Mothering in a Newly Quiet World

Modern Love

A deaf mother who uses sign language sees an expressive upside to the hush that has fallen over the land.

By Shoshannah Stern

It took a pandemic for me to finally see my language everywhere. During any disaster, you’ll usually see a sign-language interpreter next to the government officials. But with this disaster being both nationwide and seemingly endless, so is the presence of sign-language interpreters. I watch as their hands create images that flow directly into my brain, as natural as breathing.

I am a deaf person from a multigenerational deaf family. My mother met my father at a leadership convention for deaf youth when they were in high school. Every time my father tells their story, he doesn’t sign when he describes the moment that he first laid eyes on my mother. Instead, he uses his face. His eyes light up and his mouth drops open in an incredulous smile. Without words, we see him falling in love with her all over again.

I am their second child. The first word I expressed was when I patted my hand against my leg for dog. I didn’t mouth the spoken word, as I would now, but blew kisses, because that’s what my parents did when calling her.

I was imitating something linguistically unique to sign language called “mouth morphemes” — moving your tongue rapidly to demonstrate distance or swelling your cheeks like balloons to show size. People who aren’t familiar with the language often see these expressions as comical. In fact, it is a sophisticated nuance that only the most fluent users of sign language know to apply. Thanks to that, mouth morphemes are something I find myself having to explain.

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When I do, I think of Mikey, my friend from high school, who told the best stories. His acute grasp of our language made them mesmerizing. One was about a rocket leaving earth in a huge fireball, the vast green landscape falling away as the rocket entered space, and this chaos reflected on his face, especially his lips. His lips would go pppp-pow-brhoom, as staccato as a firing gun, followed by a sudden blanket of silence as his face relaxed and his lips pursed into a peaceful smile.

During the summer between his junior and senior year, Mikey decided to leave this earth behind, much like his rocket did, exploding our comfortably ensconced bubble with the news of his passing. I couldn’t help but wonder if part of his isolation and desperation had been from living alone with parents who had chosen not to learn sign language.

Our family is supposed to be an extension of ourselves. We’re meant to see ourselves reflected in our offspring. But nine times out of ten, deaf children like Mikey are born to parents who hear. They fall far enough from the tree to seem like strange fruit. Maybe in order to make this fruit feel more familiar to them, some 80 percent of these parents never learn to sign.

Communication is what makes us human. That’s the reason the most severe punishment in prison is to isolate people, to put them in solitary confinement, a separation that is powerful enough to destroy the idea of time. Weeks can feel like years.

Now I wonder if Mikey’s situation might mirror what is happening during this time of isolation to so many deaf people, particularly young ones who lack access to language, and as a result, to information. I wonder if to some degree it may be happening to us all.

In my case, it has taken this pause in the world for me to see that I may be the strange fruit. For the first time in my life, I am the only deaf person in my family.

When I met my future husband in a bar, his first words to me were signed; he asked if I was deaf.

“Why?” I signed back. “Are you?”

He was not, though his parents were. But I had already known, the same way species recognize their own. This became my daughter’s experience, too. Though sign language is the first language of both my husband and daughter, one that invisibly tethers us together, their relationship to it is still different from mine.

When I left home last fall for seven weeks for work, my only connection to my daughter was through FaceTime. Without being with her daily, I watched as signing slowly went from being her primary to her secondary language.

One night during a precious visit, she and I lay together as I read a book to her using sign language. But this time she said, “Mommy, please use your voice. I need to hear it.”

Her request almost broke me, but I understood. The characters I play often speak on-screen, and at school my daughter had grown accustomed to books read aloud by teachers and librarians. When it was just the two of us in solitude in the world before she started school, my language was hers. But I had known it wouldn’t last.

My daughter’s brain, like most, processes noise into sound, which becomes its primary channel to understanding the world. With brains like mine, noise never becomes sound. It remains largely a static and meaningless cacophony.

But in that circumstance, something incredible happens. The brain naturally shifts to using vision as the channel through which it processes information. Spoken language is to the auditory brain what sign language is to the visual one. Even if the visual brain isn’t exposed to signing right away, it still recognizes the simplest of gestures as language.

One night several weeks after sheltering at home, my daughter said, “Mommy, please tell me my favorite story, the one where you — ” Then she pushed her cheeks in like a fish, pressed her lips together in a smack, and bared her teeth, reminiscent of Mikey’s pppp-pow-brhoom sound.

In these small contortions, I recognized the story of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” that has become our go-to since we returned, during this pandemic, to our solitude. The hand shape and motion of my hands are always the same when describing the three bowls, chairs, beds and bears. The variance in size is represented using my mouth, which is what my daughter was imitating.

But deeper than just a mimic, I see that her face has, once again, become her voice.

I hadn’t noticed I had stopped speaking these books aloud to her, and she had forgotten she needed to hear them. In this time of quiet, we had unknowingly returned to our quiet roots, climbing down my father’s smile as he fell in love with my mother at first glance. In this pause, maybe we’re allowing ourselves, much like our planet, to revert to our natural state.

It took those simple pppp-pow-brhooms of my daughter’s lips for my once cacophonous world to shrink until there was nothing but the warmth flowing through my veins. I was too busy to let the world shrink before all this. Always rushing somewhere, always an email to answer, a text to respond to, an online sale I couldn’t miss. All of it noise, static, unprocessed sound.

But now, in this pause that has blanketed the world, my daughter tells me that she can hear the birds. And rooted as I am, I can feel the sigh of relief this has given to the world and to us.

