storytime

Подробнее о видео

I was born profoundly deaf, and growing up in a hearing family meant constantly discovering invisible sound rules that everyone else just knew. My biggest shock came during my first job at 16, working at a grocery store. I thought I was the perfect employee—I worked quietly, never disturbed anyone, and always focused on my tasks.

Then my manager pulled me aside looking uncomfortable. She said customers were complaining about me, but I had no idea why. I was polite, helpful, and never caused problems. It took three different people explaining before I understood: I was apparently the loudest employee they'd ever had.

Turns out, when you can't hear yourself, you have no volume control. I was slamming cans onto shelves like I was angry. Every item I stocked sounded like I was throwing it. Customers thought I was having a breakdown every shift. The cash register drawer? I was yanking it open and slamming it shut so hard that people jumped. I thought I was being efficient.

But that was just the beginning. My coworker mentioned that when I walked, it sounded like an elephant stampede. I had no idea my footsteps were so heavy. Apparently, most people naturally walk quietly, but I was stomping around like I owned the place. Security cameras probably made it look like I was furious all the time.

The shopping carts were another nightmare. I'd grab them and push them around, not realizing the wheels were squeaking and rattling loud enough to wake the dead. Other employees would wince when they saw me coming with a cart. I thought they were just being friendly when they'd quickly take it from me.

Then there was the plastic bag situation. I'd shake them open with such force that it sounded like firecrackers going off. Customers would actually step back when I started bagging their groceries. I was trying to be fast and efficient, but apparently I was creating a sound explosion every time.

The worst part? Dropping things. When hearing people drop something, they instinctively try to catch it or cushion the fall. I'd just let things fall and crash because I couldn't hear the impact. A can of soup hitting the floor apparently sounds like a gunshot. I was accidentally creating jump scares for customers all day long.

My breaking point came when a little kid started crying because I was restocking the cereal aisle. His mom explained that the noise I was making sounded like someone was destroying the store. I was just doing my job, but to everyone else, it sounded like I was having a violent meltdown in aisle seven.

The manager finally had to give me a lesson in "quiet movements." She showed me how hearing people naturally cushion their actions—how they gently place items instead of dropping them, how they ease drawers closed instead of slamming them, how they lift their feet when walking instead of dragging them.

It was like learning a completely different language. Every single movement I made had a sound component I never knew existed. I had to retrain my entire body to move like a hearing person moves. Even something as simple as picking up a pen had to be relearned because apparently I was grabbing things like I was trying to crush them.

But here's the craziest part: once I learned to move quietly, my coworkers started commenting on how much calmer and more professional I seemed. Same person, same personality, but just by controlling sounds I couldn't hear, everyone's perception of me completely changed. I went from seeming angry and aggressive to appearing gentle and considerate, all because I learned to control noise I never knew I was making.

The whole experience made me realize that hearing people are constantly managing an invisible sound environment that deaf people have no clue exists.