In the Spring semester, my choir will be singing Beethoven. He was considered a great composer long before his hearing loss began impacting his work, but as his deafness became more acute he began breaking convention and creating his most revolutionary music. In that same way, the concert is dedicated to people who – not only despite a disability, but perhaps because of it – transformed their field.
In doing some preliminary research about this, I came across Beethoven’s Heiligenstadt Testament, which is a letter to his brothers when he was 30. He talked about increasing isolation, and withdrawing from social engagements; as a musical maestro he couldn’t admit that he was losing his hearing for fear of losing the confidence of his patrons. He even admits suicidal thoughts. But this was when he decided to persist, because, “It was impossible for me to leave this world until I had brought forth everything that was within me.”
Another hearing-impaired pianist/composer, Jennifer Castellano, said in an interview, “It seems that when one is faced with an obstacle such as hearing loss, it not only forces him or her to work even harder, but it also humbles them. Another thing that people need to realize is that the level of musicianship is not determined by how well a person hears but rather how well a person listens.”
I know that I have had hearing loss in at least one of my ears since childhood, but I never considered myself “hearing-impaired.” I never thought about the ways I might have learned to compensate for that or how it has shaped the way I move through the world, until a few months ago when a friend experienced sudden acute hearing loss. It was a dark time for her, and made me reflect on my own condition.
We commiserate over tinnitus. I have never not-heard it. I sometimes say that angels are sending me a message using ancient technology, akin to AOL’s dial-up tones. I also call it my private symphony, and celebrate the fact that it is such an exclusive experience: it happens inside my head and nowhere else. What can I say – I like being an insider. I was a hipster before hipsters were cool.
Part of my friend’s anxiety was induced by bouts of vertigo during the onset of her symptoms. I can identify. Any microscopic change to the inner ear can impact hearing, pain, balance, pressure… When I was little, I would wake up crying in the night because “the room was spinning.” My mom installed an Anti-Spin Light (a nightlight), the same way she might have posted a No Monsters Allowed sign on my closet door. She thought it was just placating some childhood nervousness. Actually, it gave me a focal point in the dark so I wouldn’t feel like I was constantly falling into an abyss. I could figure out which way was “up” and stopped flinging myself off of the top bunk bed.
My hearing – and lack thereof – has also contributed to plenty of mix-ups and oft-hilarious confusions. I hear things and then have to figure out what was actually being said. This leaves a lot open to my very active imagination as I insert consonants that I didn’t catch between the vowels that I think I heard. It’s like an eternal game of charades, to which I add a heavy dose of absurdism.
My friend is back to dancing on bars in rhinestone-studded cowboy boots. She’s fine, now, despite her hearing. But this summer’s experience planted in me a little earworm that I should do something about this. I can’t remember the last time I had my hearing checked. But even if I do… so what? Will “knowing” change anything? Perhaps I could get the rig described by composer Richard Einhorn… but for now I look forward to singing Beethoven in the Spring as-is.
Update:
Well, we could not have suspected the ways that Spring 2020 would be derailed, especially for activities like group singing and live concerts. As we physically distanced and sheltered at home, my classmates shared this beautiful performance: