Yesterday, my first graders worked on an art project that took much longer to complete than I'd anticipated. They colored a page of patterns, then cut the pieces out and glued them to a paper sack to make a gingerbread house gift sack. It took over an hour just to color the page!
They meticulously used colored pencils and crayons to color the gumdrops and peppermint sticks, sugar candy windows and doors, and icing rooftops. They used scissors to carefully cut out the gingerbread people and candy cane trees, and then they creatively arranged and glued their pieces to their sacks.
I watched their expressions of determination and pride while they worked independently to create masterpieces that would delight themselves -- their smiles and nods and sweet expressions told me they enjoyed the task.
What I didn't anticipate was the quiet. The peaceful quiet that engulfed my room on a day when most classrooms are filled with the giddy anticipation of holiday parties and Winter Break. A day teachers have come to dread: classrooms filled with children overstimulated from holiday activities and sweets and the inevitable rowdy behavior that accompanies this day.
Instead, my classroom was filled with tranquil silence, only interrupted by an occasional cough or whisper of "Pass me the red". I relished that time. And I reflected.
My principal came by briefly, and after his initial surprise and raised eyebrows at finding a classroom where children were intently on task, he proceeded to "stir the pot" by exciting my students to tell him if they'd been naughty or nice. The silence was broken.
I thought it strange that he felt it necessary to distract my students and break the beautiful silence that we'd experienced for nearly an hour with what I thought was unnecessary silliness. But it reminded me that most people are uncomfortable with silence and think that it is merely a void that needs to be filled. We're accustomed to filling silence with idle chatter, music, TV, and other background noise. We somehow equate fun with noise and boredom with silence. Those perceptions are neither true nor appropriate.
I never realized how nice silence can be until I was forced to endure it when I lost my hearing. Being unable to hear made me come to peace with the quiet -- uneasy at first, but now I know how necessary it is. Not just for me. It is necessary for everyone. It brings calm and peace and important health benefits, as well. I admit that I look forward to taking my hearing devices off at night so I can turn the noisy world off.
In the silence of my classroom yesterday, my students experienced engagement, creativity, accomplishment, and pride. They didn't need conversation, background music, or other noisy-ness to fill a void because there was nothing to fill. Silence is not a void. It is not awkward. It is not weird. It is not uncomfortable.
It is beautiful, friends. Make peace with it.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Monday, November 21, 2016
Squirrels and Tails
Today I found a squirrel tail on the walking path at my school during my first graders' recess. It was just lying there in the middle of the path. The wind blowing through the fur made it look as though it was breathing. For a moment, I thought maybe I'd mistaken it for a muskrat or other small animal. So I kicked it with the toe of my shoe. Yep. A tail. A squirrel tail.
I used the walkie talkie teachers use when on the playground in case of an emergency to call the office. "Office?" I said. "This is Mrs. Stone on the playground. We need a clean-up on the playground. There's a squirrel tail on the walking path."
"A WHAT?" our office clerk inquired.
"A squirrel tail. On the path."
"Is it dead?!
"I'm assuming. It's just a tail," I answered. "I don't think a tail is living."
Several giggles ensued before the custodian was dispatched. I wouldn't want her job.
After it was disposed of, I circled the big toy and the monkey bars to make sure the rest of the poor creature's carcass wasn't lying within reach of my students. (Envisioning brave souls terrorizing fearful souls with it...) I assume the squirrel probably scampered away into a tree where it safely watched us scoop up its tail and throw it away.
The questions ensuing this unusual find included whether a squirrel could even live without it's tail (Yes, it can) or could it regrow another one (No, it can't). A simple Google search.
You see, there's a certain amount of resilience that living things possess in order to survive. Apparently, a squirrel may lose its tail as it escapes from a predator or gets caught in a trap and still survive. Though it has to adapt to life without a tail, like a chipmunk, per se, it can continue to function fairly normally as a tail-less squirrel, even if not by choice.
Resilience. The ability to adapt to life's tasks and continue in the face of adversity. Like losing your hearing. Or your tail.
We can learn a lot from a squirrel.
I used the walkie talkie teachers use when on the playground in case of an emergency to call the office. "Office?" I said. "This is Mrs. Stone on the playground. We need a clean-up on the playground. There's a squirrel tail on the walking path."
"A WHAT?" our office clerk inquired."A squirrel tail. On the path."
"Is it dead?!
"I'm assuming. It's just a tail," I answered. "I don't think a tail is living."
Several giggles ensued before the custodian was dispatched. I wouldn't want her job.