I hadn’t known it takes quiet to truly hear.

Sometimes that quiet can be tranquil and sometimes, as with Mikey, it can be brutal. I often wonder if seeing his own language on television like this might have been enough to save Mikey then, if it is enough to save other Mikeys now, each an island in an ocean of deprivation. After all, it was Helen Keller who said that while blindness cuts you off from things, deafness cuts you off from people.

But from where I stand, I never thought she was right. It’s people who cut you off from people. And more often than not, it’s by choice. Not learning someone’s language is a choice. Not providing sign language interpreters is a choice. If you fail to understand or even recognize the weight of these decisions, that ballast becomes the difference between solitude and isolation, which is sometimes the choice between life and death.

Perhaps in this quiet, we have all become the same. Before this, whenever my husband was on the phone, his face was brusque, his eyes focused in the distance. Now, like many other people who hear, he is FaceTiming and Zooming people as I always have, and there’s a new kindness in his eyes. Perhaps, divorced from faces, our voices are more likely to be reduced to noise.

So we get on the screen to see the faces of our loved ones, to be able to see ourselves again, mirrored in someone else. To understand and be understood. To communicate in the purest way possible, as natural as breathing.

Shoshannah Stern, an actor and co-creator of “This Close” on Sundance TV (the first show written, created and starring deaf people), is working on a memoir about growing up deaf.

Modern Love can be reached at modernlove@nytimes.com.

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Updated April 11, 2020

If you’ve been exposed to the coronavirus or think you have, and have a fever or symptoms like a cough or difficulty breathing, call a doctor. They should give you advice on whether you should be tested, how to get tested, and how to seek medical treatment without potentially infecting or exposing others.

This is a difficult question, because a lot depends on how well the virus is contained. A better question might be: “How will we know when to reopen the country?” In an American Enterprise Institute report, Scott Gottlieb, Caitlin Rivers, Mark B. McClellan, Lauren Silvis and Crystal Watson staked out four goal posts for recovery: Hospitals in the state must be able to safely treat all patients requiring hospitalization, without resorting to crisis standards of care; the state needs to be able to at least test everyone who has symptoms; the state is able to conduct monitoring of confirmed cases and contacts; and there must be a sustained reduction in cases for at least 14 days.

The Times Neediest Cases Fund has started a special campaign to help those who have been affected, which accepts donations here. Charity Navigator, which evaluates charities using a numbers-based system, has a running list of nonprofits working in communities affected by the outbreak. You can give blood through the American Red Cross, and World Central Kitchen has stepped in to distribute meals in major cities. More than 30,000 coronavirus-related GoFundMe fund-raisers have started in the past few weeks. (The sheer number of fund-raisers means more of them are likely to fail to meet their goal, though.)

The C.D.C. has recommended that all Americans wear cloth masks if they go out in public. This is a shift in federal guidance reflecting new concerns that the coronavirus is being spread by infected people who have no symptoms. Until now, the C.D.C., like the W.H.O., has advised that ordinary people don’t need to wear masks unless they are sick and coughing. Part of the reason was to preserve medical-grade masks for health care workers who desperately need them at a time when they are in continuously short supply. Masks don’t replace hand washing and social distancing.

If you’re sick and you think you’ve been exposed to the new coronavirus, the C.D.C. recommends that you call your healthcare provider and explain your symptoms and fears. They will decide if you need to be tested. Keep in mind that there’s a chance — because of a lack of testing kits or because you’re asymptomatic, for instance — you won’t be able to get tested.

It seems to spread very easily from person to person, especially in homes, hospitals and other confined spaces. The pathogen can be carried on tiny respiratory droplets that fall as they are coughed or sneezed out. It may also be transmitted when we touch a contaminated surface and then touch our face.

No. Clinical trials are underway in the United States, China and Europe. But American officials and pharmaceutical executives have said that a vaccine remains at least 12 to 18 months away.

Unlike the flu, there is no known treatment or vaccine, and little is known about this particular virus so far. It seems to be more lethal than the flu, but the numbers are still uncertain. And it hits the elderly and those with underlying conditions — not just those with respiratory diseases — particularly hard.

If the family member doesn’t need hospitalization and can be cared for at home, you should help him or her with basic needs and monitor the symptoms, while also keeping as much distance as possible, according to guidelines issued by the C.D.C. If there’s space, the sick family member should stay in a separate room and use a separate bathroom. If masks are available, both the sick person and the caregiver should wear them when the caregiver enters the room. Make sure not to share any dishes or other household items and to regularly clean surfaces like counters, doorknobs, toilets and tables. Don’t forget to wash your hands frequently.

Plan two weeks of meals if possible. But people should not hoard food or supplies. Despite the empty shelves, the supply chain remains strong. And remember to wipe the handle of the grocery cart with a disinfecting wipe and wash your hands as soon as you get home.

Yes, but make sure you keep six feet of distance between you and people who don’t live in your home. Even if you just hang out in a park, rather than go for a jog or a walk, getting some fresh air, and hopefully sunshine, is a good idea.

That’s not a good idea. Even if you’re retired, having a balanced portfolio of stocks and bonds so that your money keeps up with inflation, or even grows, makes sense. But retirees may want to think about having enough cash set aside for a year’s worth of living expenses and big payments needed over the next five years.

Watching your balance go up and down can be scary. You may be wondering if you should decrease your contributions — don’t! If your employer matches any part of your contributions, make sure you’re at least saving as much as you can to get that “free money.”