I paused for a moment, my pointer finger hovering over my keyboard, before I clicked “enter.” My message popped up in my message thread with my sister: “I’ll be back home tomorrow.” I saw, but did not hear, the notification when my sister reacted to my message with a thumbs-up emoji. It was 2022 and my deaf grandmother had just been hospitalized with a nasty bout of pneumonia. So I loaded up my car and rushed from Florida back to my hometown in North Carolina. In comparison to cross-country ventures, this road trip through the southern East Coast states was not much of an odyssey. But the drive back and forth, 12 hours each way, changed my life and empowered me to embrace traveling as a person with hearing loss.
The myth about the dangers of deaf driving
When I struggled with chronic ear infections as a child, I did not expect that I would encounter lifelong hearing loss. In 2020, my doctor identified my scarred eardrums and tinnitus. By 2022, I was diagnosed with a biotinidase deficiency. Doctors warned me that I carry a high risk of acquiring deafness as I grow older. The doctors also told me that biotinidase deficiency often skips a generation, like with me and my grandmother.
The hearing condition that I likely inherited from her could not dissuade me from being with her when she needed me, but I was scared stiff to make the drive back home. At that point in 2022, I still had my car, but I had limited my driving to my regular haunts in my college town. When my friends and colleagues asked me why I rode the bus more often or why I opted for grocery delivery, I would joke about “avoiding Florida drivers.” But that wasn’t the truth.
Many people—even people with hearing loss—incorrectly assume that deaf or hard-of-hearing drivers are unsafe on the road. I thought that if I couldn’t hear a honking horn or a siren, then I might be more likely to cause a collision. But studies and public policies have debunked these ableist assumptions about driving safety. A 2010 study from the University of Sheffield posits that young adults with hearing loss tend to develop strong peripheral vision and quick response times to visual cues. In 2013, the National Association for the Deaf successfully convinced the Department of Transportation to lift the prohibition that prevented deaf and hard-of-hearing drivers from operating commercial motor vehicles.
I traveled from Florida up the Blue Ridge Mountains without issue. After my grandmother was released from the hospital and was recovering safely at home, I planned a more intentional road trip back down to Florida. As I charted the solo adventure, I reclaimed the wanderlust that I had suppressed for two years.
The joy of the road
Being on the road again, I realized that I deserve the chance to see and feel the world around me, even if I often struggle to hear. Many people with hearing loss experience loneliness and isolation; communication challenges may discourage these individuals from meeting new people or visiting new places. Preparing for a short road trip provided me with a more optimistic perspective about how I could happily and safely navigate life with my hearing loss.
How did I prepare for my hard-of-hearing-friendly road trip? I began driving at dawn. Like many other drivers who struggle with hearing loss, I mostly rely on visual cues: landmarks, the behaviors of other drivers, flashing lights, and road signs. I opted to travel during the daytime so I’d have the best visibility on the road. I knew that I would inevitably encounter communication challenges along rural roads with limited cell phone service, but I couldn’t be sure when or where I might face these challenges. I had prepared by printing out detailed driving directions and downloading audiobooks and podcasts that I could blast on high volume. Driving a car empowered me with a sense of autonomy that I could never have in an airport. I did not worry about missing directions or alerts, because I could control the volume of my GPS and stereo. I found adventure again in the silent whoosh of the slipstream and the hum of the vibrating engine.
I found adventure again in the silent whoosh of the slipstream and the hum of the vibrating engine.
During this return leg of my road trip, I made sure to appreciate the visual beauty shining through my windshield. Morning frost covered the chicory flowers as I drove down the western North Carolina mountains along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I listened to Madeline Miller’s Circe as I watched the sun rise over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Miller described how the Hellenistic witch protagonist foraged for herbs. I plucked a couple of leaves of raw chicory and promptly spat out the bitter plant. I decided that I didn’t need herbs to make this trip magic. As the sun grew higher in the sky, I passed into South Carolina. I felt a thrill when I noticed the trees slowly change from evergreen pines to oaks draped in Spanish moss.
I’ve learned that I am not alone in my appreciation for accessible road trips. Many deaf families rely on road trips as their primary travel method. YouTubers Pearl and Darrel Utley post videos about driving their kids across the country in their 1985 Volkswagen pop-up camper van. In one video, Pearl signs, “Why do I travel? So we can experience, listen to, and create our own stories.” Darrel adds, “I don’t want to stay and isolate myself in my home. I want to go out and see different places.”
As a hard-of-hearing driver, I found that driving provided me with more flexibility to act spontaneously. For example, I pulled off the road and purchased a bag of boiled peanuts from a sunhat-wearing gentleman. The one-on-one interaction felt much less intimidating than ordering a snack from an airport café and hoping that I would hear the cashier shout my order number when my food was ready. Several miles later, had I swapped my salty-slimy peanuts for a bag of chips? Of course. But I had the option to choose my own path and pit stops.
That freedom from my usual routine was invigorating, but it was also refreshing for my physical wellness. When my tinnitus started flaring up as I drove through Georgia, I turned off my speaker. When the tinnitus persisted, I pulled off at a rest stop and took a quiet walk away from the sounds of traffic. Soon, the ringing stopped, and I was comfortably back on the road. I would struggle to have this level of sensory control in an airplane, even if I used noise-canceling headphones.
Planning my next adventure
“My road trip was life-changing because it forced me outside of my comfort zone during a time in which I avoided traveling.”
Photo by Laken Brooks
My road trip was life-changing because it forced me outside of my comfort zone during a time in which I avoided traveling. In fact, just a few days prior to the Florida drive in 2022, I’d actually canceled a trip I’d been planning to New Orleans. I’d been worried about missing flight announcements since I had a hard time hearing the intercom during other airport visits. The isolation of inaccessible airports dissuaded me from flying back then, but I’ll embark on a Hanukkah road trip to the French Quarter at the end of this year.
As I’ve planned that upcoming solo trip, I’ve consulted with my local North Carolina DMV office about adding the International Symbol of Access for Hearing Loss when I renew my driver’s license. In North Carolina, I can add this symbol to my license so long as I pay the cost of getting a new license (which I’d need to pay, anyway, when my old license is about to expire). I could also add the symbol to my plates, but I’d need to pay a plate customization fee since (as of 2023) the state’s Disability License Plate application parameters do not include hearing loss or auditory processing disorders. Having this hearing loss access symbol on my driver’s license will give me the peace of mind that first responders can know more about my communication needs if I find myself in an emergency.
I look forward to using all of my senses on and off the road. I’ll be able to feel the vibration of my car and the rhythm of live jazz music. And I expect that I’ll enjoy beignets much more than boiled peanuts.
