By: Arezo Ahmadi
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m on the come up from a terrible sore throat itching at my throat. Naturally, I grab my cup of tea infused with saffron rock candy (it works, I swear!) and scroll through Instagram on the couch. I see a story repost of Mr. Beast, a YouTuber known for his extreme generosity, with a crowd of children. The caption? “We helped 1,000 deaf people hear again! Go watch!” Are you freaking kidding me? Hearing aids? Seriously? Saffron rock candy tea is immediately spit out along with whatever respect I used to carry for the man.
I was so tempted to hit the repost button and attach a white text blurb of rant about why this caption pissed me off, but I hesitated. I’m not Deaf, but I have Deaf people who follow me. I don’t want to speak for them and their own experiences. But as a CODA (Child of Deaf Adults) that grew up in Fremont, California (home to only 2 cities with schools for the Deaf in the state), I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. So I started thinking, which is what usually gets me in trouble when I have too much time on my hands.
By posting a few words, Mr. Beast is insinuating that he has somehow cured deafness, that deafness was a problem to begin with. That the community needed help. Help with what exactly? Even when I scroll through the comments to make sure I’m not crazy, I’m shocked at what I see: comments like “they’ll find a way to cancel him for this” or “It is so fun to watch you use your platform for good.” So, being deaf is not good?
To make matters worse, the Sunday before Mr. Beast’s post, I was introducing myself to someone I met and mentioned that I have two Deaf parents– the pupils of his eyes dilated to puppy dog status as he reached out his hand to say, “Oh, I’m sorry.” I’ve gotten that reaction my entire life, but for some reason that moment was the first time I had actually responded and said, “For what? There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
The Deaf community takes pride in their identity—it’s why there is a distinction between capital “D” and lowercase “d” deaf. My father owns a used car business, and my mother used to be a caretaker for adults with disabilities. Thousands of Deaf people gather throughout the country at Deaf expo conventions to meet each other and celebrate their Deafness, with the last one taking place this past Saturday in Pasadena. Deaf people can do anything and everything—what is lacking?
Deaf people are beautiful, their culture is beautiful, and I know they wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. American Sign Language (ASL) was my first language, and it has allowed me to connect with people from all over the world—to express emotions I didn’t know were possible and have feelings I’ve never felt.
I pick up my phone to share Mr. Beast’s Instagram post, and I begin writing a white blurb of text to attach:
Mr. Beast: While providing access to assistive hearing equipment to a community that may not have the means to acquire otherwise is admirable, to say that you made deaf people “hear again” is simply implying that you’re solving a problem you think exists. As a child of two proudly Deaf with a capital D parents, I can tell you that there is no norm to disability. There is no need to help where a cry for such has not been shed. Instead, I suggest you use your funds to spread ASL education and donate to sign language organizations. There are 1000’s of Deaf children who don’t have access to ASL in this country alone. Your platform’s reach extends far, with your millions of followers—use it wisely and educate yourself on disability terminology. Deafness is beautiful and should be given the same respect you show to other communities. Spread love, not misinformation.
I really want to press “Post,” but I’m too scared. I press “Save Draft” instead, hoping maybe one day I’ll share my thoughts, telling people that they don’t need to be sorry that my parents are Deaf. My sore throat hurts even more now, so I’ll go make another cup of tea.
Originally Posted: 1 June 2023