Today’s poem first appeared on the
blog in 2015.
For years, various people - family, friends, teachers, work colleagues
– would accuse me of exaggerating my hearing problem and/ or using it as an
excuse for not having heard or quite understood what they are saying, the clear
implication being that implying it is more likely down to my inability to
concentrate or even bother to listen. I stopped trying to explain about
perceptive deafness years ago; few people have either the patience or
inclination to listen since they are convinced that know me better than I know
myself.
The problem with perceptive
deafness - for others as well as those like myself - is that our hearing is
affected not only by the pitch of someone’s voice, but also by existing
acoustics. I have mentioned this before, but a reader seems to have a similar
problem; he or she writes: “I can hear some people quite well in a particular
room or environment, but elsewhere I can hardly hear them at all. Everyone
thinks I am not paying attention, at home as well as at school, but it isn’t
that, honestly.” Indeed, it isn’t, and I urge this reader seek to ask their GP
to refer them to an audiologist asap.
At school, I would sit at the back
of some classrooms so I would be less likely to be asked questions;
consequently, of course, I missed even more of the lesson for barely hearing a
word. At home, my father, especially, would angrily accuse me of ignoring him
time and again for the same reason. It was not much different at work at first …
until the problem was finally identified by professionals; at last, I had not
only an explanation, but also special hearing aids (imported from Germany) to
vastly alleviate the problem.
For years, though, I honestly
thought I was mentally impaired.
I have often reflected on how those
inner selves that come together to create human identity are a motley crew, invariably,
adapting to a variety of circumstances, performing accordingly for a variety of
people in a variety of ways, depending on why we have (either consciously or
subconsciously) brought them into play in the first place.
Whatever, possibly the most important lesson any of us will learn as we progress
through our lives - whoever and wherever we may be in the world, whatever
our ethnicity, religion, gender or socio-cultural agenda – is
getting to know our various selves,
learn to listen and which to trust; collectively, these are often called
instincts which I have heard them referred to - not inappropriately in my view
- as our ‘Minders’; I get that, I really do, and always have while others may
well take some convincing.
For years, I knew something
was wrong with me; my instincts told me to seek help, but no one would listen
until a particularly nasty case of earache caused me to see a GP who referred
me to an audiology consultant; the rest, as they say, is history.
Mind you, I still need to explain my
hearing impairment to some people, especially if they are softly spoken or do
not speak clearly. Even as a young child, though, I discovered that I catch
more of what someone is saying if he or she is facing me; without
knowing it, I was lip reading. That was the easy part. Have you noticed how
some people will look anywhere but directly at you when they engage you in
conversation? In my case, it always has to be my fault if I misunderstand,
especially now I am 70+ as they can always blame old age just as, years ago,
they would blame a child’s inattentiveness. <>
There is a pub in London called The
Masque Haunt. I once overheard a complete stranger comment as he looked up
at the name, ‘Now, that’s life. Oh, yes, that’s life …’
This poem is a kenning.
INSTINCT, MINDER-MENTOR FOR COMMUNICATION SKILLS
I tell people what to do
and where to go, putting them
in their place
where needs must, advise how
not to lower the eye,
but appear relaxed to all intents
and lesser purposes,
direct the semblance of a smile
to complete the illusion
I fulfil the role of showman,
treading no boards, just
dreams
(nor gently either)
inciting the coward to bold acts
likely to pass for bravery
by the less discerning observer,
appropriately applauded
by an audience with its own ideas
of entertainment…
I hunger for a share of glory,
albeit behind scenes played out
to (near) perfection
by conscience and consciousness
at centre-stage
of everyday deceptions
produced
by circumstances
and directed by those old standbys,
diplomacy and discretion
Minder-Mentor of a human condition
some call self-preservation
Copyright R. N. Taber 2015
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