Jan 18 2009
Book Review: Hands of My Father
Let me be upfront and honest about my bias: Myron Uhlberg is one of my favorite authors–and people–in the world. If our ages didn’t differ by 40 years, my husband might need to worry. Based on Myron’s five children’s books and the stories I’d heard him tell in person, I expected a great deal from his adult memoir, Hands of My Father: A Hearing Boy, His Deaf Parents, and the Language of Love (Bantam Books, February 3, 2009). I was not disappointed.
I got my hands on an advanced reading copy and could hardly put it down until I finished it in the course of a day. To say I loved it barely begins to cover it. I felt not as if I were reading a book, but rather as if Myron had stopped by for a chat over coffee.
In Hands of My Father, Myron recounts experiences from his childhood growing up in Brooklyn with deaf parents. From a tender age, Myron became the family interpreter. If not for the great affection between Myron of his parents, his resentment of this role might have turned toxic. Switching from child to adult, from beloved son to utilitarian hands and voice, often had Myron’s young head spinning. As if the task were not heavy enough for a six-year-old, Myron had to tell his father when hearing people called him a “dummy” and otherwise insulted him for being deaf. The discrimination against the deaf in the ’30s and ’40s is almost unbelievable compared to today’s accessible world, thanks to the Americans with Disabilities Act.
But despite his repeated encounters with ignorant and cruel hearing adults, despite his embarrassment and resentment of his deaf father, Myron does not dwell on negatives. These comprise only one aspect of his childhood. His parents adored him, and he them. He shared many happy and even proud moments with his father. Not all of his stories revolve around his parents’ deafness, either; he describes experiences that were fairly typical for a boy in post-Depression New York–though perhaps an exceptionally mischievous and creative boy.
I find Myron’s writing eloquent and yet comfortable and engaging. His description of signs is so clear and beautiful that I believe even a non-signer could envision the hands in motion. Myron’s anecdotes strike chords that are sure to resonate with readers of all different backgrounds.
I hope when February 3 rolls around, you’ll get yourself a copy of Hands of My Father, grab a cup of coffee, and sit down with my friend Myron. And I hope you’ll enjoy getting to know him as much as I have.
