Archives for November 2003

ON HAND: NFSD

This originally appeared in The Tactile Mind Weekly in Trudy’s ON HAND column.

I’ve been a lifetime member of the National Fraternal Society of the Deaf–since I was a baby. I remember going to “Frat meetings” held at the local bowling alley’s meeting room, and I’ve always had a keen interest in NFSD’s insurance business and its social activities. The company has done great things for the deaf community, including giving away scholarships to college. NFSD, unlike many businesses in today’s society, has no serious financial problems, and has a strong board full of experienced leaders.

In spite of its grand history and contributions, many feel (and I do, too) that NFSD is experiencing a slow, drawn-out death. According to the most recent issue of NFSD’s newsletter, only 3,000 copies of the company’s newsletter are distributed each quarter. Each issue usually has a long list of death notices, probably because the majority of members are of senior citizen age. NFSD’s membership and recognition factor are becoming a distant memory. I only know a handful of people my age (late 20s) who are members, and whenever I mention NFSD to friends, they give me a blank stare, not knowing what the acronym means. Just before he passed away, former Grand President Frank B. Sullivan told me that he felt NFSD would not last much longer.

I’ve long said NFSD needs to reach out to youngsters and college students. Heck, Gallaudet used to have a NFSD chapter way back when NFSD has certainly tried to reach out, by granting All-American honors to deaf high school athletes (who get no-frills certificates and are listed in the newsletter). Even so, there are many additional steps NFSD could take to slow down the decline.

For one thing, the NFSD website could be redesigned–it’s not very visually appealing right now. The newsletter could be improved and become more timely/relevant to NFSD (two of the stories in the current issues were similar to ones that I had written many months earlier). The current version has pages of dull, detailed chapter news that are rarely even remotely interesting–I’m more interested in what these chapters have done for their communities.

NFSD advertises in Deaf Digest, but the ads are filled with ditties (short, rhyming songs or poems)–which many deaf readers tell me they do not enjoy, since the ditties are usually sound-based (check http://www.nfsd.com –there’s one on the very front page). The board roster includes a lot of big names, including Benjamin Soukup and Dr. Peter Seiler–yet none of the members are younger than 35.

NFSD is near and dear to my heart, and I’ll definitely be getting involved with the local chapter for a long time. I believe the current president, Al Van Nevel, has done amazing things for the company in many ways, but there are more factors involved than just good leadership. I fear NFSD will soon become another casualty of the deaf community’s shrinkage, and this saddens me.

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ON HAND: My most embarrassing moment

This originally appeared in The Tactile Mind Weekly in Trudy’s ON HAND column.

I was eight. We were having our fly-up ceremony, to mark our moving up from the rank of Brownie to Junior Girl Scout. My troop was exceptionally large at the time — over 30 girls, and my mom was one of the four assistant leaders (by default, she also was my interpreter since she could speak well).

Trudy serving as a flag-bearer in her Brownie Girl Scout outfit.I got selected by the leaders to be one of the flag bearers for the ceremony, held in the school cafeteria. We were spruced up in our brown dresses, white-and brown striped shirts, and brown knee-high socks with ridiculous orange tassels.

After marching around the packed cafeteria, we went into an enclosed room, where we excitedly prepared for the rest of the ceremony. Mom told me that the assistant leaders had decided to begin the ceremony with a group song.  The song was about an elf that could see itself in a mirror, and involved skipping in a circle around a mirror on the floor, leaning over the mirror, acting surprised, pointing at the mirror, then pointing at my face (“I see myself!”) with a happy expression, and skipping around the mirror again. During rehearsals, I mouthed the words along with the other girls. I’m not sure why I didn’t sign — conformity, I suppose.

We lined up to go out one-by-one. I walked out proudly, but then realized with puzzlement that I was the only one on stage. Even so, I performed my role with passion. I skipped, I showed surprise on my face, and I smiled to my heart’s content, holding onto my Brownie cap all this time. I saw the crowd smiling — later, I realized the smiles were ones of discomfort and pity — as I finished my part, and I felt good. I ran over to sit down, and the girl next to me leaned over, bumped shoulders with me, and giggled. I giggled back with pride.

The next Brownie walked out, and started reciting her name and the Girl Scouts promise.