After it was disposed of, I circled the big toy and the monkey bars to make sure the rest of the poor creature's carcass wasn't lying within reach of my students. (Envisioning brave souls terrorizing fearful souls with it...) I assume the squirrel probably scampered away into a tree where it safely watched us scoop up its tail and throw it away.
The questions ensuing this unusual find included whether a squirrel could even live without it's tail (Yes, it can) or could it regrow another one (No, it can't). A simple Google search.
You see, there's a certain amount of resilience that living things possess in order to survive. Apparently, a squirrel may lose its tail as it escapes from a predator or gets caught in a trap and still survive. Though it has to adapt to life without a tail, like a chipmunk, per se, it can continue to function fairly normally as a tail-less squirrel, even if not by choice.
Resilience. The ability to adapt to life's tasks and continue in the face of adversity. Like losing your hearing. Or your tail.
We can learn a lot from a squirrel.
Friday, October 7, 2016
Revelation
There are so many things one never even thinks about until they are gone. Hearing loss seeps into every facet of your life. Places you didn't even know existed -- until your hearing loss reveals them.
A friend recently had her cochlear implant activated. She's in her 80's. Family and friends who encouraged her to get the implant worry that she will have a hard time adjusting to it. "She's 84, you know," they say. She lives alone and, like her family, she fears that being unable to hear has affected her independence, her safety, and her well-being.
I have written before of the irrational fear that creeps in when I am alone in my house. Being unable to hear a simple knock on the door or identify a strange, muffled sound can be unnerving --how opening a dishwasher while it is running or turning the key again when the car is already on or not knowing that your smoke alarm is chirping or that your alarm clock is buzzing or that you've accidentally left a radio on, answering questions wrongly, missing conversations, and telephone calls -- even walking "blissfully unaware" in a crowd of people who've repeatedly tried to excuse themselves to walk past you and consider you rude -- all of the things that have become embarrassingly routine for you because you cannot hear them anymore. I told her son-in-law to keep encouraging her as she enters this new phase of hearing -- mostly because I know how important hearing independence can be. And I know that even if she never perceives speech, she will most certainly perceive environmental sounds. And that alone will bring her relief.
"I never thought of it like that," a friend who was listening nearby remarked. "Like how just hearing all the things in your home can make you feel secure. But I can see that now. That's quite a revelation for me."
A revelation. Yes. Constant revelations -- constantly.
That's a perfect analogy of what living with hearing loss is like.
A friend recently had her cochlear implant activated. She's in her 80's. Family and friends who encouraged her to get the implant worry that she will have a hard time adjusting to it. "She's 84, you know," they say. She lives alone and, like her family, she fears that being unable to hear has affected her independence, her safety, and her well-being.
I have written before of the irrational fear that creeps in when I am alone in my house. Being unable to hear a simple knock on the door or identify a strange, muffled sound can be unnerving --how opening a dishwasher while it is running or turning the key again when the car is already on or not knowing that your smoke alarm is chirping or that your alarm clock is buzzing or that you've accidentally left a radio on, answering questions wrongly, missing conversations, and telephone calls -- even walking "blissfully unaware" in a crowd of people who've repeatedly tried to excuse themselves to walk past you and consider you rude -- all of the things that have become embarrassingly routine for you because you cannot hear them anymore. I told her son-in-law to keep encouraging her as she enters this new phase of hearing -- mostly because I know how important hearing independence can be. And I know that even if she never perceives speech, she will most certainly perceive environmental sounds. And that alone will bring her relief.
"I never thought of it like that," a friend who was listening nearby remarked. "Like how just hearing all the things in your home can make you feel secure. But I can see that now. That's quite a revelation for me."
A revelation. Yes. Constant revelations -- constantly.
That's a perfect analogy of what living with hearing loss is like.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Number Six
This week, I sat with my team and "rebalanced" our first grade classrooms from three to four. We have too many children in our three classrooms and a new teacher will be added next week. We were tasked with choosing six students from each of our classrooms to move to the new classroom.
I'm not going to lie. My hearing loss influenced my choices.
I immediately chose a boy whose "normal" volume is a scream. My hearing aids actually whistled every time he spoke. After countless shushes, he either isn't able or isn't willing to adjust his volume. That's one.
My second choice was a proverbial "low talker". No amount of prompting could get her to raise her volume. Even if I increased my hearing aid volume, her little voice escaped my perception. The frustration was great. For both of us. She had to go. Two.
