Member Profile
On Wednesday I'm Deaf, On Friday I'm Jewish
Temple Beth Solomon always holds a discussion in the early afternoon of Yom Kippur, the most holy of days, in the hopes that we can stem the hunger from our fast by filling ourselves with nourishing thoughts and ideas. This discussion usually draws a good crowd, and 2002 was better than ever as our circle of chairs grew to almost sixty. Our resident professor, Joyce Linden, led the discussion bringing her lifetime of experience as a member of the deaf community, and in particular, of the deaf, Jewish community. The chosen topic involved all the intricacies of how we identify ourselves and what elements influence why and when that identity changes in a given moment. When are we mostly identified as deaf, Jewish, or deaf/Jewish, when are we mothers or fathers, teachers, and so on. Which identity is most important to us or is there just one?
Bess Hyman
In past Yom Kippur discussions, we had chosen different issues to explore but so often came back to this one of identity that I realized this topic hits directly at the heart of the timeless question: "Who am I?" which we have been asking ourselves for millennia. We live with being deaf every moment of our lives; we live with being Jewish every day, so of course these two identities are generally in the fore front of our daily lives and they both have cultural aspects that connect us with people.
Each year, our group discussion brings to the front the personal conflicts that grow out of our being deaf, Jewish or deaf/Jewish. And each year we explore these conflicts and try to understand them in relationship to the world around us. The sixty members of our circle this year were no different. They all had personal thoughts to share, some feeling that their being deaf was more pertinent than their being Jewish and others placing their priority with Judaism first and deafness second.
But this year, in light of the 9/11 attacks and the on-going suicide bombings in Israel, we had two more dimensions to explore; the issue of being deaf in the midst of disaster and being Jewish in a world where that alone can be life-threatening. There is an inherent uncertainty and anxiety that deaf people automatically suffer in an emergency situation. When your life is dependent upon information and that information is moving at lightening speed in a chaotic situation and you do not have access to it, it is terrifying. The question then became are we more afraid of being deaf or Jewish? We were now not only being asked to place a rating on our being deaf and our being Jewish, but we are being asked to define the degree of fear which either can instill within us.
I did a lot of thinking about this. I was Jewish before I became deaf. Although I had a slight hearing loss from birth, I was raised hearing. I grew up with a lot of love and admiration for Judaism. I celebrated the holidays with my family and observed the customs and learned the reasons for following them. I attended a religious school from the age of seven and grew up with Jewish friends. At fifteen, I joined a Jewish club in high school. At eighteen, I stood on a New York street corner collecting funds for a dreamed-of Jewish homeland. At twenty-one, I was a member of Junior Hadassah. At twenty-five, I married the president of the Long Island region of Masada, a Jewish Zionist youth group. At twenty-seven, we sat in the third tier of Madison Square Garden and listened as Golda Meir made an appeal for the establishment of a Jewish state in the near east and we cried as they played Hatikvah. At thirty, I gave birth to my oldest son, the same year the state of Israel was established, so we gave our baby a Hebrew name only, not an English one.
Six years later, while I was carrying my second son, my hearing started to deteriorate further. I started to use a hearing aid while remaining a member of the hearing world. I knew nothing about commercial signal lights or baby-cry alarms but we improvised for ourselves and created our own with the help of a hearing friend who was an engineer. Twenty years later, my hearing had fallen off to the extent that the aid would no longer help. I could no longer identify myself as hard of hearing, I was now deaf, which brought with it new ways of being and doing and viewing myself.
When I went to services at my temple, I found it impossible to follow the liturgy or the rabbi's sermons. Much to my embarrassment, I remained standing long after everyone else had sat down. And what was more agonizing, I lost my social life. I was lonely. I could only communicate with one person at a time and even then I had to strain for understanding. I missed a lot and started to realize how crucial simple information was to communication and how crucial communication itself was to life and how this affected my identity-who was I now?
Then a friend told me about Temple Beth Solomon of the Deaf and eventually I found myself with them on a Friday night. Here I was among another group of people who I didn't understand, but I liked what I found. Here was potential for a new community for me-a new identity-all I had to do was learn sign language. I faced new challenges in coordinating my fingers and hands to say the words that would connect me once again to life. Sign language introduced me to my new deaf world. I made many new friends and participated with them in their activities; their games became my games and even better, their Shabbat prayers became my Shabbat prayers. I now had a community, who understood my issues, to talk with about the fears of being deaf in a hearing world and learned different ways to cope with disasters and safety. I was no longer alone. Humans were not meant to be alone. Loneliness is more of a disaster than anything else, it kills you slowly. I had a community again.
Yom Kippur, a time for introspection, I am asked to explore which do I consider comes first-my being Jewish or my being deaf? How can I place a priority on one or the other? My Jewish identity is older, but without sign language it may have faded into obscurity. My deaf identity is only 29 years old, but it has brought friends, inspirations and a depth to my life, of which I would never have dreamed.
Our identities change moment to moment, there need be no conflict. When I come to Temple Beth Solomon on Wednesdays for the senior citizens socials, I am Deaf, with a capital "D". When I come to Temple Beth Solomon on Friday nights for Shabbat services, I am Jewish, with a capital "J", but I am still deaf, with a small "d".More Profiles...