Reynolds Society Achievement Award Acceptance Speech
Boston, 28 October 2005
Thank you, Mike, for this singular honor. I feel, though, that I need to make a score of copies to share with the dear family members, friends, and colleagues who make it possible for me to stand here tonight. To paraphrase a Senator whom I admire, “It takes a village to overcome obstacles.”
Last year, after 3 weeks in our new condo, I awoke one grey June Friday kind of…deaf. Wax on the drum, I thought, or blocked Eustachian tubes; but, after a morning of breathing steam and popping antihistamines, I headed down to see the good Dr. McKenna. Let’s fast forward through the diagnosis—Sudden Hearing Loss—to Parky Shaw’s phone call the next day, Saturday.
I met Parky when I washed up on the banks of the Charles over 40 years ago, two new weeds in Harvard ’66. We have remained close friends, our wives and children widening the circle and enhancing it. Parky, the architect of our return to Boston, knowing how much I loved “that muddy water,” guided Helen and me to the great day when our moving van pulled up to Lowell House.
That Saturday when Helen came upon me grieving over the realization that we might well have to sell our new place, Parky also summoned me to Brookline. It really was a summons, too: it has never happened before or since. “Isaiah,” he said on the phone, “we need to talk.” Then, “Can you come over this afternoon?”
Helen and I showed up late the next afternoon, Father’s Day. Parky, dear friend, how had you known how much I needed to see you? My new situation didn’t seem to shock you or your dear wife, Lisa; instead, tea appeared, and you both swung into action, evincing concern and empathy for the two of us. Wheelchair bound, as you have been lately from MS, you offered two valuable insights, Parky, and a deal. “It’ll never be worse than it is right now,” you said, and you were right. “There’s no time for self pity,” you continued, and you were right again. Finally, “Tell you what, Isaiah. I’ll swap you: your legs for my ears.”
Now, our youngest, Caroline Jackson, has been drawn to American Sign Language since elementary school. Though she hears perfectly, she has spent the last decade cultivating her fluency, and interpreting for the deaf and deafblind. She and Parky even have their own signed greeting. Caroline? You’ll forgive me if I don’t translate it into spoken English.
Her take on things? “You don’t really need your hearing, Dad. If you did, you’d be dead by now, and I’d be out of a job.” It seems that she was right: I’m still as porky as ever: still conducting, still teaching.
The Phonak hearing aids are remarkable; even more remarkable than the instruments, though, are the wonderful folk who have helped me learn to wear them. I wish that I had logged the scores of hours that I have spent with our colleagues in Audiology on the Second Floor of the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. Although I call on them frequently, not to say regularly (I was just there this afternoon), all are unfailingly cordial, supportive, and helpful; they seem as anxious as I to make the equipment work. Thanks to their tireless commitment, we have found a combination of devices that sees me through almost all situations.
Those who admire Winston Churchill will recall the following:
Every day you may make progress. Every step may be fruitful. Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path. You know you will never get to the end of the journey. But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.
Half a century ago, there still existed a prejudice against spectacles: only old folks wore them, or so people said. Men and women preferred to squint rather than admit a need for corrective lenses. We have the opportunity to help our brothers and sisters to a more nuanced understanding of the role of amplification. Today’s hearing aids represent such a substantive improvement over the instruments of even five years ago that I dream of a day when there is as little stigma attached to amplification as there is to eyeglasses.
For me, Churchill’s ever-ascending path leads to an improved apprehension of music. My situation is unique: thanks to the understanding and the help of a great many people, I am able to persevere. What is an orchestral musician to do, though? After decades of sitting in front of the brasses, or the percussion, or even the piccolo, some may retain the hearing of a young hound; others, less fortunate, have two needs.
First, they need understanding from the colleagues and from the public when they show up with devices in their ears. Hearing loss is the elephant in the middle of the stage that no one mentions. Those in the back of the orchestra casually cup their hands behind their ears, a sure sign that the speaker needs to talk more clearly. Others, and we know there are others, rely on their colleagues, or on context, to divine a conductor’s intent.
Second, we need more discerning hearing aids, devices that encompass the audible spectrum, from the thump of the double bass to the triangle and the silver rustle of the tambourine. We also need more sophisticated ones: a brave orchestral colleague recently abandoned his hearing aids because they amplified the audience’s chatter and hard candy wrappers as effectively as they did the music.
True, there’s scant profit in it: not one of the Fortune 500 companies manufactures hearing aids. But there is a need, and not just among performing musicians. How many of us have friends who no longer attend concerts because of their deafness? Love of music and the knowledge of a repertoire take a lifetime to cultivate. What a loss when one no longer hears music!
In an age when, seemingly, anything dreamt of can be realized, when any obstacle can be transcended, let us extend the frontiers of recovered hearing to encompass music. Our fellow music lovers will thank us, as will many, many of my fellow musicians.