My third and fourth choices included a heavy accent and baby-speech. Hearing loss affects one's comprehension. Poor articulation and accents diminish my understanding of speech even more... Three and four.
Number five is the student who interrupts every other student every single time. Repeated requests for him to stop blurting over other students have been ignored. I need to be able to hear the students I call on -- one at a time. Five.
Six... number six is just a kid. A regular first grader. One I just had to choose to balance the other class.
I wish all of my choices could've been like six.
I'm not going to lie. My hearing loss influenced my choices.
I immediately chose a boy whose "normal" volume is a scream. My hearing aids actually whistled every time he spoke. After countless shushes, he either isn't able or isn't willing to adjust his volume. That's one.
My second choice was a proverbial "low talker". No amount of prompting could get her to raise her volume. Even if I increased my hearing aid volume, her little voice escaped my perception. The frustration was great. For both of us. She had to go. Two.
My third and fourth choices included a heavy accent and baby-speech. Hearing loss affects one's comprehension. Poor articulation and accents diminish my understanding of speech even more... Three and four.
Number five is the student who interrupts every other student every single time. Repeated requests for him to stop blurting over other students have been ignored. I need to be able to hear the students I call on -- one at a time. Five.
Six... number six is just a kid. A regular first grader. One I just had to choose to balance the other class.
I wish all of my choices could've been like six.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
I Just Couldn't Listen Anymore
Recently, I attended a two-day teacher institute put on by my school district. It was a huge affair for all of the teachers and staff in our large district -- about 3000+ participants strong. It was held in our city's convention center -- large rooms and partitioned off exhibition halls with high ceilings, concrete floors, lots of hard, bare surfaces, and crowded with participants.
On the first day, we were divided into large groups of several hundred and placed in these makeshift meeting rooms where a speaker stood at the front of the room with a wireless microphone that fed his voice into two free-standing speakers on either side of a curtained-off stage that cut an even larger room in half. Participants sat around tables. The tables were large and round, seating 10. There were 25 to 30 tables in our room. My school was placed near the back of the room where open doors and foot traffic to the bathrooms (and concession stand) offered up continual distraction. The day's agenda consisted of a lecture followed by table discussions.
The first thing I noticed about the meeting room arrangement was the noise. The rooms were loud, cold, and uncomfortable. The reverberating echo of the speaker's voice against the hard surfaces of the room was distracting and difficult to understand, and the side conversations of the participants flowed into my hearing devices as readily as his. I fidgeted with many setting combinations of both my CI and hearing aid to see if I could reduce the reverberation and concentrate better on what the speaker was saying. It was impossible. My hearing colleagues were also complaining of the garbled reverberation, so I knew the problem didn't lie in my own deficient hearing.
The sound challenges went from bad to worse when all 300+ participants were instructed to discuss something from the material - en masse. And then, the speaker played music while we talked so we would know to stop our discussion when the music stopped! WHAAAAAAT?!!!! I couldn't even hear the person beside me, let alone the person across the table from me. I had a massive headache before lunch even began.
Day 2 wasn't much better. Though the venue had changed, I was still sorted into a large auditorium, seated at a large round table along with 200 or so of my colleagues, and forced to endure a 2nd day of inadequate amplification and hearing hell.
I confess, that after working hard to hear and understand for the first hour or two of each day, I succumbed to disinterest and inattention, as did many of my hearing colleagues. It was simply too hard to hear, let alone comprehend. There was too much sound and too much distraction.
I complained to a district administrator, who seemed genuinely concerned about the sound problem. "We didn't even think about how it would sound in here," she said, and she promised that "next year" it would be better. But there was nothing she could do to help this year.
I suppose what we should consider here comes from within our own human nature. When our efforts aren't rewarded with success, we have a tendency to give up. We stop trying when the situation seems useless and our efforts are futile. Listening conditions are important in any meeting, and in our classrooms. Being aware of how sound affects learning is paramount. And we must be conscientious of how that sound affects what we hear, comprehend, and learn. When one has to work too hard at hearing, then listening becomes a problem.
No matter how hard I tried to attend to the meetings, the conditions I was forced to listen in made my efforts worthless. Listening became so hard and so exhausting that I simply quit trying to hear. I just couldn't listen anymore.
