arkallen
Distinguished member
- Joined
- Mar 8, 2009
- Messages
- 268
- Reason
- Other
- Diagnosis
- 05/2009
- Country
- AU
- State
- VIC
- City
- Wodonga
I simply will not speak to bus drivers any more, not a word!
More accurately, I cannot speak to bus drivers any more. Instead, I have a small deck of laminated cards on which I have printed courteous requests for tickets and the stops where I wish to disembark. For ten days now I have been embarking in mute silence. It feels eerie, surreal; and I can’t quite believe that I am actually doing it. I feel like a researcher in a social experiment, launched on an unsuspecting world to discover how people respond to the speech-impaired. Of my several printed cards, the one that yields the most spectacular response from the public is this one:
"Sorry, my voice is no good"
This brief message is the catalyst for some extraordinary reactions. For example, this week I have met:
The Sergeant Major. This is the bus driver who helps by SPEAKING IN A LOUD, CLEAR VOICE. Not only did he raise his voice, but he slowed it down as well; leaning in towards me, with his chops pushed out in a creepy, exaggerated sort of way, presumably to help with my lip-reading. What is going on here? It’s my voice sir, not my ears!
The Teacher. The driver who reads my cards out loud. Maybe he reads everything out loud? Maybe he’s speaking for both of us? Maybe he feels the whole bus should share in the moment?
The Padre. This bus driver snapped immediately into counsellor mode, going to lengths to reassure me. “That’s OK, don’t you worry”. No mate, this is not OK at all!
The Simpleton. Then there was the driver who decided that my problems were actually of grammatical origin, and so he helpfully dropped all the conjunctions from his sentences, as in: “You go town?” If one was the type to get offended, one might.
The Gossip. Then, and I really liked this one, there was the driver who followed me down the aisle of the bus to find out more. “Now what have you done to yourself? Where’s your voice gone? Aren’t you going to talk to me today?” All I could do was smile, shrug, and produce my little card once more.
Marcel Marceau. There was a member of the public who had some excellent tricks up his sleeve. I Managed to get hung up (again!) on one of those tricky little ramps from road to footpath. If they are too steep, and if you hit them too slow, the mid-wheel drive ends up spinning in mid air. Soon enough a car pulled up and a Gent sprang out with loads of advice and reassurance – until I flashed my card for his benefit. Immediately, immediately, this fellow clammed his mouth shut and began to convey his plans to help me through a combination of mime and some breed of home-made sign language that was quite beyond me. I felt like suggesting he get a little set of cards to help with his speech difficulties.
The Madonna (with child). Then there was the clerk at the motor registry. I had quite a bit to get through, transferring the registration for our new wheelchair vehicle from one state to another, with engineer’s certificates and statutory declarations to be sighted and signed. For all but a few words I relied on my little cards and on messages typed into my phone, and this seemed to do the trick. Until we had to go out to the car park to check the engine number. She held my hand! She held my hand!
What is going on here? My awkwardness seems contagious; spreading in the way a yawn engulfs a room. Over the last couple of years I’ve become acclimatised to people’s reaction to disability, and most people are terrific. But what is it with silence that throws people so out of kilter? Is it compassion, or embarrassment, or sympathy, or fear, or confusion, or something more fundamental, more archetypal? My instinct is that speech is so elemental to humanity that its absence is disorienting. To rob a human of their voice is inhumane. I think voicelessness is provocative also, drawing out of people an unexpected response that is poignant (if alarming!) in its eagerness to help and its desire to bond. The creation story holds that the Almighty used words alone to make our world; before the self-centredness of man wreaked its havoc, epitomised finally in the Tower of Babel where the unity of culture and language was confused and lost. Babel comes to mind whenever I board a bus!
It’s early days, but I think the fear of becoming mute is the dread of isolation. And so I feel moved, deeply touched, by the members of the human family on the busses and around my town who reach out to prevent that from happening. Inept and inappropriate perhaps, but I feel the love! And I am grateful.
More accurately, I cannot speak to bus drivers any more. Instead, I have a small deck of laminated cards on which I have printed courteous requests for tickets and the stops where I wish to disembark. For ten days now I have been embarking in mute silence. It feels eerie, surreal; and I can’t quite believe that I am actually doing it. I feel like a researcher in a social experiment, launched on an unsuspecting world to discover how people respond to the speech-impaired. Of my several printed cards, the one that yields the most spectacular response from the public is this one:
"Sorry, my voice is no good"
This brief message is the catalyst for some extraordinary reactions. For example, this week I have met:
The Sergeant Major. This is the bus driver who helps by SPEAKING IN A LOUD, CLEAR VOICE. Not only did he raise his voice, but he slowed it down as well; leaning in towards me, with his chops pushed out in a creepy, exaggerated sort of way, presumably to help with my lip-reading. What is going on here? It’s my voice sir, not my ears!
The Teacher. The driver who reads my cards out loud. Maybe he reads everything out loud? Maybe he’s speaking for both of us? Maybe he feels the whole bus should share in the moment?
The Padre. This bus driver snapped immediately into counsellor mode, going to lengths to reassure me. “That’s OK, don’t you worry”. No mate, this is not OK at all!
The Simpleton. Then there was the driver who decided that my problems were actually of grammatical origin, and so he helpfully dropped all the conjunctions from his sentences, as in: “You go town?” If one was the type to get offended, one might.
The Gossip. Then, and I really liked this one, there was the driver who followed me down the aisle of the bus to find out more. “Now what have you done to yourself? Where’s your voice gone? Aren’t you going to talk to me today?” All I could do was smile, shrug, and produce my little card once more.
Marcel Marceau. There was a member of the public who had some excellent tricks up his sleeve. I Managed to get hung up (again!) on one of those tricky little ramps from road to footpath. If they are too steep, and if you hit them too slow, the mid-wheel drive ends up spinning in mid air. Soon enough a car pulled up and a Gent sprang out with loads of advice and reassurance – until I flashed my card for his benefit. Immediately, immediately, this fellow clammed his mouth shut and began to convey his plans to help me through a combination of mime and some breed of home-made sign language that was quite beyond me. I felt like suggesting he get a little set of cards to help with his speech difficulties.
The Madonna (with child). Then there was the clerk at the motor registry. I had quite a bit to get through, transferring the registration for our new wheelchair vehicle from one state to another, with engineer’s certificates and statutory declarations to be sighted and signed. For all but a few words I relied on my little cards and on messages typed into my phone, and this seemed to do the trick. Until we had to go out to the car park to check the engine number. She held my hand! She held my hand!
What is going on here? My awkwardness seems contagious; spreading in the way a yawn engulfs a room. Over the last couple of years I’ve become acclimatised to people’s reaction to disability, and most people are terrific. But what is it with silence that throws people so out of kilter? Is it compassion, or embarrassment, or sympathy, or fear, or confusion, or something more fundamental, more archetypal? My instinct is that speech is so elemental to humanity that its absence is disorienting. To rob a human of their voice is inhumane. I think voicelessness is provocative also, drawing out of people an unexpected response that is poignant (if alarming!) in its eagerness to help and its desire to bond. The creation story holds that the Almighty used words alone to make our world; before the self-centredness of man wreaked its havoc, epitomised finally in the Tower of Babel where the unity of culture and language was confused and lost. Babel comes to mind whenever I board a bus!
It’s early days, but I think the fear of becoming mute is the dread of isolation. And so I feel moved, deeply touched, by the members of the human family on the busses and around my town who reach out to prevent that from happening. Inept and inappropriate perhaps, but I feel the love! And I am grateful.