DeafSpace designer, Robert Sirvage, spends his days thinking about how to make buildings accessible for deaf people. He considers the dynamics of light and shadow, the welcoming curve of walls, the power of an uninterrupted line of sight. Sirvage suggests, that instead of blocking your ears, the closest way a hearing person can experience deafness is if they were to walk backwards.
As I walk, my body listens.
Hemming myself tightly to the left side of the footpath, I watch the water as I walk. The river widens and deepens. Its skin spangled and rippling, its rhythm tidal and recursive.
And yet, it fails to hold my attention.
Instead, my eyes swing back and forth, back and forth. I scan the concrete path, watching for the quick, boxy shadow cast by bicycles. Cyclists appear out of nowhere, passing in packs of two or three or four.
Eventually, near Noller Bridge, I veer off the path and onto the spongy grass. Instantly, my shoulders drop, unencumbered by the concern of cyclists. From the base of an oak, I watch the trees along the riverbank breathing, leaves lightly licking the air. Under its canopy, I hear the oak shiver.
The gravel is loose underfoot. My walking speed slows. I pay close attention as my sneakers imprint the ground. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I discovered that feet can be loud.
For several months I had been feeling lonely. This feeling would become painfully acute during nights out with friends. Each bar was too dark and too crowded, to communicate. I would slip away, lock myself in a toilet cubicle. Somehow being by myself felt less isolating than standing in a crowded room. I became fixated on trialling hearing aids, convinced that technology would solve my issues.
‘You probably won’t like them,’ warned my audiologist.
‘You’ve had well over twenty years without them … you’ve gotten used to the world as it is.’
‘It’s worth a shot,’ my voice felt thin.
She fitted the aids to my ears.
‘Try these out for the next two weeks. And then let me know if you want to invest in a pair.’
Leaving the clinic, I strode forward with purpose, eager to start my exciting new life. My joy ebbed. What was that sound? Each step I took was a rude, forceful slap off the pavement.
For the next fortnight I persisted, hopeful and committed to a vision of late nights of dancing and easy conversation. But my ears couldn’t adjust. No matter how quietly, how softly I moved—my feet, clothes, even hair, distracted me. I spoke only when it felt necessary, too discomforted by the sound of my own voice.
When returning the hearing aids, I told the audiologist she was right. I had hated the experience. Ears unadorned, it was a relief to slide back into the gaps and spaces between sound. Only then, I could begin to hear myself think again.'
