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My parents’ hopes and dreams were shattered. They knew nothing of deafness or what it would mean to have a deaf son. The doctor tried to reassure them, advising them that, even though I was so young, if I boarded for a while at a nearby Catholic school for the deaf, I would eventually I learn to speak and write English. This was not much t comfort, for my parents knew what it would mean. Having little English themselves, they knew that they would have difficulty in communicating with me and that the family language of Yiddish would not be my first language.
Their anguish was great; they had no idea what would become of me. They certainly could never have known that deafness was not the only disability that their son would eventually have to face. My first journey was just beginning.
At first, my parents were distressed by the idea of sending me to a Catholic school and turned instead to a private school for the deaf in Durban. They had heard that a wealthy family who had a deaf child had established this school and had hired a governess from Scotland to run it. However, it had not succeeded and had closed down. So they had no choice after all but to send me to St Vincent’s School in Johannesburg, which had been run by German Dominican sisters since 1934.
Still only three years old, I was enrolled as a weekly boarder into the nursery school. Straight away I was given intensive speech training and this training was to remain a major part of my schooling for the next five years. Even so, I was nine before I could pronounce the words ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ and then my speech was barely more than a mumble. It was even longer before I could speak in sentences.
My parents found this period very distressing. I think of them as my ‘silent’ years. They were years when I watched and observed and during which I developed a kind of sixth sense, an intuition, and slowly began to make sense of the world around me.
I remember that even as Aunt May held me close on her lap when my deafness was being diagnosed, a strange feeling came upon me as I observed the anguish on my parents’ faces. Even at such a young age I was aware of their sadness. For the next five years I watched them as they spoke to each other, wondering what it was that they said. When I met other family members, I would watch their faces and see their emotions even though they could not communicate with me. I would see a loving gesture, a sympathetic eye, a smile, and feel their love and affection - and that was enough for me.
I would sit by my father as he listened to the radio, watching his face and wondering what his enjoyment could possibly be. Once, I moved towards that old-fashioned wire less and stretched my hand out to touch it. I felt the vibrations and knew that this was sound but had no real means of knowing what it was. For me, deafness was not a source of pain or loss, for I had known it all my life. Sound was a source of curiosity though. I tried to get my father’s attention by tapping on his leg because I wanted him to know that I could feel the sound and I wanted to know what it was he was listening to. I could not make myself understood and he gently put me back on my chair, putting his forefinger to his lips. I knew he was telling me to be quiet and so my curiosity about the meaning of sound and the meaning of silence remained my private wonder. It was the mystery of my life in the silence of my world. Bit by bit, and by myself, I pieced together my awareness of the world and what was happening around me. I learned what it was to be deaf and I slowly accepted it as part of me.
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