Life at low
Ricky McLeod, who spends his days in a secluded warehouse, tells Sam Kilmister about his life of segregation so others can get help. ‘‘It’s been a mission. Lonely, frustrating ... those words say it all.’’ Ricky McLeod
He would chase his nine siblings around the barren slopes of Raetihi, and spend hours holding a spotlight for his father as he tinkered under cars. His childhood was no different to any other kid in the remote central North Island heartland, or so Ricky McLeod thought. He never understood why others made fun of him.
He got his first inkling when he was at Ruapehu College. The class began like any other, until he noticed suddenly there was silence and everyone was staring at him.
‘‘Why didn’t you answer my question?’’ asked the teacher, with a smirk, as if he had caught the boy out napping.
But McLeod hadn’t heard any question. He moved himself to the front row, fearing his affliction had just been outed to his schoolmates. But he said nothing.
If he didn’t acknowledge classmates when they called out in the corridor, he was berated for being rude. When he missed an answer in class, they told him he was an idiot. He still said nothing.
It would be another 25 years until he finally confided in someone that he was profoundly deaf.
McLeod, 52, suffers from conductive hearing loss, which occurs when sound is not conducted efficiently through the outer-ear canal to the eardrum and the tiny bones, called ossicles, of the middle ear.
He hears only muffled sounds and communicates by reading lips, speaking and sending text messages. He has never learned sign language.
McLeod was put on a waiting list for cochlear implants in 2015, and unless the public purse can write a bigger cheque, he will never hear again.
Days are spent alone in a secluded warehouse, stripping cars for scrap metal, a place he knows is sheltered from the bigotry of others and where he won’t have to socialise, to pretend to hear.
He makes a modest income, but it’s his space and no-one can make him feel inferior. He makes the rules, albeit for a solitary game.
‘‘It’s been a mission. Lonely, frustrating ... those words say it all.’’
But McLeod doesn’t want pity. He’s not starting a Givealittle page, and he’s not campaigning for a cochlear implant for himself. He’d rather it go to someone else. Someone younger.
But he does want to show what a life of segregation looks like, and what children with hearing impairments are at risk of enduring into adulthood, if they, too, fall through the cracks.
A survey by international deaf support website Hear-it found 28 per cent of those with hearing loss choose to keep their impairment to themselves. They fear prejudice and misconceptions, assumptions they are ‘‘less intelligent’’ or ‘‘mentally ill’’, or ‘‘they only hear what they want to hear’’.
McLeod is a loner, but he is no stranger in Raetihi.
The locals know him well. Most of them leave their old cars at his warehouse, which he will either fix or strip for parts.
He has limited contact