Preamble:
I wasn’t just her hand, I was her ears.
Hi everyone, my name is Jad and I’ll be giving Farah a little bit of a break with this week’s blog post. Instead of the normal blog post I’ve written an essay that reflects on the role hearing siblings can play in the lives of their brothers and sisters with hearing loss. In future 2-Cent takeovers, I hope to continue sharing stories that show how siblings, friends, and family members can shape the success, confidence, and sense of belonging of those navigating hearing loss. For some context, I’m Farah’s older brother, Jad. I’ve been part of her hearing-loss journey for as long as I can remember, as her unofficial diagnostician, observer, advocate, and now partner in this work. I’m currently a student at Washington University (in St. Louis), and for my exposition writing class, taught by the wonderful Professor Mathew Shipe, we were asked to think and write about language. I chose to approach that assignment from a different angle: by examining language through its absence, its barriers, and its fragility. The essay that follows explores hearing loss and my experience with it through a creative, analytical, research-based, and reflective lens. I hope you enjoy!
DEAFying Expectations of Language
Silence. For some, a choice, for some an offense, for some an obligation. Perhaps surprisingly, the influence language has on identity often parallels the impact of never experiencing language at all. Similarly, the effects of being multilingual can mirror the complex realities of living with cochlear implants. As a brother to a deaf and bilaterally cochlear-implanted sister, I’ve witnessed both the power of intentional exposure to language and the divide and connection it can create. I’ve seen the tears shed from overstimulation, the conflicts sparked by forgetting to hear, and the victories hard-won in the fight for proper accommodation. When conversations turn to the intricacies of language, grammar, syntax, dialects, and accents, we rarely consider the complete absence of language access. Rarer still is the recognition of the unique, in-between space of situational access to language and the identity that can sprout from it.
You could say I’ve literally been in-DOC-trinated, between my parents dressing me in baby scrubs, exposing me to medicine at a young age by showing me family members’ surgeries, and educating me on the processes: all while my primary focus was on my sweet reunion with Pokémon Rangers. I was taught early how cochlear implants (CIs) allow people born with damage to a small, spiral-shaped structure critical to hearing, the cochlea, to experience sound by directly stimulating the auditory nerve, restoring access to hearing that would otherwise be lost. My favorite example of my early drive towards medicine was performing my first clinical diagnosis at the ripe age of two (as per my mother's recollection) I was responsible for my sisters diagnosis of hearing loss, what really happened is that baby Jad felt the urge to play his symphony on a toy piano for his sleeping sister and his mother rushed in to halt the performance and realized Farah wasn’t reacting to the obnoxiously loud yet (at least in his mind) tasteful melody thusly this discovery led to further investigation as Jad kept playing with no change in Farah’s slumber, which eventually led to doctor visits, professional tests, and a confirmation of his “diagnosis” and thus began the (hopefully) future Dr. Bader’s journey. As I grew older, I realized I was already practicing elements of Ear, Nose, and Throat medicine in my daily life: unconsciously acting as a second ear for my sister, redefining what I considered “normal,” and developing patience beyond my years. It was during my teenage years that I reflected on these habits and the mindset they had instilled in me, particularly when I began accompanying my sister on Zoom calls with families considering cochlear implants. I remember specifically explaining why glasses for sight are not a perfect analogy for cochlear implants. Glasses simply focus light in the same way a natural lens does; cochlear implants, however, are artificial. They are computerized imitations of natural sound processing, operating in a way completely different from the body’s machinery.
