I’m hard of hearing, and my best friend, Maya, is Deaf. We were at a café, signing back and forth like we always do, when a mother nearby suddenly demanded we stop — calling our conversation “disruptive” and “inappropriate.” The whole café went silent, and then a waiter stepped in to give her a quiet but powerful reminder about what inclusion really means.
My name’s Dottie, I’m 22, and I’ve been hard of hearing since birth. Growing up, I had one foot in two different worlds — the hearing world, where people expected me to speak clearly and lip-read like it was second nature, and the Deaf world, where my hands told stories more fluidly than my voice ever could.
Most days, I barely register the stares anymore. The whispers? They roll off me. But that day wasn’t like most days.
“Maya’s probably already inside,” I muttered, pulling open the doors to Rosewood Café — our regular Tuesday hangout.
The scent of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread greeted me, cozy and familiar. And there she was — Maya — her curls bouncing as she laughed at something on her phone.
Unlike me, Maya doesn’t hear anything at all. Total silence. She relies completely on sign language — and somehow, that’s always made our friendship feel richer, not harder.
We’ve spent entire afternoons in noisy rooms having full conversations without making a sound, doubled over in laughter while everyone else looked on, clueless but curious.
When she spotted me, her whole face lit up. She signed dramatically, “Finally! I thought you bailed!”
“Traffic was awful,” I signed as I dropped into the chair across from her. “And Mrs. Henderson ambushed me again about the community garden.”
Maya rolled her eyes with a grin. “That woman needs a new hobby — preferably one that doesn’t involve grilling us about composting.”
Soon we were back in our groove — talking, signing, laughing like always.
She was in the middle of telling me about her latest sourdough disaster when I noticed a boy, maybe seven or eight, sitting with his mom a few tables over. He was completely mesmerized, eyes wide as he watched our hands move.
I smiled and signed a quick “hello!” His face lit up and he wiggled his fingers in return, trying to mimic us.
Maya chuckled. “He’s copying us. That’s so cute.”
But his mom didn’t find it cute at all. She’d been glued to her phone, but when she noticed him trying to sign, her expression turned icy.
“Stop that!” she snapped, grabbing his hands. “We don’t do that.”
Maya and I exchanged a look. It wasn’t the first time we’d seen this kind of discomfort. And sadly, it probably wouldn’t be the last…