The Implant
Chapter OneThe large dark mass mushroomed suddenly into the corner vision of his left eye. He twisted to face it. The imposing, blurry mass bore down upon him. No time for action, only reaction. Jason Dopler felt every muscle fasten into hard knots. He braced himself for the crunching blow. The newspaper under his arm fell away as he instinctively thrust both arms straight out, as if he could stop such a powerful force from crashing into his vulnerable world. He jumped backwards, pushing down hard on the hood of the black car as it skidded over the place where fear welded his feet to the street an instant ago.
A trapped breath escaped and he trembled and stared down at the silver bumper within inches of his kneecaps. Anger, fear, and relief all flowed into his cauldron brain and became a volatile, emotional mixture. Confused anger rose first. But anger needed a target and most often he was someone's or something else's target in the hearing world. Fear tried to trump anger. But fear is a betrayal of security and long ago his security had been replaced by caution outside his deafness community. Relief? Relief was a commodity the hearing world made you pay dearly for. Anger came back and he tried to direct it outward but it came back at him like a ricochet. Once again his deafness betrayed him. No blaring from a car’s horn, not even the screech of skidding tires to warn him. Danger in the hearing world always seemed to come like little cat's feet then pounce with the ferocity of a pride of lions.
Through the windshield of the new 1975 Cadillac, Jason watched the mouth of the driver do its beaver thing . . . lips sneering, teeth gnawing. Hearing people always chewed their words vigorously when angry or upset, he thought. The words would be all too familiar if he had an interpreter to tell him what the man said. The driver had probably leaned on his horn when he stepped into traffic. Jason extended his arms straight out, made his right hand into a ball, and circled it over his chest, then mouthed, “Sorry.” He picked up his newspaper and stepped back onto the curb and waited. The sting of embarrassment washed over him again when he looked into the cigar chewing face of the angry driver as the man sped by, then away.
He struggled to get the end of his short sleeve to his face. The steamy July day hadn't been all that brought the flood of sweat. He glanced across the street. This time he’d make sure the Walk sign showed on the post. He tucked the tail of his brown plaid, short sleeve shirt back into the light tan work trousers. As he waited, he refolded the month old newspaper he brought with him from home. He carried it to remind him of his mission if courage waned in the face of whatever pressures awaited. He gazed at the circled passage:
Washington Post, June 15, 1975.
NEW LEGISLATION AIDS THE HANDICAPPED.
“Two years after the passage of the new Rehabilitation Act, little progress
has been made in furthering the cause of the handicapped people in this
country,” Senator Franklin Winchester said recently from his Washington office.
“I intend to focus my efforts on a bill to increase funding for research on
the efficacy of cochlear implants for our deaf population.”
Jason scoffed. OUR deaf population? When did the hearies come to own the deaf? Cochlear implants. Tax dollars. These things were exactly what he wanted to talk to Senator Winchester about. Blood rushed through him like a runaway Metro train under the streets of Washington from where he just came. Breathing came hard and he gasped for air. Politicians like Winchester had power, lots of it.
Jason had seen so often what little power the deaf community had. Himself for one thing. He was as smart as most hearing people he’d met. He knew it, seen it, demonstrated it. But he was sure no mountain that he could have moved would have got him into college and a better life. Now it was too late for him, but not other young deaf people in his community. Not for his forthcoming child . . . he hoped.
Sometimes power was all about just getting yourself heard. Getting heard? Hearing? He shook his head. What kind of world is this that owes itself to hearing? So many, many times in his twenty-five years he had felt as if he almost daily was paying for something he owed . . . but had never had the opportunity to enjoy any possession for which he paid so dearly. If hearing had such great value that it enriched the owner so immensely, then he would always be impoverished in a hearing world. Most often, he could only measure what he heard by what his vision and understanding allowed him. Well then, as far as that goes, he had 20-20 hearing. His father and mother had never taken book degrees in hearing, but their deafness helped pay for his membership into a wonderfully rich deaf culture.
He’d been without hearing since birth and he didn’t need it. No, that’s not true. The hearing world placed such a great value on healthy ears. If you don’t have hearing, they exclude you. Put you in a category of The Differents. Ignore you. That always made getting around in the hearing world very difficult. But he only visited that world. His home was elsewhere.
The Walk sign lit. He folded the paper back under his arm, looked in both directions then crossed the street. Must be more careful, he mused. The city was not unfamiliar to him because he’d come down to Washington often from Brookhaven. In some ways, he wished he were back in his Maryland community. Home was only a two-hour drive away . . . well, sometimes longer, depending on the traffic. For that reason, he usually took the Metro from Shady Grove. Metro trains didn’t go further, but that was all right. The northern most station was only fifteen miles from his home. Still, down here in Washington, he would have to be more careful because when he had a strong resolve, like this trip today, he often pulled his comfortable, soundless world close in around him and very little of that other world got in.
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