
theory; always search for the bright side. In all our life there is
nothing so destructive of character as self-pity. Far better look
about for undoubted advantages of life in the silence, and train our
rebellious spirits to work patiently under the yoke. In that way we
may easily gain new strength of character and greater power from our
trouble. I like to repeat the statement over and over that I have found
this a good world. It is well filled with kindly people, who on the
whole are ready to give every man with a handicap a fair start if they
can only be made to realize that he is willing to fight the good fight
with cheerfulness and without complaint.
I have found it well to go out among my fellow-men and take my chances
on getting through. Some people seem to think that deafness should shut
them away from travel or society. I cannot agree with that. I think we
should move about among people. It is, I grant, a peculiar sensation
at times to realize the appalling loneliness of a crowd. You stand in
groups of people, see them move about, know that they are talking and
laughing; you can reach out your hand and touch them; yet, for all that,
you are living in another world apart from them. It gives one at times
an uncanny feeling to realize such a situation, yet I think it is well
for us to seek our fellows in this way, and live among them. It gives
us opportunity for the finest study of character, and if we would only
think so, there are few things more interesting or exciting than the
attempt to locate strangers in occupation or habit by their appearance.
Some deaf people seek to hide themselves, and shun society and travel
through fear of ridicule or accident. This is, I believe, a mistake. So
long as one has eyes of reasonable strength which may be trained for
quick and close observation, it is far better for the mind and spirit
to get out among men. When you go on a journey, always plan to carry a
flashlight lantern and an abundant supply of paper and pencils. You are
quite sure at some point of your travels to find yourself in darkness
along the way, and there is little hope for the deaf man in the dark.
Unless you are expert at lip-reading, my advice would be to insist upon
having the message written out. With the very deaf attempts to make them
hear or to communicate by signs are little better than wide guesses.
In all my experiences I have never found but two people who refused
to write the information when I called for it. One was an impatient,
selfish man, and the other a woman, who evidently feared that certain
young men would laugh at her if she made herself conspicuous with a
deaf man. In one of these cases a bystander, seemingly ashamed of the
discourtesy shown me, volunteered to help me, and was ready to fight
the man who had refused. Oh, I shall have to repeat it once more! I
have found this a good world to live in. It is filled with people who
at heart are kindly and sympathetic. Many of the fancied rebuffs which
we experience are due to the fact that people do not understand how to
communicate with us. Above all things, the deaf man should never lose
his nerve. He should always believe that he is the favorite “child of
fate,” sure to come through every obstacle. Then let him go bravely and
confidently on his way, supremely sure that he will be cared for.
The problem of occupation is the vital one for the deaf. What can we do
to earn a living when our hearing fails? There is without question a
prejudice against the deaf which it is hard to overcome. We who live in
the silence cannot quite understand why people seem to fear us, and are
evidently uncomfortable when we come near. We are as harmless as anyone,
and we are capable of giving good service, but we realize only too well
that society in general seems to class us among the undesirables. I know
of one woman who is struggling to support and educate two children. She
is an admirable cook, good housekeeper, clean, quick and efficient, yet
no one wants to employ her because she is deaf. One would think that
her condition would be something of an advantage in a household where
there are family secrets to be kept. But, no matter how capable this
woman may be, most people seem afraid to employ her. The fact is that
the condition of deafness is a distinct advantage in many cases—for
example, the faithful deaf helper will not be liable to change
frequently. He will stay by his employer, yet most deaf people come face
to face with prejudice which society shows them.
I know of a clergyman who filled his pulpit acceptably until deafness
drove him from it. One might think without bitterness that a man of
God with a trouble of this sort might in his daily life come closer to
what his people need, but his congregation would not have it so, and
he was retired. For some years the old man lived in the town, sawing
and splitting wood for a living. The woodpile he built was a sermon on
neatness and honest labor, and he went happily on through life. Someone
asked him how he could be cheerful at such labor, and his answer was:
“I put joy in my job.” There are deaf men in all walks of life. Some
are highly successful as teachers, editors, salesmen, watchmen and
other lines where one would suppose that perfect hearing is more than a
necessity. In general a deaf man must take the work that comes to him.
He cannot always choose, but he can usually dignify any job, and excel
at it if he will keep his courage and put his mind to it. He should
remember that spirit of the old minister who, when retired from his
pulpit, took up the saw and axe, and was cheerful because he put joy in
the job.