I propose that much of the identity-shaping power of implants stems from the very fact that they are “unnatural,” yet groundbreaking technologies. From an outside perspective, Cochlear implants (CI) might seem comparable to glasses—you wouldn’t expect a glasses-wearer to need accommodations, extra time, sympathy, or patience; they’re effectively “fixed.” However, incorporating language through a cochlear implant is far from as instantaneous as putting on glasses. In my sister’s case, it took (and in some ways continues) years of combined effort from her family, her speech-language pathologist, Dr. Diane Brackett; her audiologist, Dr. Kristin Dilaj; her teachers who used her communication journal; and every friend patient enough to repeat themselves. I see it as analogous to perfect pitch: some people are born with the innate ability to identify musical notes, while most must practice intentionally, train their ears, and rely on an expert to point out mistakes. Having cochlear implants is like being the only person without perfect pitch in a music class. A classic example is my sister’s “Farah-isms.” Sometimes, she (and other CI recipients) unknowingly integrates misheard words or phrases into her vocabulary at a much higher rate than a typical hearing person. A few memorable ones include Benzo-box (for Bento box), Prosecco (for Prosciutto), Prostitution (for Prosecution), Vaseline (for Vaccine), TP scan (for CT scan), and Eggs Benadryl (for Eggs Benedict). Mishearing is not a sign of inattention but of perception stretched to its limits. As hearing loss narrows the range of audible frequencies, the crisp edges of consonants blur; s, f, and th dissolve into one another. Lipreading offers only imperfect salvation: p, b, and m look identical on the lips, leaving context as the only lifeline.
Some may think that techological advances may solve this "problem"; however, even technology, from hearing aids to cochlear implants, translates sound as an imperfect code, compressing pitch and tone into something merely close to familiar. When speech quickens, words smear together, and the brain, working overtime, reconstructs meaning from rhythm and expectation. Sometimes it’s close; sometimes Prosecco becomes Prosciutto. Each confusion reveals not disarray but the remarkable cognitive work of making sense from fragments. For my sister, meeting other CI recipients who shared these struggles was deeply comforting: the same comfort you feel when greeted in your mother tongue abroad, performing your group’s secret handshake, or stepping into a familiar home. It shows how shared understanding of the difficulties in connecting with language as a CI user can catalyze identity formation. The greatest obstacles are not technological limits, but the lack of connection and the misunderstanding and dismissal of others.
However, this empowerment through technology exists in tension with cultural perceptions that frame cochlear implants not as bridges, but as betrayals. I was startled to discover the negative stigma toward those with cochlear implants within Deaf community. To many Deaf individuals, implants represent a rejection of the linguistic and cultural heritage embodied by American Sign Language (ASL)—a decision seen as aligning with the hearing world at the cost of one’s Deaf identity. This perception underscores how unlike glasses they are; no one accuses the nearsighted of abandoning their identity by choosing to see more clearly. Yet cochlear implants are burdened with cultural symbolism: they suggest that deafness is something to be corrected rather than embraced. The Deaf community distinguishes between “Deaf” with a capital D and “deaf” with a lowercase d—the former signifying cultural belonging, linguistic pride, and connection through ASL, and the latter referring only to the medical condition of hearing loss. One single capitalization holds immense weight: it can signal acceptance into a rich, visual language culture or symbolize rejection of oral communication and cochlear implants altogether. For those who use implants, this creates a painful paradox, struggling to identify with a community whose very foundation rests on the refusal of the technology that defines your experience. Hearing people, meanwhile, often assume that implants “fix” hearing entirely, failing to recognize the continued need for accommodation or empathy. Thus, both worlds, hearing and Deaf, can misunderstand what it means to live between silence and sound. The tension runs deeper than mere disagreement; for the Deaf community, language is identity. ASL is not simply a means of communication but a shared culture, history, and worldview: a tradition passed through hands and expressions rather than speech. From that perspective, cochlear implants appear as agents of linguistic erasure, threatening to sever the bond that unites Deaf people across generations. Yet ironically, this same connection to language as an act of building identity through communication also forms the heart of the CI experience. If ASL unites the Deaf community through shared fluency, then the CI community forms its own identity through the shared struggle to bridge languages, to listen, and to be understood at all.