There are so many things about hearing that I took for granted before I lost mine. The ability to filter noise and focus on hearing what I want to hear is one of them. I do miss those days. *Sigh*
On the first day, we were divided into large groups of several hundred and placed in these makeshift meeting rooms where a speaker stood at the front of the room with a wireless microphone that fed his voice into two free-standing speakers on either side of a curtained-off stage that cut an even larger room in half. Participants sat around tables. The tables were large and round, seating 10. There were 25 to 30 tables in our room. My school was placed near the back of the room where open doors and foot traffic to the bathrooms (and concession stand) offered up continual distraction. The day's agenda consisted of a lecture followed by table discussions.
The first thing I noticed about the meeting room arrangement was the noise. The rooms were loud, cold, and uncomfortable. The reverberating echo of the speaker's voice against the hard surfaces of the room was distracting and difficult to understand, and the side conversations of the participants flowed into my hearing devices as readily as his. I fidgeted with many setting combinations of both my CI and hearing aid to see if I could reduce the reverberation and concentrate better on what the speaker was saying. It was impossible. My hearing colleagues were also complaining of the garbled reverberation, so I knew the problem didn't lie in my own deficient hearing.
The sound challenges went from bad to worse when all 300+ participants were instructed to discuss something from the material - en masse. And then, the speaker played music while we talked so we would know to stop our discussion when the music stopped! WHAAAAAAT?!!!! I couldn't even hear the person beside me, let alone the person across the table from me. I had a massive headache before lunch even began.
Day 2 wasn't much better. Though the venue had changed, I was still sorted into a large auditorium, seated at a large round table along with 200 or so of my colleagues, and forced to endure a 2nd day of inadequate amplification and hearing hell.
I confess, that after working hard to hear and understand for the first hour or two of each day, I succumbed to disinterest and inattention, as did many of my hearing colleagues. It was simply too hard to hear, let alone comprehend. There was too much sound and too much distraction.
I complained to a district administrator, who seemed genuinely concerned about the sound problem. "We didn't even think about how it would sound in here," she said, and she promised that "next year" it would be better. But there was nothing she could do to help this year.
I suppose what we should consider here comes from within our own human nature. When our efforts aren't rewarded with success, we have a tendency to give up. We stop trying when the situation seems useless and our efforts are futile. Listening conditions are important in any meeting, and in our classrooms. Being aware of how sound affects learning is paramount. And we must be conscientious of how that sound affects what we hear, comprehend, and learn. When one has to work too hard at hearing, then listening becomes a problem.
No matter how hard I tried to attend to the meetings, the conditions I was forced to listen in made my efforts worthless. Listening became so hard and so exhausting that I simply quit trying to hear. I just couldn't listen anymore.
There are so many things about hearing that I took for granted before I lost mine. The ability to filter noise and focus on hearing what I want to hear is one of them. I do miss those days. *Sigh*
Sunday, August 14, 2016
There Are Grapes
Here it is again. August 14th. A day that will live in infamy. At least for me. The day I lost my hearing. The day that set my life course towards hearing aids, audiograms, batteries, and cochlear implants...
I spent the better part of this dreaded day in my nightgown watching TV. "Buying Hawaii" to be exact, with a bit of Olympic volleyball in between, wondering and speculating how I might be able to afford retirement in the isles, but knowing I'll probably opt for something much more affordable on my teacher's retirement. I only showered to relieve the stiffness in my side and shoulder from a random fall in a parking lot yesterday. And once I was dressed, I talked my hearing husband into accompanying me to the grocery store.
I bought grapes.
I don't know when or how grapes became a comfort food. Maybe it's my unhealthy subconscious yearning for a few glasses of Sangria, but opting for grapes instead. I don't know, but I've come close to finishing the whole bunch today.
It's been four years. I wonder if there will come a time when this day will arrive unnoticed. Unmarked. Just another day on the calendar. Maybe. Someday.
Until then, though, there are grapes.
I spent the better part of this dreaded day in my nightgown watching TV. "Buying Hawaii" to be exact, with a bit of Olympic volleyball in between, wondering and speculating how I might be able to afford retirement in the isles, but knowing I'll probably opt for something much more affordable on my teacher's retirement. I only showered to relieve the stiffness in my side and shoulder from a random fall in a parking lot yesterday. And once I was dressed, I talked my hearing husband into accompanying me to the grocery store.
I bought grapes.
I don't know when or how grapes became a comfort food. Maybe it's my unhealthy subconscious yearning for a few glasses of Sangria, but opting for grapes instead. I don't know, but I've come close to finishing the whole bunch today.
It's been four years. I wonder if there will come a time when this day will arrive unnoticed. Unmarked. Just another day on the calendar. Maybe. Someday.
