O Night Divine

It’s Christmas, a time when almost all bloggers feel compelled to share a Christmas story. I usually try to avoid orthodox behaviors, but I’ve got Santa looking over my shoulder here, so today I’ll go mainstream.

This story took place three years ago, a few days after Thanksgiving. My brother Bob was getting married at his house on the near north side of Chicago. My family lives in Cary, about 40 miles northwest of the city. To avoid the drive and eradicate global warming, Karina and I decided to take a commuter train downtown, walk five blocks through the Loop, and take the subway to my brother’s neighborhood. We thought it’d be nice for the kids to see the city’s towering Christmas tree on Daley Plaza and take in the window displays at what was then still Marshall Field’s (now it’s Macy’s, a fact few Chicagoans acknowledge).

So we did this, and it was in fact delightful. The tree was as tall and beautiful as we remembered it from our childhood, and the kids squirmed their way through the crowds huddled at Field’s windows, getting their noses up close to the glass. Then we went over to the subway entrance and walked down the long flight of stairs.

As we slowly descended, Karina and I chatted with each other in sign language. Like many late-deafened people, I have to pay close attention to understand signs and I become oblivious to everything else in the surroundings. About halfway down, Karina motioned me to look in the direction we were heading.

There at the bottom of the steps stood a black man, like an apparition, looking directly at us. He wore a frayed brown fedora and a rumpled tweed sports coat several sizes too big, a person obviously down on his luck. He continued to look at us intently as we descended. Then with hesitance he finger spelled the words “Bill…Bill Graham.”

Startled, I cautiously signed “Yes.” Only gradually did I realize that I knew this person. I knew this person finger spelling my name. He smiled and with big signs and voice said “Good to see you.” “Hi,” I signed weakly, trying to place him and remember his name. He saved me by saying “Morris.” He finger spelled it as well.

Morris, I thought to myself….Morris…How do I know him? Then came the dawn of recognition: “Morris!” I shouted. “Morris Haynes!”

Morris had been in my very first sign language class at the Chicago Hearing Society almost 30 years ago. A hearing person, he took the class because he had a deaf cousin.

We shook hands warmly, and I introduced him to my wife and kids. He smiled broadly.

“This is wonderful,” he said, and with a waggle of his index finger signed: “Where are you going?”

I told him about my brother’s wedding, and he again said: “This is wonderful.”

Then he paused a moment in thought.

“I would like to sing your children a song,” he said finally.

I looked at Karina, who nodded. “Okay,” I said.

Morris led us over to a post where a cigar box lay on the platform. He positioned himself next to it and told the kids to stand right in front of him. Then he began to sing. It happened to be one of my favorite Christmas songs, “O Holy Night.”

Morris looked at my kids while he sang, his eyes never leaving their faces, his voice echoing off the tunnel walls. “….The stars are brightly shining…..A thrill of hope….For yonder breaks…..O hear the angels voices!.....O night divine….Led by the light……He knows our need……Behold your king!....”

 We could hear the train coming from down the track. In a minute or so we would be on our way.

“O HEAR the angels VOIces! Oh night divine….”

The train roared closer, building to a crescendo. Morris sang louder. 

“O NIGHTTT! O HOly NIGHTTT! O NIGHT DIVINNNEEEE!”

As he finished the train rolled into the station, like it was carefully planned.

Morris said to our kids: “Did you like it?” They nodded.

“That was beautiful,” Karina said, signing.

“Thank you,” I signed.

Awkwardly, I took out my wallet. I removed a ten dollar bill and placed it in his box.

“Thank you,” I signed again, and we hugged.

“Have a merry Christmas,” he said to me, and then to my family.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, as I started to walk away. “You take care.”

“Merry Christmas, Bill.”

 “I hope to see you again.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Karina and the kids waved me onto the train. I boarded and stood at the door looking out. Morris had moved to another area of the platform. As he positioned his box, our train began to move and quickly gathered speed. Soon we would be at my brother’s wedding.

I turned to Karina and she signed: “He has a really beautiful baritone voice.”

“That was wonderful,” I signed. “Wonderful.”

Morris will probably never know how special his song was. Or that he’s been in my heart on Christmas ever since, his voice resounding in the tunnel as that train approached the station.

Merry Christmas, Morris. Merry Christmas. I hope you’re well.

Catch Me if You Can

I travel a lot because I live in Chicago and my job is in Seattle. That’s a long story that friends already know and I’m not inclined today to explain it to others-who-really-don’t-care-but-want-to-know-anyway. I’ll leave that stirring drama of heartbreak and triumph for another blog. The blog I’m writing today is far less ambitious, and therefore very much like myself. It’s about having bilateral cochlear implants and going through airport security scanners.

