Author: Wilson Sun
I went to the café on the Huangpu Riverfront because I wanted to listen to the people working there; they are all unique. In the way that they listen—with eyes and with patience.
Xiao Su has worked at the café for just over a year. She is in her thirties. Before this, she retouched photographs in a dark office, sitting for hours until her body protested. She left not because she’s hearing impaired, but because she was tired of the sedentary lifestyle. "Because of age, I didn't want to sit in an office anymore," she typed the words down on her phone. "I saw that Bear Paw Coffee values disabled people, so I changed my career."
Jingjing has been here for four years. She used to be a graphic designer. She left for her health. "I considered my body and chose to switch," she wrote. Neither of them left because of deafness. They left because they wanted something different, something they were passionate about.
I asked what drew them to this place. Xiao Su wrote: "I saw Bear Paw Coffee recruit special people. The bear hole (their storefront design looked interesting. And I can communicate easily with coworkers here." The word easily stayed with me. In a world built for people who can hear, ease is rare.
The café has no sign telling customers that the people working here are deaf. That is not an oversight. "The store doesn't have a mark saying staff are disabled," Xiao Su wrote. "It makes us feel integrated, not unequal." Some of the store managers are also deaf. When someone is sick, coworkers cover the shift. The company steps in. It is, they told me, a place where they are just workers.
But the world outside the counter is not so seamless.
I watched an elderly man approach. He had no smartphone, only a leather wallet. He spoke, pointing at the menu. Jingjing smiled and reached for the whiteboard. The man's face shifted with understanding. Then came the apology—the slow nodding, the mouthing of sorry, sorry. He wrote his order: One americano. The exchange took five minutes. The queue behind him shuffled.
"If a guest comes and doesn't have a phone, like elderly people, we use the writing board," Jingjing explained. "Customers realize we are disabled. They first say sorry, then scan the code, and we type to communicate.
I asked how that feels. She wrote: "Because deaf people speak differently, the words may come out wrong. Normal people sometimes misunderstand the tone and meaning. We hope they can be more understanding and patient."
She was not asking for any sympathy, but asking to be read correctly.
The technology meant to help them sits mostly unused. Xiao Su is nearsighted. The transcription glasses are heavy and blurry. "We usually don't use translation devices," she wrote. "Only for special situations." They often only rely on a simple marker and a board,
There are good moments. "What warms me is the customers' tolerance and encouragement," Jingjing wrote. Over time, the work itself builds confidence. "After making coffee for a while, I've gained experience. I'm more confident with customers, and communication has become less of a problem now.
Xiao Su has a goal. She wrote: "I want to open my own coffee shop. Be my own boss. Let other deaf people work there too." She had been a photographer. But she also had skills and talent. She had won multiple awards before, in the field of coffee, competing with the normal people. She just needed a place that would only look at what she could do, not at what she could not.
Before I left, Jingjing wrote one more thing. Her fingers pressed hard on the keyboard: "I want disabled people to be positive. Don't run away from problems. Have an attitude of solving them. Don't think you can't do things because of your body."
I came to this café expecting to find difficulty, but I left carrying a new question: Why do we apologize when we realize someone is deaf? The word “sorry” rises so automatically, as if its presence requires our regret. But Xiao Su and Jingjing are not a misfortune. They are baristas, they have a high salary, and they are former designers and photographers. They are women with dreams and the quiet goal of doing a job well.
They do not need our sympathy. They need us to write down our order and move on. What they need is to be treated equally, like normal people as everyone else, not a special group of individuals who needs pity. They just want everyone to feel that their efforts and services are worth it, and that sense of honor is enough.
Despite the efforts the government made to make their life better and more convenient, we should not only focus on their living conditions. What's more important is that they need us to make changes in the mindset. They may have deficits, but in the spiritual world, they are no different from us, and their positivity and motivation even surpass most of most people. That day, the lesson took root deeply in my heart. I am still learning respect and the way we judge others, and the silence behind that counter is teaching me what respect truly means.