I must say, vesta, dear, a disability is multifaceted, and its tentacles worm into other aspects of one's life.
In my case, even though most might consider deafness the "principal handicap," at least socially and externally, it's minor when compared with speech.
It's because people can't see deafness, but they can hear speech.
And that's always been a real obstacle to "good first impressions."
In fact, I can't recall that I've ever made a good first impression ever.
My speech is as slow, flat, and wide as the Platte River; there are no hesitations, no stuttering, no stammering, no lisping; every single word is utterly distinct and separate. It's only that it's slow. I think the "average" person usually talks something like 200 words a minute; mine is circa 40 words a minute. (I could be wrong on the exact number; all I know for sure is that my speech "registers" only one-fifth as fast as "normal" speech.)
People for whom English is a second language, or people who know English only a little, appreciate this in me, but unfortunately my contacts are usually with native speakers of English.
To top it off--this was something the speech therapists could never resolve--there appears an actual physical inability to utter the short "e" sound, the most common sound in the English language, which means I've never been able to pronounce my own name correctly.
(I'm sure psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing the ramifications of that.)
When someone summons "Matt" or "Tad" or "Brad" or "Thad," it's me, and I explain later.
I did not take speech therapy until my first semester as a junior in college, and it was, easily, the most difficult chore I've ever undertaken in my life. Before then, I had stuttered and stammered (but never lisped) a lot, and was generally incomprehensible to all those not intimately acquainted with me.
Because of the urgency of the situation--I was after all 19, 20, years old, rather late to learn how to talk--I spent four afternoons a week for two years, dealing with lots of good-looking women in their mid- or late-20s working on their advanced degrees in speech pathology.
They got rid of the stuttering-and-stammering (and taught me to stop uttering multi-syllabic words only halfway through, going on to the next half-completed word), but at the "cost" of my losing inflections in the tone of my speech; but that was a small price to "pay" for a greater "benefit." I may speak as flat as the cornfields of Illinois, but at least there's no spittings and hesitations, and every word distinct and crystal-clear.
Despite this substantial improvement--and trust me, it was substantial--in speech, it's still woefully poor, and one can't do anything about it.
And here we get into the "first impressions," or the "social" aspects of it.
franksolich looks utterly average, utterly normal, the absence of ears being covered up by hair that is longer-than-normal (for a male), but not overly so. So one can't see the deafness, and as long as I remain mum, nothing bad happens; I'm just an utterly average, utterly normal, person.
But the minute I open my mouth, it jars or jolts the other person.
There's something wrong here, and they can't see it or figure it out.
This bothers decent and civilized people only a little, and as time goes on, not at all, but it really gets on the nerves of those with temperaments of rectal apertures.
This is why my current amusement with Chief S itting Bull, the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive, because he so very well resembles some people in real life; people with volatile, violent temperaments who get all upset and bent out of shape and stony-eyed and apoplexically red-faced, smoke coming out of their ears and nostrils, the first time I say something, even if a harmless "good morning."
I mean to say it really upsets them. It's a miracle I've never been hit, although it's been a close-run thing.
(As I learned how to deal with it, I actually began using it--the voice--as something to discombobulate self-righteous primitives, liberals, and bleeding-heart Democrats; I employ this all the time, just to get them into a stunned wild-eyed frenzied paroxysm, because to be honest, I am not always a nice guy. Most of the time, yes, but not always.)
Some people have a real hostility against diversity, apparently.
With decent and civilized people, there are ways of ameliorating bad first impressions (one can only ease, not cure).
For example, my third day as manager of the Reunion in Lincoln, a privately-owned student union on the campus of the University of Nebraska, I happened to be standing out in the food-court when a "runner" from the insurance office where the owner worked came in, carrying a bundle of paychecks.
The runner, like me, was new in the job, only his second or third day too.
Since the building was rather large, and he seemed in a hurry, I went up to him and offered to take the paychecks, so he wouldn't have to walk way over to where he was supposed to leave them.
He looked at me rather queerly, and said no, he would deliver them to the office.
Which was, of course, my office.
I shrugged my shoulders and went back to doing whatever it was I had been doing.
The runner entered my office, laughing and snorting, and told everyone he had been accousted by one of the retarded people bussing tables in the food court who claimed to be the manager and wanted to take the paychecks.
Oh well. Excresence happens. One accepts, adapts, and moves on.
I had been wearing only "average" clothes that day, looking just like everybody else.
From there on out, so as to deflect from the voice, I wore pin-striped three-piece suits every day; a little bit too "dressy" for the environment, but not overly so. This way, people would notice the clothes, instead of the voice, and make their first-impression judgements based upon that.