 

As all c. i. users know, when they walk through airport scanners they have a terrific opportunity to educate TSA employees and travelers waiting in line with their shoes off. When the guy with the badge peers at you curiously and says: “What’s that on your head?” you should respond “It’s a cochlear implant” and explain in appropriate detail how the device works and how it benefits you. Then the badge says, “That’s really great. But you can’t take that can of Red Bull through, sir. You’ll have to leave it here.”

 

Well, I’m a lousy implant evangelist. I just want to get through the scanners without a hassle after the mind-numbing cattle drive to get there. With my first c. i. this is no problem. My hair is long enough to cover most of the headpiece and I don't use a T-mic, so the c. i. looks no more than an outsized hearing aid or Bluetooth gadget.  Plus, it has never activated a scanner's alarm. Typically I get through without breaking stride or attracting attention. I then grab my shoes, my keys, my wallet, and other terrorist threats from the portable bin and high-tail it to the terminal. Gate C-26 lounge here I come. Yesss!

 

Now I have a second c. i.; this one has a T-mic that hangs down at a slightly odd angle from my ear. After a year, I still don’t feel comfortable wearing it in tandem with my golden oldie. Part of the reason is that I haven’t gotten notable benefits from C. I. No. 2 yet (another epic blog there…be patient, my friends). So functionally the c. i. is more like jewelry than a life-changing hearing apparatus. And, much to my wife’s distress, I’m not big on jewelry. I’d feel uncomfortable with a flashy lapel pin, cufflinks, or nose ring, too. You can take the boy out of the South Side of Chicago, but you can’t take....etc. etc. It’s true.

 

Another reason I’m uncomfortable going through security two c. i.'s at once is that my bilateral condition seems to capture the fascination of the whole airport community. The first time I did this on a trip the implant set off the scanner and two or three badges converged on me with intent to pat down, looking directly at my head. With forbearance, I explained to them the kind of heat my head was packing. Perhaps they were having simultaneous bad hair days but none of them smiled and said “That’s really great.” Instead, with Buster Keaton miens and barely perceptible nods they sent me on my way. Same to you, guys. Wait’ll you become deaf.

 

Anyway, now when I fly I take off my second c. i. as I approach the scanner. I put it in the bin with my shoes, my keys, my wallet, and my Blackberry, and let it ride on the conveyer belt to the place of safety. Meanwhile I walk through the scanner wearing only one c. i., as I have for more than a decade. The badge looks at me dispassionately, checks my ticket, and motions me through. And that’s it: I’m free to gather up all my stuff and head to Gate C-26, unmolested.

 

As I walk down the terminal reattaching my second c. i., I contemplate wearing both c. i.’s through the scanner next time. And if I get to the other side without setting off a convocation of badges, I’ll very likely say to myself: “That’s really great.”

Deaf Driving

Tony’s cheerleading team did great the second day of the competition and they finished 0.07 of a point behind the team that was Grand Champion. That point spread looks very Bond-ian, and Tony certainly was surrounded by enough girls to make the connection relevant. Watching cheerleader girls fawn over him every practice and competition makes me wonder what my life might have been like if I’d been a cheerleader instead of a dugout/bench/court rat. Maybe I’d be the highest late-deafened roller in Monte Carlo right now or get to use cool weapons. Or maybe I’d be dead. Hmmm. I guess baseball, basketball, and tennis had upsides, too.

The trip to Indianapolis turned out better than I expected. I car pooled with another Cheer Fusion mom…I mean “a” Cheer Fusion mom…which in hindsight was pretty smart. Although I’m functionally deaf in conversations with multiple hearing people, I can handle most 1:1 conversations pretty well. Plus I drive a hybrid that is pretty quiet unless there are two relentlessly noisy cheer children in the back seat, which there were, but let’s not quibble. It was still a better situation than five cheer moms talking fast in a restaurant.

Indianapolis is four hours from the Chicago suburb where I live. I can’t consistently understand a passenger without some lip-reading, so for much of the drive my head was at a 90 degree angle and I wandered between the lane divider and the shoulder at over 70 mph. And, oh yes, I occasionally checked and sent messages on my Blackberry to make things a tad more challenging. (My equal rights statement to bad-driving cell phone users.) With two kids in the back seat, I should have been arrested, but hey, that’s just how deaf people drive. Even late-deafened people can get the hang of it if they’re foolish enough to work at it.