The moving picture show is a wonderful help to the deaf. Here he is on
terms of equality with all men. In this remarkable world of the movies,
where the villain is always punished and the virtuous always emerge
with roses and a crown, the deaf man may find much of that optimism
which seems like an electric light to the soul. It is the height of
enjoyment for him to see pictures illustrating some favorite book thrown
on the screen, and that enables him to make a mental comparison with
his own conception of the characters in the story. The fact is that
the life of the ambitious deaf is one long effort to keep cheerful
and bright-minded, and thus steer away from depression. To that end
he should soak his mind with all possible poetry and humor and good
literature. In fact, let him take in anything that will frame pleasant
pictures on the walls of his mind, and it is a blessing ranking close to
a godsend to be able to sleep when other aids in the struggle against
depression fail. There will surely come times after the work has been
laid aside when all the wakeful philosophy will fail to keep the spirit
bright. Then the ability to lie down and sleep becomes a genuine
heavenly gift; for in sleep the head noises and troubles are forgotten,
when we may even hear music and voices of friends. And do you know
that in that thought lies one of the most curious and pathetic things
connected with the life of the deaf? We wonder just how the voices of
wife and son or friends actually sound. In real fact they may croak like
ravens or scream like a door that needs oiling, but to us in imagination
they are musical and full of sympathy. I think that of all the curious,
mysterious things which come to us in this world of silence there is
nothing sadder or more remarkable than this unsatisfied desire to listen
to the actual tones which ring in the voices of those we love.
It is without doubt true that the deaf are closer to subconscious
thought than those who have perfect hearing. It seems to be easier for
us to go back to childhood or to raise into the mind memories of other
days. It often becomes a wonder to me that old friends forget so many of
the scenes and sayings of youth. I presume they have more to distract
their attention. It seems to me that the useless or trivial conversation
which most people indulge in must in time dilute or distort memory and
drive away the pictures of youth. With the deaf these pictures seem
to grow clearer with each year, and this, I take it, is one of the
compensations which accompany the trouble. For as we march along the
road and reach a hill from which we begin to see the end, I think it
must be a lonely road which those must travel who have forgotten the
pictures and companions of their youth. It is practically impossible for
the deaf to weep as others do. They are for the most part denied what I
may call the healing balm of tears, unless there can occur some great
shock, some volcanic eruption of emotion which breaks down the dam and
lets in the flood upon a dry desert of lonely years. But the deaf man
who has kept his mind cleanly occupied and his spirit bright may find in
happy memories a joy of life which others rarely know.
“Sometimes when night pulls down the shade after a weary day,
I sit beside my open fire and watch the shadows play.
Then memory takes me by the hand, and happily we go
Back to the kindly days of youth—when I was Mary’s beau.
Oh! Mary! In those golden years, when you and I were young,
When all the symphonies of youth by hopeful lips were sung,
When every avenue of life led out to rosy skies,
And fortune’s fingers dangled there the gifts that all men prize!
Old Time is kind. He hides the years which bear the loss and stain,
And only those which shine with love and happiness remain.
As one may find a violet beneath the Winter’s snow,
I go back to the kindly years—when I was Mary’s beau.
I was a chunky farmer boy—her father lord of lands.
She was a little village queen—I only had my hands.
Yet in the pure democracy of our New England town
Youth never could be quite denied—love beat the barriers down.
Yet she was wise—to reign a queen—one must keep step with wealth.
And Mary knew full well that I had nothing but my health.
To me she played a sister’s part—but settled down with Joe,
I went out West with but a dream that I was Mary’s beau.
I’ve journeyed East, I’ve journeyed West—I’ve had my hour of life.
I’ve lingered in the pleasant ways—I’ve faced the storm and strife.
Fame, wealth, have missed me and yet they will envy me I know,
Those days back in the golden years—when I was Mary’s beau.
No, no, dear wife, deny me not these fair old dreams of youth,
You well may smile, for life has taught the patience and the truth.
Time tried, long tested, up the hill we’ve journeyed side by side,
Or drifted in the ebb and flow of fortune’s fateful tide.
The years may come, the years may go, yet love will find the test.
Youth’s dreams are good, yet that which lives on life’s hard road
is best,
And so you grant me my romance—perhaps I do not know,
You, too, are thinking of the days when you were Henry’s beau.
And so I sit beside the fire when night pulls down the blind,
And wander back to youth once more with all my cares behind.
The winds of trouble rage outside, we care not how they blow,
Back in those golden days of youth—when I was Mary’s beau.”
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.