Until then, though, there are grapes.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
On Being Deaf and Dependent
I've been very busy this summer traveling here and there. It's not always a smooth road -- being deaf and hard of hearing (HOH) and dependent on other people for help. There are challenges you don't even think of.
Airport terminals and airplanes, loudspeakers and intercoms, piped-in music, restaurants and coffee shops, passengers talking, babies crying, bags a-rollin' -- all coupled with an unfamiliar environment. Its a veritable orgy of noise. And every single part of that revelry inundates my hearing devices with a garbled cacophony of mangled sound that nearly works me into a confusing state of anxiety. Turning my hearing aids off isn't an option. I need to hear what's going on.
As the spouse of an airline employee, I fly on the standby list, and I must listen for announcements of gate or departure changes amid the noise. And I must be able to hear when my name is called to pick up my boarding pass. As a standby passenger, I am not supposed to ask for special accommodations or services reserved for paying passengers. So I must fend for myself when I travel alone. It's no easy task. I worry that I'll miss my open flight and that catching another may be impossible. My husband keeps a close eye on my travel progress from his computer at work and texts me information, usually before I know myself. It alleviates a lot of the stress.
And boarding the plane doesn't mean the challenges end. After boarding, I am frequently engaged in conversation by the person seated next to me. Most of the time, I just nod and smile. The roar of the engines and the popping of my ears make listening and understanding my chatty neighbor very difficult. I've resorted to carrying my newest novel in my hands and sticking my nose in it as soon as I can to discourage conversation. Some of the time, the safety announcements are captioned videos. That's always good. But more often than not, I only hear them over the speaker, and they're not very clear. Luckily, I've flown enough that I could probably recite the safety announcements myself, but I've yet to understand what the captain says in his announcements.
On a recent trip, I think the flight attendant attentively noticed my CI processor and, without asking or drawing attention to it, made certain that she was bent towards me before asking if I'd like pretzels or cookies. I appreciated her effort. I wondered if she'd received a special training on speaking to HOHs or if I reminded her of her dear old granny. It doesn't matter. She was wonderful.
In truth, I can't really do it by myself. I'm pretty dependent on the actions and habits of other people to hear and understand what is happening around me. Like the flight attendant who took an extra minute to bend forward and speak directly to me. Maybe it was because she knew intuitively that I needed a little extra help. Because treating me with dignity and respect was important to her -- and to me.
Airport terminals and airplanes, loudspeakers and intercoms, piped-in music, restaurants and coffee shops, passengers talking, babies crying, bags a-rollin' -- all coupled with an unfamiliar environment. Its a veritable orgy of noise. And every single part of that revelry inundates my hearing devices with a garbled cacophony of mangled sound that nearly works me into a confusing state of anxiety. Turning my hearing aids off isn't an option. I need to hear what's going on.
As the spouse of an airline employee, I fly on the standby list, and I must listen for announcements of gate or departure changes amid the noise. And I must be able to hear when my name is called to pick up my boarding pass. As a standby passenger, I am not supposed to ask for special accommodations or services reserved for paying passengers. So I must fend for myself when I travel alone. It's no easy task. I worry that I'll miss my open flight and that catching another may be impossible. My husband keeps a close eye on my travel progress from his computer at work and texts me information, usually before I know myself. It alleviates a lot of the stress.
And boarding the plane doesn't mean the challenges end. After boarding, I am frequently engaged in conversation by the person seated next to me. Most of the time, I just nod and smile. The roar of the engines and the popping of my ears make listening and understanding my chatty neighbor very difficult. I've resorted to carrying my newest novel in my hands and sticking my nose in it as soon as I can to discourage conversation. Some of the time, the safety announcements are captioned videos. That's always good. But more often than not, I only hear them over the speaker, and they're not very clear. Luckily, I've flown enough that I could probably recite the safety announcements myself, but I've yet to understand what the captain says in his announcements.
On a recent trip, I think the flight attendant attentively noticed my CI processor and, without asking or drawing attention to it, made certain that she was bent towards me before asking if I'd like pretzels or cookies. I appreciated her effort. I wondered if she'd received a special training on speaking to HOHs or if I reminded her of her dear old granny. It doesn't matter. She was wonderful.
In truth, I can't really do it by myself. I'm pretty dependent on the actions and habits of other people to hear and understand what is happening around me. Like the flight attendant who took an extra minute to bend forward and speak directly to me. Maybe it was because she knew intuitively that I needed a little extra help. Because treating me with dignity and respect was important to her -- and to me.
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