Fwd: "This is not a speech about Mister Rogers"

	Open in app or online "This is not a speech about Mister Rogers" My Pitt School of Health and Rehab Sciences graduation speech Virginia Montanez May 1 Editor's note: This is not this week's newsletter! That is coming on Wednesday. I promised many I would share the text of my keynote speech given this past Saturday at the University of Pittsburgh School of Health and Rehabilitation Sciences graduation at Soldiers and Sailors. Let me tell you, speaking in front of that many people was a very new experience for me, and it's a memory I'll always keep in a readily accessible brain file to pull out anytime I want. Here's the speech. You'll notice I took a few themes I've written about before and wove them together to give these students a message I think is important for every person in the health and medical fields to hear. Enjoy! "Pull Them into the Sun" Speech by Virginia Montanez This is not a speech about Mister Rogers. [pause] Let's talk about Mister Rogers. In 1983 — I would have been nine — Please don't do the math … in 1983, Mister Rogers published a book that included the iconic quote I know you've heard in this fraught world: "Look for the helpers." He instructed parents on how to help their children through scary times, particularly when the news was filled with fearful things. His message was simple: When you're scared. When you're anxious. When things are bigger than you … look for the helpers; that's where the comfort lies. But let's put a pin that because this is not a speech about Mister Rogers. Nor is this a speech about me. [pause] Let's talk about me. I've been profoundly hearing impaired since birth— for the audiologists among you, bilateral profound sensori-neural hearing loss with a reverse slope. Hereditary. [look to father in audience] Thank you, Dad. It has further deteriorated as I've lived this beautiful, painful life. If you did the math, you know at what age I stand before you with nearly all of my hearing gone. Without my aids, I no longer hear voices, not even my own. With them, I do pretty well. You'd think being born into a supportive family that never made me feel weak or limited would have meant I'd develop a healthy relationship with my disability. On the surface, I'd claim as much for decades. This is me! This is my disability! I am not ashamed! Inside? Well, inside I lived a life mostly trying to pass as hearing and when I failed at it, shame swirled around me. Mocking me as I relegated myself to the shadows. That was my existence. Surface: pride. Underneath, in the shadows: embarrassment and shame. Then Covid came along. Who was ready for that? Not one of us. The thing about me is that if you need someone who uses lipreading as such a crutch that she can tell you what supportive affirmations Mike Tomlin is saying to his men on the sidelines; what profanity Mike Sullivan is shouting at the blind refs; what Tom Brady was whining to his teammates about, I am your girl. I'll give it to you word for word. However, if someone bet you a million dollars about whether I would understand one sentence spoken to me from a foot away by a facemasked individual, my friends, do not take that bet. You will lose and I will feel bad. Masking, while necessary, further relegated me to the shadows of life. No more volunteering. No more events. I said no to so many things I wanted to do because my ability to communicate had been taken away. Stress was my constant companion in every interaction in every store or business. Weakness. Embarrassment. Frustration. This was my new existence. Then I took my daughter to a new dentist about six months into the pandemic. She was 14. Autistic. I was newly divorced. Alone. No partner to help guide me through interactions. When the masked dentist, a young man in his 30s, came to the lobby and began to, I assume, discuss her treatment plan with me … I couldn't pass or pretend. And I had to know what he was saying to me. So I did something I'd never done before. From within the shadows, I held up a hand. "Please. Wait. I'm deaf and read lips. I can't understand what you're saying." Stop. Breathe. Wait. Let the shame swirl. He held up a finger and then walked away, leaving me there in my frustration that this was my COVID life. When he returned, he handed me a notepad near the top of which he had written a word that changed my life. "Hi." Exclamation mark. And he had written, "I am Dr. Tellin!" and everything he had been going to say to me. The "hi." Wow. The "hi" dissipated the swirling fog of shame and it let me focus on something I had never recognized before but I'm now certain many had shown me: grace. I'm a follower of the gospel of Fred Rogers and I had not done what he told me to do. When things were bigger than me. When I was scared. Anxious. Look for the helpers. With that one word, taking the time to show me he wanted to communicate with me, not just list some random bullet points, I saw the grace the dentist offered and I took it. I finally saw the helper though I hadn't looked for one. I learned the truth from that one word. This isn't shameful. This is me. I cannot make myself hear, but others can extend grace enough to make themselves understood. And from that day on, I do not hesitate. When I can't hear, I say it. I look for the helper. Wait for the grace. Most times it's there. That dentist changed my life for the better, for always. With that seemingly small thing–- two letters. One punctuation mark. He took my hand and pulled me out of the shadows and into the sun. That's where I'll stay forever, my face warm with the grace he showed me. But this is not a speech about me. This, Panthers, is a speech about you. By virtue of what you have chosen to study, you have made the choice to be a helper. Hear me when I tell you that you can't understand what it's like to not hear unless you can't hear. You can't understand what it's like for an athlete to be faced with a career-ending injury, unless you have experienced that. You can't understand what it's like to be robbed of your ability to communicate or walk, unless yours is taken from you. It is not your understanding we seek or need; it is your grace. It is your being the safe place where shame lifts. It is us looking for someone who sees our need and makes that one small effort that pulls us into the sun. Makes our going easier. Your grace turns us into fighters. Many of you will encounter so much need, both physical and emotional, for the rest of your careers. Who should fill the need when it's you who recognizes it? Well, if you're looking for a sign … my friends, I am standing right here shouting it at you in neon … I am your sign. The sign reads as this: If you see the need, YOU fill the need. If you see they're feeling small and looking for the helpers, YOU be the helper. Even when a patient doesn't realize they need it, YOU be the grace. Be the person who removes the shame. Be the person who with a wave of your hand, with the scribbling of your pen, erases years of stress. YOU be the one who pulls them into the sun. These are not your marching orders. These are your living orders and they all start with one simple two-letter word. Hi. Congratulations on your dedication and hard work. But your work has just begun. Hail to Fred Rogers. Hail to the dentist. Hail to the helpers. Hail to Pitt.   Restack   © 2023 Virginia Montanez 548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104 Unsubscribe