“So how large is the community of, um …” — I frantically searched for the proper words — “hearing impaired on campus?”

One superficial expectation after another bubbled through my mind as I approached the office for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing Program.

I glued the words “can’t” and “loss” to phenomena detected by my “normal” senses: can’t hear music, loss of knowing the delicate audible differentiation between people’s voices, can’t know the collage of sounds that make up an entire setting like a forest, or a city.

Unconsciously, I had categorized people who are deaf with the ever-so-convenient label of “they.” Normal people, “us,” aren’t fat, ugly or bald or short or sad or deaf.

The flicker-box served as a constant reminder that the best society is one of sameness. Everyone wears Axe body spray, eats at Wendy’s, still has a six-pack and smiles surrounded by bikini-clad women when they are drunk.

That desired sameness was nowhere to be seen when I stepped in the office and met Cassie Manuel, student adviser for the program.

She spoke in soft whispers. I could understand her clearly as long as I paid attention (imagine that). Quickly, she left the room and returned with Ginny Chiaverina, program manager and sign language interpreter. Chiaverina interpreted the interview.

At first, I didn’t know who to look at when the interpreter was speaking. It felt like I was stumbling into one faux pas after another. I was flagged for my lack of knowledge right on my first question.

“So how large is the community of, um …” — I frantically searched for the proper words — “hearing impaired on campus?”

She replied, “First, the politically correct term is deaf, or hard of hearing. And we have about 50 students using our services.” The words were from Manuel, but were spoken, and signed, by Chiaverina.

For so long I’d perceived myself as the kind of person who was always considerate of people with disabilities. But after my political correctness trip-up, I wondered how, or why, I had managed to drift through life running in packs of people just like me.

But then I recalled pixilated images of Abercrombie models merrily grinning with perfect virgin-white teeth, and commercials of nonconformist 20-somethings dancing to the beat of their new MP3 players.

I asked Manuel what classes are like for the program’s students.

She replied, “Needs are different for every student. There is not always a need for a speech interpreter. Sometimes there are speech-to-tech services, or assisted listening devices. Students’ majors range from architecture, psychology, physics and I was social work in 1992. All are expected to meet course guidelines and requirements.”

Before I could ask my next question, an icicle fell outside the window, causing a shattering boom. Both Chiaverina and I jumped — but not Manuel. She sat still, staring at me, waiting for the next question.

The simplicity of that moment opened my mind to a new kind of understanding about a life without sound. Prior to the meeting, I had plagued myself with superficial differences a muted world would bring.

One uncomplicated moment of sound making my heart kick on the adrenaline brought it home.

A disability isn’t a collection of “cant’s” and “losses.” It’s a lifestyle like any other one. Some senses duller than others, and some sharper.

Manuel sat in the chair unfazed by the sounds that scared me. Maybe she lamented not having that reaction. Maybe she laughed inside that Chiaverina and I did react. For the one sense that Manuel doesn’t share with me, she probably more than makes up for with other adapted heightened senses.

Adaptation is process for the few — not the masses — and it is always the building block for the next plateau of humanity.

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