Joyce

One night, in 1975 or 76, Pastor Joe and I found ourselves in the apartment of a deaf couple trying to convince their teenage daughter not to kill herself.

Codas, which is what Joyce and I are, have a unique set of experiences and problems. Codas are children of deaf adults. Coda is also a musical term. It's a part of the piece that brings the music to a close, the same and yet different from the whole. And that's what codas are. We're like everyone else in the hearing world and yet we are also different.

I got to know Joyce while I was volunteering at the church for the deaf. At the time, Joyce was one of only 2 members of the whole family who could hear. Her parents, aunt, uncle, sister, brother-in-law, niece and cousins were all deaf. Her father was also an alcoholic who beat her, her sister (before she married) and her mother. Joyce was "grown up" for her years because of being the family interpreter. A kid with alcoholic abusive parents can be troubled. Add on deaf parents who relied on their kid heavily to make decisions and you have a mess.

I used to talk to her after church service. She was rougher and more "street-wise" than me but I recognized the lost, hurt child within.  When I reached out to her, she grabbed on hard.  It was as if she was drowning and needed someone to pull her out.  She invited me to stay overnight with her one Saturday night and then we could go to church in the morning.

I noticed how quiet it was in the apartment.  Her parents didn’t use their voices at all.  They asked me dozens of questions I artfully dodged.  Joyce resented their attention and finally blurted in sign, “She’s here to talk to me not you!”  They looked shocked.

Joyce had many of her own questions.  “Did you ever kiss a guy?  What does it feel like?”

“It’s really nice if he knows how,” I answered, describing the perfect kiss.

“I wonder what it feels like to make love?”  She wondered.

I had no idea.  This was getting out my league.  I hated to admit I was totally inexperienced there but I also didn’t want to make up a story.  Everything I knew about making love had come out of a paperback book called <u>Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask</u>.  “I can tell you what I’ve read,” I offered, feeling totally inadequate.

She was curious and so I told her.  “I wonder if it hurts a lot the first time?”

I wondered how we could get off this topic.  “It does the first time,” I answered and then managed to change the subject.

“I hate my parents,” she confided suddenly.  “They won’t ever leave me alone.  They always want me to do something for them.  Call this one, call that one, interpret this TV show.  I hate it!  I want to be with my friends and have a good time!”

I could definitely understand that!  There is a lot of pressure on codas to give up their own time and postpone things they wanted to do so that they could “help” their parents.  Helping not only meant interpreting, it meant being involved in making an important decision.  Our deaf parents reasoned that their hearing children would know what to do. 

“Please don’t tell my parents what I said,” Joyce begged.

“Don’t worry.  You can tell me anything and I won’t tell, “ I assured her.  I soon would regret my promise.  I understood why she was worried, though.  Codas are expected to keep family information to themselves.

So I would invite her to come and stay with me and we'd go out to the movies or something.

She ran away one night and was on the road for about 6 weeks. Her parents were distraught and I was worried.  She called out of the blue to say she was on her way back.  Rev. Buddy asked me to talk to her because she refused to speak with him.  I got Joyce alone and, tearfully, she recounted how she and a friend had begun hitchhiking their way south.  They were eventually picked up by two men in Georgia who held them and raped them repeatedly.  She’d experienced so much trauma and couldn’t bring herself to talk to anyone.  I listened, holding her and not knowing what to say.
     When she came back, I began going to movies and to dinner with her again. I don't know what I thought I was doing. She was only 13 or 14 and I was almost six years older. I liked her and I wanted to help her. I guess that being the "hero" in the family kind of set me up for that, always wanting to make things right. I didn't want Joyce to have a life of anger, depression, frustration. It didn't matter that she wasn't a relative. The point is that we were both codas and she was hurting and I wanted to help.
     She called one night while Pastor Joe was visiting. She was distraught and angry and wanted to kill herself. It scared me. Luckily Joe was there and he said to tell her we'd be there in just a few minutes. Joyce wasn't so sure she wanted Joe coming over but I didn't have any transportation otherwise and so she agreed.
     Joyce's mother was totally shocked to see us. There'd been some kind of altercation with the father and then Joyce locked herself in the room. The mother was signing, "What's wrong? What's going on?" and Joe was telling her that we could all talk in a few minutes. I knocked on the bedroom door and called to Joyce.
     She unlocked the door and Joe and I went into her room. She'd been crying, her eyes were wet and swollen. She sat down at a child's desk by the window, and on that desk was a razor blade. She'd been cutting herself but hadn't sliced into her wrists deeply enough yet.
     She didn't really trust Joe and so he sort of stood against the door as we talked. I could sure understand that. She cried some more and pounded her fist on the desk as she vented her anger and hatred. I mostly just listened, knowing the venom had to come out.  After awhile, she cried herself out, began to subside and seemed. I thought the crisis had passed but I was so wrong.
     All of a sudden, though, her features twisted with rage and she cried out, "I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!" And then she put her arm through the window and shattered the glass. She screamed with rage and I screamed in surprise. Rev. Joe moved fast for a big man. He grabbed Joyce in case she was thinking of putting the rest of her out the window.
     She was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, and we could see that she needed to go to the emergency room. Joyce began to fight us. She didn't want to go but then the blood began to flow more.  Rev. Joe held onto her tightly until she stopped thrashing around. 

We had to get help.  I thought Joyce's mother would faint dead away when we came out and she saw all the blood all over Joyce’s arm and tee shirt.
     We were at the emergency room almost all night. When we finally saw a doctor, he had to stitch Joyce's arm. He asked what happened and she told him bluntly. He looked at her, looked at us, and then said to just wait there while he sent another doctor down to talk to us. I had a feeling it would be a psychiatrist. I was astonished that Joyce broke the code of silence we codas were supposed to follow.  Meanwhile, Joyce fidgeted. She was tired of all of it and just wanted to go home.
     The psychiatrist came down and talked to us. Although Joyce said she didn't want to kill herself anymore, she did talk about her rage at her father and the circumstances in which she found herself. The doctor said they were going to admit her for psychiatric evaluation.

Joyce freaked all over again. She begged and pleaded with us to just let her go home. I was about to cry myself. She didn't want to hear that the doctor wanted to help her, wanted her to be safe ... and she got really mad at Joe and me. It was a nightmare. When Joyce's mother found out her daughter was admitted, she signed in exasperation, "See what you did? You always make trouble" and I thought there was going to be a fight between mother and daughter.
      I cried on the way home. Rev. Joe kept saying this was his fault; he wasn't as experienced in psychiatric counseling and he should never have gotten us into the situation that developed at Joyce's apartment. He should have called Carol, the psychiatric nurse for the deaf -- the same one who counseled my mother briefly when she attempted suicide.
     Joyce was in the hospital several weeks. We would go to visit her and she wouldn't speak to us, glowering with rage because we couldn't take her home. Some nights she'd call me, begging me to please help her get out of there.  God.

After she was released from the hospital, she wanted nothing more to do with Rev. Joe and me.  I haven't seen Joyce in years. I heard that she married a deaf guy and had a few kids. The marriage later broke up, but I can only guess why. I don't know if the counseling ever helped her. I pray that it did. Maybe being hospitalized sent her down a road of destruction but maybe it was also to salvation. I sought out counseling help as a young adult; I hope to God Joyce did too.