I’ve asked myself why go through the hard work of not only writing this book but going through the even harder job of trying to get it published. It’s not a simple answer – but what I’ve come up with is I have to. My parents were both deaf – from birth, not from an accident later in life, or due to old age. In the 60s and 70s, growing up with them was painful and challenging and fun at the same time.
I remember the apartment we lived in – it was in a small city north of Boston. It was diverse in the sense that there were a lot of new immigrants to the area – newly arrived Greeks, Italians, Russians, Poles. My parents, with their odd voices and strange mannerisms weren’t completely out of place. When people asked where we were from – what funny accent was that? I used to tell them we were Danish. I have no idea why I picked Denmark – first thing I thought of maybe. Or the fact that no one else’s parents were from there. So Danish we were.
We had fun – at first. I made friends, my brother made friends. There was kick ball and pick up games of softball. There was a huge park behind our house so there were always kids to get a game together with. But it was also the first time I remember being embarrassed by my parents. One of the kids in our wide group, a tough little boy – Teddy – decided something I did wasn’t to his liking. He punched me and knocked me down. I was so surprised I didn’t know what to do. I went home, and later, when my parents got home from work, I told my dad. My mother was not the warm, fuzzy type. Her response to almost every skinned knee and childhood fight was “you’re not the only one.” Meaning – every one has problems, get over yourself. But my dad, he of the big hugs and the lavish affection, grabbed my hand and we walked to Teddy’s apartment.
He banged on the door and when Mr. Teddy answered the door, my father started yelling. I don’t think my dad knew he was yelling – he had no idea how loud he was. He was pissed, though, that little Teddy punched his baby girl. There was shouting and a little hand waving. The whole time I stood there with my head down. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Teddy hanging back behind his dad. Somehow, Mr. Teddy got the gist of what my dad was trying to tell him. He nodded at my father – I’m not even sure if he spoke English as the Teddy family were relatively recent arrivals from Greece. Then he turned and with an ominous growl, spoke Teddy’s full name. My dad grabbed my hand and we walked down the apartment stairs and headed home.
My dad accomplished what he set out to do. But I never told my parents again about any problems. In the future, my brother and I took care of all our problems ourselves.
So to get back to why I’m writing this book. I spent a good portion of the next ten years after that incident being mortified by my parents. They weren’t like anyone else’s parents. If there was a problem at school, I wrote my own absence notes. If my brother got into a jam, I wrote his absence notes too. I didn’t want anyone meeting them – especially not any teachers or administrators. By the time I was in my early twenties, though, surprisingly I wasn’t embarrassed any more. I, like many kids who finally grow up, realize their parents are nowhere near as awful, or as different, from everyone else’s as they thought.
My dad had an amazing work ethic – he worked long hours, and everything he did had to be done to the best of his ability. He made friends so easily – whether they were hearing or deaf, it didn’t matter to him at all. He dealt with his fair share of snubs or even outright laughter or ridicule for his deafness. But that didn’t matter either. He had an enormous generosity of spirit. If someone was broken down on the side of the road, he would stop. If someone needed help moving, he was there. If someone needed the last ten bucks in his pocket – it was theirs. In short, I owe my dad not only for giving me a great example of what it means to be a hard-working grownup, he showed me how to be open to the world. Thanks Dad. This one’s for you.
J. Gardner Hurd 