I was cheated out of a British accent. I did everything right. I was born in England, spent two of my most formative language-collecting years there, and lived in a flat above a general store, full of British folk. What went wrong? I was born deaf. In the 80s before they tested newborns for hearing. Also I suspect my introverted soul didn’t mind the silence and had no desire to figure out what the noise was all about.
So now, here I am with hearing aids and a boring-ass American accent. It’s not even a regional accent because my military Dad moved us to military towns all over the place, so I couldn’t set any linguistic roots down anywhere. Speech therapy helped me say everything correctly and my literary family guaranteed that I would spell things accurately. The result: a well-spoken deaf girl who fools people into thinking she might not be deaf after all.
I am deaf, but I’d venture to say that my hearing levels are not the most interesting thing about me (God I hope not).
Back to that flat over the store in England: I don’t remember anything about England, only the stories I was told about it. At some point I may have knocked a potted plant out our second floor window onto the sidewalk below. Or that might have been my older sister. We get our stories confused a lot. I do know that my mother switched from cloth diapers to disposable the day my father found her crying on the floor in front of the miniature washer. Apparently it took all day to wash the equivalent of an American washer load of laundry and my mother was no longer up to the task. So in a way, my carbon footprint dramatically increased that moment.
I also slept in a drawer, which I would argue decreases my carbon footprint a bit. I’m not exactly sure how long or for what reasons, but I slept in a dresser drawer and I find that ingenious of my parents who must have been hurting for space. They didn’t close me in the dresser or anything. I don’t think…
Speaking of sleeping- I slept a lot. Sleeping was my favorite and to be honest, it still very much is my favorite. I don’t know anyone who has consistently loved sleep throughout their entire lives like I have. I slept in on Christmas morning. To be more factual: I didn’t wake up early on Christmas morning and slept til my usual preferred hour: approximately 2-4 hours after everyone else was awake. My parents had to wake me up to go see what Santa brought me. That is the level of love I have for sleep.
My older sister is pictured pushing me in a stroller along a stoney pathway in England. I believe that she liked me in England. Her love for me is unwavering. Her like for me has fluctuated throughout our lives, with a deep plunge during her teenage years. (In her defense, I was a bit annoying.) But I think England Kelly liked England Sarah. I also didn’t speak, so that probably helped.
We moved from England to Arizona (slight climate change) when I was two years old. My Grandmother told a story frequently about when my family got off the plane in DC (stopping to stay with them and acclimate before continuing on to Phoenix). The story was about how my mother stepped off the plane (remember when you could meet people at the gate?) with me in her arms and I was so happy and perky and just a pure delight. (My Grandmother’s words. But I believe them to be true.) My parents told me it was because I actually slept and felt perfectly great, unlike them and my sister. I’ll take my Grandmother’s version of this, which was that I was the world’s greatest/happiest/bestest child.
My mother did tell me I was the prettiest baby. I’ll take it. I deserve something after being robbed of my British accent.
