The bus was waiting for
us. As we climbed aboard, silence was
the first thing that struck me. Not a normal expectation when thirty of the
thirty-eight seats were already occupied by 10 to 13 year old boys. In a sea of
movement, animated expressions, wide smiles and excitement, there was an eerie
quiet.
My brother was 8, my
sister was 10 and I was 12. Our
neighbours had invited us to accompany them on a Sunday afternoon outing, a bus
trip to the beach. It was never
explained to us why all of the bus children were boys. Why were there no girls? But it didn’t appear
to be a problem that two of us were indeed girls and we were going along to
help out. As with any group of boys,
there were the ones who wanted to be the centre of attention at all times, who
dragged and pulled at the sleeves of others and of their minders. Others sat, drinking in the myriad of
activities outside the bus on the short journey to the beach, ignoring the
persistent sleeve-pulling and necessary touching by their friends trying to get
them to join in their silent melee.
Once we arrived at the
beach, the rules were explained by simply joining the boys’ hands together
before anyone exited the bus. Without
exception, no-one was allowed to play alone on the beach. Solitary play increased the chances of
getting lost. The boys seemed to have a heightened awareness of their
vulnerability and the need to be even more observant than usual. They understood
the rules and quickly divided into groups. There were small and large numbers,
but all were in groups.
The water was off-limits
without two adults present. Large and
intricate sandcastles were built with precise coordination, organised by rapid
hand movements, pushing and pulling at each other to make their point, their
eyes dancing or darkening as they approved or disapproved. Rarely was one
misunderstood. They played tag and
Frisbee, and raced each other up and down the dunes repeatedly.
Wave chasing was a
favourite game, without the usual loud shrieking that normally accompanies this
simple activity. We ate our picnic
lunch in groups on the sand, spread out on plaid blankets. We swapped sandwiches,
crisps, cakes and drinks, selecting our preferences with smiles or frowns,
rather than “yes please” or “no thank you.”
Somehow the boys’ smiles managed to convey ‘please’ and their frowns ‘no
thank you’ quite loudly. They had
enviable good manners without saying a word.
I felt protective of my younger
sister and brother as if this group of silent boys had some greater power of
communication by virtue of their numbers and common condition. We were the minority. This was their world. At times, I felt like we were intruders.
We joined in the group
games and learned an alternative way to communicate in play. We gestured and pointed, nodded and grinned
when right, and frowned and shook our heads vigorously when wrong. Our eyes became bright signals of
communication. We learned how our expressions
could speak as efficiently as our voices.
I felt sad for the boys but it was clear they didn’t feel
sad for themselves. If they felt
deprived, it was not evident. They
displayed the opposite, an almost alternative strength.
We watched in awe as the
adults both instructed and bonded with the boys via a language of trust that
seemed to seep between them like an invisible and silent gel. The boys depended on the adults to keep them
safe. The adults trusted the boys to abide by the rules. The simplicity of the deal was the measure of
its success. Four hours later 30 very
tired and happy silent boys climbed back onto the bus, along with their five
minders and their three invited guests.
We all travelled the return journey without a word. Many of them, including my brother, fell
asleep. My sister and I didn’t feel the
need to say anything. We snuggled into
each other on the bus. We were hugged tightly to let us know that we did a good
job. We grinned broadly in return. At
bedtime that night, my eldest sister said her usual goodnight to me and I said
to her “I’m glad I can hear you.” She
smiled.
For on that day, we had
been invited to ‘The Deaf Boys’ Picnic.’
Today it would probably have a more politically correct name, but in
1973 it was called ‘The Deaf Boys’ Picnic.’
All of the boys were profoundly deaf and mute. Their eyes were their ears, their fingers,
hands and expressions were their voices.
Occasionally, a random feral-like sound involuntarily escaped the
usually silent mouths. We could hear it
but they couldn’t. Their world was
limited by what they could see and touch.
Our neighbours didn’t have
any children of their own but they made the local school for the deaf in Dublin
a favourite one of their many causes. In
retrospect I am sure the day was intended as an educational trip for us. It was
indeed an eye-opener to see how these boys born or disabled without two senses
many of us take for granted, managed to have fun, communicate and enjoy a day
out just as easily as we do every day when we can shout and yell and make
ourselves heard amongst our friends. It
was an education. The outing gave the
boys an opportunity to share a world they never got to hear, sometimes got to
see, and always managed to dream about. At
12 years old, on that bus trip to the beach I became aware for the first time
how very lucky I was to be able to hear the sounds of life, to shout about them
if I wanted to, or to choose to be silent, realising only then that not
everyone gets that choice.
June 2013