Stephanie, the cheer mom who bravely accompanied me, is a lawyer, and when we left her driveway I thought the trip would be a conversation disaster. She talks fast and tends to turn away when she finishes her remarks. I had to educate her about my needs—namely, talk s-l-o-w and look at me. I’ve been in this situation a zillion times and half a zillion times the outcome has been a bust despite my best efforts. Fast talkers tend to remain fast talkers even at gunpoint.

By the time we were ten miles into the drive I probably had told Stephanie to please slow down maybe five times, which averages to approximately 35 please-slow-downs per hour or about 140 please-slow-downs to Indianapolis. But Stephanie caught on better than many people I’ve known, and by the Indiana border we were doing fairly well. So were the kids, since she had provided melatonin pills to help them fall asleep. Tony never had one before, and he quickly conked out. Veronica, Stephanie’s daughter, had apparently developed some immunity to the pills as she only briefly went silent.

In any case, Stephanie and I had a really nice discussion for 3-plus hours. I learned more about the Cheer Fusion program than I had in the last ten months combined. I learned about the various conflicts and intrigues among the moms, which was worth the price of gas right there. For example, one mom is a real pain-in-the-ass and wants to start her own gym and bring the coaches with her. That’s good information to have if there’s an IPO. I also learned the names of a lot of the other cheer moms and their daughters. And I learned a lot about Stephanie and her family.

After we arrived in Indianapolis I went out to dinner with Stephanie and another cheer mom and her daughters. They mimicked Stephanie’s way of interacting with me, and so I got to know them, too. The rest of the weekend I periodically hung around with Stephanie and got to know other moms and even one dad who actually showed up on his own volition. All of this made me feel more a part of the dysfunctional Cheer Fusion family and I only read half of my New Yorker magazine while I sat in the stands over the two days and 12 hours of competition. They don’t have dirt about pain-in-the-ass cheer moms in the New Yorker. But the cheer mom grapevine does.

So when’s the next big meet with a long drive? I want to car pool again.

Cheer Mania

I’m here in Indianapolis at a cheerleading competition with my son Tony. Tony, 10, is a cheerleader for Cheer Fusion, a cutting edge program that costs a lot and involves sacrificing your life to driving and meets. There are 52 teams here with over 200 individual squads. Every so often I take off one of my cochlear implants to stop the ringing in my head. Fortunately most of the cheerleaders are girls and I don’t hear high frequency sounds very well. But some of the parent groups, including ours, use thunder bats to assist their lungs when the team comes out and then it’s like a rock concert. 

 

My daughter Eva, 12, is also a Cheer Fusion cheerleader, one level higher than Tony, but she’s back in Chicago this time for a school cheer competition. So it’s just me and the boy at this two-day spectacular in the Indianapolis Convention Center. The convention center is downtown and everything costs a fortune: parking is $50, in-room Internet goes for $10, orange juice costs $4….and no disabled discounts. If the cheer program itself doesn’t break you, the meets will.

 

We may be the only father-and-son tandem on site. I know we are the only father-with-bilateral-implants-and-son tandem here. And I’m rotten with background noise….I mean really rotten, maybe in the lower 10 percentile among c. i. users. With the thunder bats going, verbal communication is pretty much impossible. I have magazines along to ease my pain.

 

I haven’t missed a meet all year. I plan out-of-town business trips around meets so I’ll be there. The meets are full-day events--sometimes two days like this one—and I often sit for six hours to watch my kids perform for two minutes. I’m usually with my wife who I can talk with in sign, but we tend to run out of things to say to each other after the fourth or fifth hour. This weekend I have a heckuva lot more communication down time to burn.

 

But this is one of those father-son bonding opportunities. My boy, truth be told, communicates mostly with my wife. He doesn’t know many signs—an outcome of the very common signing-dad-with-implant-signing-wife-with-hearing conflict—and for the last year he (and the rest of the family) have been increasingly frustrated because I continue to practice with my second c. i. singly and I’m not doing very well with it. So it’s good for me to go out on dates with Tony when there’s no recourse but to talk to me. I know I should do this more often, just so it isn’t a cheerleading meet every time.

 

Ooops, time to end this blog and wake him up. Get him dressed, eat breakfast, check out of the hotel, and then onward to the big second day of competition. After Day 1, his team is in first place among 26 others in his division so they have a shot at Grand Champion. He doesn’t care if he wins or loses (an attitude I wish could be preserved in amber), but I’ll be thrilled if they do. I’m more competitive than he is, and I want my money’s worth after 12 hours of sitting and hundreds of dollars of Indianapolis. And oh yes, those thunder bats. I’ll hear them in my electrodes for a week or more.