The Best And Worst Of Who I Am.
My first memories are from the crib. I remember darkness and fear. There were shadows on the wall casting through the window of what my mom now uses as a computer room. I remember screaming and crying in terror, but that's really all I remember. I'm sure my mom or dad sleepily shuffled into the room and soothed the crying toddler after being awoken by the sound-sensitive flashing light that notified them that I was in distress.
Most of my childhood was as ordinary as one would expect for the only child of two deaf parents being raised as a 4th generation Montanan in a bygone copper smelting town. CODAs is what we are referred to as. Child Of Deaf Adults. I was constantly reminded growing up that my situation was anything but ordinary, but for most of my younger life all I wanted was to be ordinary. To not be the kid who talks to his parents with his hands, or has the ugly red hair and freckles. My experience seemed very singular compared to other kids around me. I felt alien in a lot of ways - allow me to further illustrate. I was born with an inborn illness called PKU (phenylketonuria), which is an inability to metabolize the amino acid phenylalanine, which is found in most protein-based foods, but especially in foods such as nuts, eggs, dairy, most meats, poultry, and fish. So what does that leave me to eat, you ask? The answer is not much. Fruits and vegetables were a staple food for me, and there were special "phenyl-free" foods that my mom would have to order through the hospital pharmacy. These foods were as expensive as some prescription medications, and my parents worked their asses off to try and sustain a middle class lifestyle for us, so affording these foods was a burden on them. That's a story for another day.
At school the lunch ladies were debriefed on my hyper-restrictive diet early on, and knew exactly what I could and could not eat. Rice, great. Peaches and corn, fantastic. But if they or the lunch room staff were to ever see me sneaking a chicken nugget from a friend's tray, or taking a swig of their chocolate milk, there would be hell to pay when I got home, courtesy of mom. It was strange to my friends that I couldn't eat what they were eating for lunch, or that I couldn't have cake and ice cream at their birthday parties. I still think about the bewildered looks that my family would get when we would go to a restaurant for dinner (this only ever happened on pay day and usually preceded a grocery trip to Buttrey Food & Drug store). My mom would bring a phenyl-free meal with us for me to eat while they enjoyed whatever the offerings were at that particular restaurant. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure what caused people to stare more, my pre-made, brought-from-home sustenance, or the fact that everyone at our table were talking with their hands and rarely with any voice.
Needless to say, as a child, I longed to feel ordinary. I was desperate to be a face in the crowd. I remember acting out because I was frustrated with not being able to communicate like the other kids, but I also remember the pride I felt when people would compliment me for knowing sign language. It was a weird rollercoaster to be on as a young child. The things that made me unique created a hyper-focus for most grown ups, and would garner ridicule and shame from peers. I was the kid who was outside the box, slightly askew, and a little more noticeable.
Back in those days, my favorite toys were empty boxes and hampers. I would climb inside and imagine whatever world that I wanted it to be. Sometimes a race car, other times a space ship, and sometimes I'd climb inside and feel like I was invisible; that no one, not even my parents could see me. It's taken me some 30 years to realize the inadvertent metaphor there.
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Jeri