[Last modified: November, 15 2024 06:55 PM]
In preparing to enter the classroom, I begin with a familiar ritual: cleaning my ears and putting on my hearing aids. This process, in my private space, feels like a moment of transformation, as if I am about to “become a cyborg again.” My hearing aids are both an essential part of me and a constant reminder of the technological integration into my body. They enable me to interact fully with the world but never quite feel like a natural extension of myself. I cannot live without these “technological organs,” yet I feel uneasy about their presence, which is both comforting and uncomfortable. They require electricity to function and sit in my ears like foreign objects, feeling like “stones” lodged in my ear canals even as they sharpen my auditory perception. This tension reflects the concept of an “ambivalent cyborg identity”—a fusion of the human and the technological that is both enabling and alienating.
After eight years of using hearing aids, I have become a hybrid of my biological self and the technological device, yet I struggle to accept this additional “organ.” Wearing hearing aids grants me a greater sense of safety, allowing me to communicate more confidently, but they also contribute to a complex bodily self-consciousness, or what I might term a “cyborg inferiority.” They sometimes emit harsh feedback sounds when in proximity to clothing or other objects, a reminder that this technology is imperfect and, in its noisy reminders, forces me into a hyper-awareness of my difference from my classmates.
In the classroom, I attempt to perform “normalcy” by acting as though my hearing ability is identical to that of my peers. I find myself distracted, trying to mask the presence of my hearing aids, and this interferes with my focus on the lesson. I also experience an underlying anxiety about potential malfunctions—such as the battery running out mid-class—which could expose me. If this happens, I must go through a routine of replacing the battery, involving precise movements that I attempt to disguise, pretending to adjust my hair or touch my ear naturally. This bodily awareness and constant anticipation of needing to “pass” as non-technologically aided makes my movements guarded, almost unnatural.
Moreover, I feel heightened discomfort in noisy classroom environments, such as discussions or seminars, where background noise interferes with my hearing aids’ capacity. These moments amplify the feeling of disconnection; a “sound world” flows around me, but I am only partially in sync with it. Consequently, I often avoid eye contact or try to blend into the background, wary of being addressed directly. This experience, grounded in both my embodied reality and my awareness of social expectations, illustrates how technology reshapes not only my sensory experience but also my social identity and sense of agency.