It is within the complex interplay of sound, silence, and belonging that a different kind of community begins to take shape. Imagine, then, a city built by and for cochlear implant wearers. The doors of every home are never knocked but instead connected to deaf-accommodating door “bells.” Laughter fills the air a moment too early or too late. Misunderstanding has its own gentle dialect. Every classroom has captions scrolling along the walls. A mini-mic rests at each desk like a small bridge of trust. Fire alarms flash and vibrate rather than scream. Repetition is not impatience but care. “Farah-isms” are not considered errors but a shared accent, proof that meaning can take many shapes. In this imagined community, communication is less about perfect hearing and more about collective patience, about the beautiful, persistent effort to be understood and have access.
Similar to the transition from deaf to hearing with CIs, Jhumpa Lahiri’s reflections in In Other Words describe her metamorphosis of writing in Italian rather than English. She recalls the Greek story in which, in an effort to escape a love-struck Apollo, the nymph Daphne transforms into a laurel tree. While Daphne takes on the form of a tree, she maintains a human-like figure that Apollo still recognizes; from a distance, she may appear as a tree, but upon closer inspection, one can still feel her trembling beneath the bark. Similarly, receiving cochlear implants is not a simple restoration of hearing but a transformation of identity, a metamorphosis, that is neither fully Deaf nor fully hearing. The stigma from both communities arises from this in-between position: the discomfort with someone who has undergone a transformation that resists clear categories, someone who embodies the liminal space. No amount of time or effort can make artificial hearing the same as natural hearing; however, debate continues about how cochlear implant recipients should navigate this limbo—whether through Listening and Spoken Language (LSL) or through ASL. My family adopted the LSL ideology, focusing on exposing my sister to spoken language (almost exclusively English) as early as possible. The theory is that the brain must adjust to this “unnatural change,” and diverting resources to learning ASL or multiple languages could disrupt the development of cognitive comprehension. Even with this effort, students with hearing loss often struggle with reading comprehension (Wang et al. 215). It would be expected, then, that this lifelong process of working with your cochlear implants would become a major part of recipients’ identities; however, in my experience, this is not typically the case. My sister, for example, often avoided explaining her implants in her youth, almost embarrassed by them, as if they were something worth hiding. This stigma is compounded by those who actively discourage cochlear implant use in favor of ASL exposure; I have seen this tension firsthand in audiology offices. Much like Lahiri, who describes feeling “exiled from exile” because she lacks a true linguistic origin or belonging no matter how much effort she invests in Italian, my sister could not feel fully at home in either community. All she wanted was to be accepted without the fear of damaging her comprehension skills or being forever limited in her language education. Over time, she came to recognize this struggle for what it was: not a failure of belonging, but the birth of a new kind of identity. Like Lahiri, she learned that to exist between languages is not to be divided, but to be fluent in duality itself. As she began advising more families, she reframed her difference as strength, turning her experience into empathy and her uncertainty into advocacy. No longer “exiled from exile,” she became the bridge between the Deaf and hearing worlds, embodying the principle of identity and community.
We are coming into a time when choosing between two options appears nearly blasphemous, when we want the best of both worlds, and even dare to dream that it might be possible. However, currently, the choice remains discrete, finite, and unforgiving. Much like Lahiri's broken sense of linguistic belonging, cochlear implant recipients often find themselves in a state of exile and acceptance simultaneously, accepted by neither community in whole. It is a paradox of access that is its own exclusion, wherein the technology that opens the door to sound also builds a limbo of identity. To exist in this space is to live in the in-between, to be both connected and severed, celebrated and stigmatized, accepted and yet possibly hated by both. Perhaps by embracing this in-between rather than denying it, we can begin to imagine a future where belonging is not determined by borders but by the bridges we build across them—a future that resonates with my sister's mantra: "Nothing for us without us."
Sources:
Meta-analytic findings on lower reading skills in children with cochlear implants
Yingying Wang, Fatima Sibaii, Kejin Lee, Makayla J. Gill, Jonathan L. Hatch
medRxiv 2021.03.02.21252684; doi: https://doi.org/10.1101/2021.03.02.21252684
Lahiri, Jhumpa. In Other Words. Translated by Ann Goldst
ein, Alfred A. Knopf, 2016.