Thank you, Mike, for this singular honor. I feel, though, that I need to make a score of copies to share with the dear family members, friends, and colleagues who make it possible for me to stand here tonight. To paraphrase a Senator whom I admire, “It takes a village to overcome obstacles.”
Last year, after 3 weeks in our new condo, I awoke one grey June Friday kind of…deaf. Wax on the drum, I thought, or blocked Eustachian tubes; but, after a morning of breathing steam and popping antihistamines, I headed down to see the good Dr. McKenna. Let’s fast forward through the diagnosis—Sudden Hearing Loss—to Parky Shaw’s phone call the next day, Saturday.
I met Parky when I washed up on the banks of the Charles over 40 years ago, two new weeds in Harvard ’66. We have remained close friends, our wives and children widening the circle and enhancing it. Parky, the architect of our return to Boston, knowing how much I loved “that muddy water,” guided Helen and me to the great day when our moving van pulled up to Lowell House.
That Saturday when Helen came upon me grieving over the realization that we might well have to sell our new place, Parky also summoned me to Brookline. It really was a summons, too: it has never happened before or since. “Isaiah,” he said on the phone, “we need to talk.” Then, “Can you come over this afternoon?”
Helen and I showed up late the next afternoon, Father’s Day. Parky, dear friend, how had you known how much I needed to see you? My new situation didn’t seem to shock you or your dear wife, Lisa; instead, tea appeared, and you both swung into action, evincing concern and empathy for the two of us. Wheelchair bound, as you have been lately from MS, you offered two valuable insights, Parky, and a deal. “It’ll never be worse than it is right now,” you said, and you were right. “There’s no time for self pity,” you continued, and you were right again. Finally, “Tell you what, Isaiah. I’ll swap you: your legs for my ears.”
Now, our youngest, Caroline Jackson, has been drawn to American Sign Language since elementary school. Though she hears perfectly, she has spent the last decade cultivating her fluency, and interpreting for the deaf and deafblind. She and Parky even have their own signed greeting. Caroline? You’ll forgive me if I don’t translate it into spoken English.
Her take on things? “You don’t really need your hearing, Dad. If you did, you’d be dead by now, and I’d be out of a job.” It seems that she was right: I’m still as porky as ever: still conducting, still teaching.
The Phonak hearing aids are remarkable; even more remarkable than the instruments, though, are the wonderful folk who have helped me learn to wear them. I wish that I had logged the scores of hours that I have spent with our colleagues in Audiology on the Second Floor of the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary. Although I call on them frequently, not to say regularly (I was just there this afternoon), all are unfailingly cordial, supportive, and helpful; they seem as anxious as I to make the equipment work. Thanks to their tireless commitment, we have found a combination of devices that sees me through almost all situations.
Those who admire Winston Churchill will recall the following:
Every day you may make progress. Every step may be fruitful. Yet there will stretch out before you an ever-lengthening, ever-ascending, ever-improving path. You know you will never get to the end of the journey. But this, so far from discouraging, only adds to the joy and glory of the climb.
Half a century ago, there still existed a prejudice against spectacles: only old folks wore them, or so people said. Men and women preferred to squint rather than admit a need for corrective lenses. We have the opportunity to help our brothers and sisters to a more nuanced understanding of the role of amplification. Today’s hearing aids represent such a substantive improvement over the instruments of even five years ago that I dream of a day when there is as little stigma attached to amplification as there is to eyeglasses.
For me, Churchill’s ever-ascending path leads to an improved apprehension of music. My situation is unique: thanks to the understanding and the help of a great many people, I am able to persevere. What is an orchestral musician to do, though? After decades of sitting in front of the brasses, or the percussion, or even the piccolo, some may retain the hearing of a young hound; others, less fortunate, have two needs.
First, they need understanding from the colleagues and from the public when they show up with devices in their ears. Hearing loss is the elephant in the middle of the stage that no one mentions. Those in the back of the orchestra casually cup their hands behind their ears, a sure sign that the speaker needs to talk more clearly. Others, and we know there are others, rely on their colleagues, or on context, to divine a conductor’s intent.
Second, we need more discerning hearing aids, devices that encompass the audible spectrum, from the thump of the double bass to the triangle and the silver rustle of the tambourine. We also need more sophisticated ones: a brave orchestral colleague recently abandoned his hearing aids because they amplified the audience’s chatter and hard candy wrappers as effectively as they did the music.
True, there’s scant profit in it: not one of the Fortune 500 companies manufactures hearing aids. But there is a need, and not just among performing musicians. How many of us have friends who no longer attend concerts because of their deafness? Love of music and the knowledge of a repertoire take a lifetime to cultivate. What a loss when one no longer hears music!
In an age when, seemingly, anything dreamt of can be realized, when any obstacle can be transcended, let us extend the frontiers of recovered hearing to encompass music. Our fellow music lovers will thank us, as will many, many of my fellow musicians.
posted by IJ at 11:33 PM
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