Being able to see and hear the world that encompasses us is a privilege we often dismiss. It is a great privilege, because seeing and hearing allows our minds to be encoded in images and the language(s) you speak. Close your eyes for a moment after you read the following word: Apple. What did you see? Did you see an image of an apple? Or did you see the text of the word? Either way, your mind projection of the word “Apple” is directly linked to your visual and/or echoic memory. (When you read this paragraph, you probably even had a tiny voice reading it in your head – that’s the sub-vocalization from your echoic memory) This is all too normal for us to even stop for a moment to question- or wonder for more than a second on how our mind projections work. However, the real curiosity should lie with the question: what about the born-blind-and-deaf people?
Unlike people who were blinded and/or deafened later in life, born-blind-and-deaf people’s minds cannot register color, language, or clear images. Though the minds of such people still remain a mystery, we can be certain in saying that their learning is debilitated. Helen Keller would be an anomaly to this fact, except, contrary to popular belief, she was actually born with the ability to see and hear. Her mind was already set in images and hearing. In fact, you’ve probably never heard of an innately blind and deaf person, let alone encountered one. Thus, let us, today, imagine living a day as a congenitally disabled author, who recently gained eyesight and hearing through multiple surgeries and implants.
Imagine that until yesterday, you were diagnosed with deafblindness. Yesterday, your mind would have only been filled with emotional states and possibly, textual outlines. Your other senses are sharper, as you would have relied purely on your ability to smell, taste, and touch, until today. Today, the doctor will unravel the thick layers of gauze fabric around your eyes for the first time since the surgery. You feel an unfamiliar hand approach your face. It smells of fresh toothpaste and hand-sanitizers. As the unfamiliar hand unrolls more and more layers of gauze off your face, you can already feel the brightness penetrating into the deep core of your eyes. You feel blinded again, but this time by brightness not eternal darkness. The light confuses you and your heart skips a beat. What if the surgery had failed and now you are in heaven? But you quickly calm down, and focus on the smell… the scent… and you come back to realize you are still in the hospital. When your naked eyelids finally meet the cold air of the room, you start to open your eyes but they still feel heavy. Squinting, you manage to open your eyes only a half of a centimeter, and immediately your tears come rushing out with all the emotions you’ve gathered over the years. After blinking through tears three more times, you see a figure come into focus. An angel, surely. No, no, it is the man with the unfamiliar scent. He is the one who gave you the surgery.
The man and all of the surroundings are more magnificent than anything your mind could have imagined, all these years. In eternal darkness, there is no way you could have thought of someone’s face to look the way it does, there is no way you could have conjured up the image of how the light shines through a window. This is the precise moment you are certain of a superior being, a God, because his imagination and creation overwhelms you. The world you are seeing through your barrier of tears is majestic, even if it is just a room in the hospital. The doctor points to a small machine. In retrospect, you realize it is a hearing aid. He points at your ears, and you sign an “okay.” You can feel your throat vibrating – though you can’t hear yourself crying. All you feel are vibrations. Then all of a sudden, the vibrations shimmer out as sounds. It’s no more than a whisper, and it is the sound of angel tickling your ears. A normal person would describe this experience as channeling into a radio station: static first but a stable sound delivery after focusing in. It startles you, when you hear the first word of your existence: it’s your name. You can tell because you recognize it from the vibrations in the air behind you. You turn around and face the woman who said your name out loud. The familiar vibrations on your skin never go away. You immediately recognize her. She is the same woman who hugged you goodnight and taught you to use sign language. She is the first person you managed to sign the word “love” to. You hear yourself gagging for the first time as you finally see your mom – whom you’ve tried to picture in your head, many, many times.
***
Alphabet learning took you several years. But once you have mastered the basics, you know what you’ve been dying to do. You want to write. You want to express all of the emotions and sensory memory you have not been able to communicate these past years. And so you pick up your pencil and start: “I was born into darkness…”

This is the new beginning of your life.