I Am Not a Defective Hearing Person

I’m Deafblind. I teach ASL. I write. I advocate. I manage a household. I take care of the finances.

And I still get treated like a broken hearing person who just hasn’t tried hard enough.

Microaggressions toward Deaf people aren’t the big, obvious acts of discrimination. They’re the small, everyday moments that chip away at you.

They’re usually delivered with a smile, a concerned head-tilt, or the quiet confidence that the speaker is being helpful, kind, or simply curious.

They sound like:

• "You don't look Deaf."

• "You speak so well!"

• "Have you tried hearing aids / cochlear implants?"

• Talking to the interpreter or to the hearing person next to me instead of me.

• "I'm so sorry" said like I just received a terminal diagnosis.

• Exaggerated mouth movements, shouting, or slow-motion talking.

• "How do you parent / hold a job / take care of yourself?"

• "You're so brave / inspiring!" for doing ordinary things.

• Mimicking sign language for laughs, or "practice" on me without permission.

None of these are rare. They're routine.

The Everyday Cut

It's not one big explosion. It's the slow leak.

Each comment is a paper cut. Alone, it seems harmless. But they stack.

By the end of a week, your skin is raw. You start bracing before anyone even opens their mouth. You feel the shift in the air the second they notice the cochlear implant, the white cane, the interpreter, or my Deaf accent. Your shoulders tighten, your stomach drops half an inch. You're already writing the script in your head. Here it comes.

These moments carry a quiet message: You are incomplete. You need fixing. Your natural way of being is inconvenient or tragic.

Even when the person means well, the impact is the same.

You are reminded, again, that many people still see deafness as a deficit rather than a difference. Definitely not as a liguistic and cultural identity with its own richness.

The Backlash and the Silence

Then comes the second layer.

When you calmly set a boundary:

• "No, I don't need that."

• "Talk to me."

• "That's not funny."

The mood often shifts. Suddenly you are the problem. You're "too sensitive", "ungrateful", "difficult", or "always angry".

That backlash is its own kind of cut. Now the original papercut gets salt poured into it. You are no longer just the broken one who needs fixing. You're now the ungrateful broken one. The emotional labor flips: now you have to manage their feelings about being corrected. You decide in a split second whether to keep educating, absorb the hostility, or walk away and carry the residue for the rest of the day.

• It feels like being talked about in the third person while standing right there, then getting scolded for noticing.

• It feels like someone handing you a "Get Well Soon" card for a life you not sick from, then sulking when you don't thank them.

• It feels like smiling through a hundred small erasures until the smile starts to hurt your face.

• It feels like your existence is an inconvenience they're generously tolerating. Until you stop performing gratitude, and then the tolerance evaporates.

The cumulative damage isn't any single comment.

It's the repeated message that your boundaries are the real problem.

That your comfort is optional.

That their good intentions matter more than your dignity.

Over time you start questioning yourself:

• "Was I too sharp?"

• "Did I overreact?"

• "Should I have just smiled and let it go?"

That self-doubt is the final cut. It keeps you quieter next time. Safer. Smaller.

What to Do Instead

I'm not angry that people don't know better. I'm exhausted from being expected to stay soft while they stay comfortable.

That exhaution is real. It's the headache you carry into the next room, the tension stored in your neck, and the mental energy spent recovering from interactions that were supposed to be "polite".

You don't have to walk on eggshells around Deaf people. You don't need to overthink every interaction or freeze up in fear of saying the wrong thing. Just stop treating us like defective hearing people.

• Talk to us directly.

• Respect the language.

• Believe we know our own lives.

• And if we say no? Believe us the first time.

The next time you interact with a Deaf or DeafBlind person, check your assumptions at the door. We aren't waiting for a cure, and we aren't looking for pity. We are already living full, complex, capable lives. And we don't owe anyone a performance of gratitude just for occupying space.

Stop expecting gratitude.

Start giving respect.