A couple of weeks ago I applied for a job, and instead of writing my usual formal letter I sent this:

Dear Recruit Recruitment,

A phrase I heard throughout my childhood was “Let me see what you are saying”. My Mum would say it while driving, in the kitchen, a thousand different places, because if she couldn’t see my mouth she couldn’t read my lips. My Mum is talented, stubborn, funny, a soft-hearted and loud Rugby loving woman, who is practically deaf. So when I saw the advertisement for centre staff to empower people who are deaf, I was excited!

I surprised myself in writing that way, let alone deciding to send it in as my application. I was amazed to have even found the advert – every other day for weeks I’d been typing in “forklift”, “warehousing” and “admin”, but had typed in “deaf” that time, tickled by a flutter in the back corridors of my mind, and this was the only search result. I knew I was perfect for the position, and I had dancing-in-my-seat excitement just typing the letter. Nothing like the feeling I’d had looking through job searches based on the word “forklift”.

Not only would I love working at [company], I believe I am an incredible candidate for the job. Firstly, because I believe “empowering” is exactly what this work is, far beyond answering phones at a call centre. I know from personal experience how difficult, exhausting, confusing and demoralising it can be to fight to be understood in everyday situations and tasks so many people don’t even think twice about…

At age four, six, ten, thirteen and right through my teens, I knew and saw the impact my Mum’s hearing loss had on her life, her confidence, her ability to easily function buying groceries or talking to people in public. Before parent-teacher interviews I’d go to my teachers and mention that they needed to look at her when talking (especially the history teacher with the bushy beard and speedy speech), to save her the frown lines in her forehead as she tried to smile and thoroughly understand what they were telling her about her sassy, wild-tempered daughter. I saw how people – even family – would give up talking to her altogether on the days her ears were especially bad, or use the abandoned effort of repeating themselves twice as an excuse for doing what they wanted instead.

I, of course, exploited her hearing as well. I knew at which pitch to mutter back at her so she wouldn’t know – or how to make my volume carry a snide tone and no identifiable words. Thankfully, I grew out of being so appalling, but not before I knew I’d hurt her with my callous, conscious cruelty. I asked her once to tell me what some boys at my school were saying. As I suspected, they were talking about me, but she refused to say what exactly was being discussed. “It’s rude to eavesdrop” she told me, eyebrow raised to remind me I already knew that. Just as I knew and loathed, from repeated experience, that it was rude for people to look at me “for translation” when they worked out – or she told them, in perfectly clear Australian English – that she was hearing impaired.

Turns out, I got the job. I yelled woohoo, and busted out a brilliant victory dance, then rang Mum to tell her the great news.

“Fantastic, my poss, well done! So, what’s the job?”

“Ha! Wait for it – it’s at a call centre for deaf and hearing impaired people.”

My Mum laughed, long and delighted.

“Of course it is, Kel. That’s fantastic.”

We laughed together, phones and hearts held close to our ears, listening.

What are your experiences in living, working with, and/or loving someone with different abilities to yours? Has something you learnt about your parents as a child ended up being an advantage in your life? Have you ever applied for a job in a different way?