It hit me. I had mouthed a song, complete with dancing, gesturing, and skipping, when I was supposed to have said my name and the Girl Scouts vow. I looked over to my mom in the doorway. Her face, panicky with horrified wide eyes, gave her away. “I’M SORRY! THEY DIDN’T TELL ME THEY CHANGED IT!”

I nodded and put on a brave smile, and joined the troop to do the song — again — a few minutes later. I never did say my vow.

On the ride home, I looked out the window with tears in my eyes. My parents didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to; they understood. Of course, they understood. They were Deaf, too, and had gone through similar experiences.

Every Deaf person I tell this story to laughs uproariously. Sure, it was an awful experience. But I don’t think I ever for once felt scarred by this memory. I think it’s because my parents were able to tell me that it was perfectly okay to feel the way I did. They had been there, done that. So I genuinely laugh at the memory, no matter how many times I tell this story.

Besides, it is funny to think of me skipping around a mirror with a Brownie cap on my head full of permed hair.

Note: Available for re-telling in ASL upon request.

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ON HAND: What do Mark Twain and SPAM have in common?

This originally appeared in The Tactile Mind Weekly in Trudy’s ON HAND column.


What do the Mark Twain Museum in Hannibal, Mo., and the SPAM Museum in Austin, Minn., have in common?

Both museums–located in small towns in the middle of nowhere–are deaf-friendly.

My grandmother lives just across the Mississippi from Twain’s old stomping grounds, so I grew up always having visited the Twain sites–and was always bored out of my mind by the talky-talk tours. I had warned my boyfriend, Randy, about the speaking tour before we arrived. So we were very surprised to find that the movie at the museum was captioned. In fact, the workers went out of their way to make sure of this, and were very knowledgeable about how to turn the captions on.

Last Saturday, Randy and I went to the SPAM Museum (the meat, not e-mail). As we entered the impressive building, an elderly worker came up to us and explained that the wall behind us had 3,499 cans of SPAM–and that we could watch the movie or go ahead to the actual museum. We chose the museum.

Much to our surprise, almost all of the television displays and even a game room with Al Frankel as a televised host had closed captioning buttons. Even if some of the videos were silly (it was the SPAM Museum, after all), we were thrilled because now we could -choose- to watch or not.

The odd thing is that in many major cities, I’ve been unable to gain access to the spoken tours or displays at museums or tourist spots. A friend and I toured Independence Hall in Philadelphia on a whim in 2002, and nothing was accessible for us. We asked for printed transcripts–nothing was available. After sitting through a lengthy film, we suffered a dull, lengthy spoken tour of the buildings. Fortunately we both love history, so he and I were able to entertain ourselves. Afterwards, I sent in a letter expressing my concerns. I never got a response.

Even if I could’ve arranged for interpreters by calling in advance, many of the sights I see are made on impulse, especially if I’m driving and suddenly see the sight. It’s almost a trade-off–advance planning for accessibility, or impulse visits without accessibility. Maybe in a couple of years, we can have impulse tours of notable sights that are accessible.

Until then–go check out the SPAM Museum. They have an awesome gift shop where you can buy me a long-sleeved t-shirt (navy blue, please).

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ON HAND: Ringo

This originally appeared in The Tactile Mind Weekly in Trudy’s ON HAND column.

My boyfriend’s mother’s sister’s oldest daughter’s oldest five children’s father’s sister is my stepdad’s ex-wife (it helps if you draw a chart). No, my boyfriend and I are not related. Thankfully.

Deaf people often joke about how closely intertwined the deaf community is. I always say that the six degrees of separation theory (that people in this world are connected to each other within six people) is dramatically reduced to three degrees (two for those from deaf families) within the deaf community.

Nowhere is this intertwined nature more evident than at Ringo.com. The latest fad to hit the deaf community, Ringo allows members to list friends (complete with self-written biographies and pictures) on their pages. If these friends are also other people’s friends, the connection is listed, so you can see which of your friends have the same people on their page you have on yours.

Fascinated by Ringo the first few days, I pored through listings of my friends’ friends and their friends. Each time someone asked me to be listed as their “friend,” it was like an affirmation: “Yes, you’re my friend. Share your picture with my friends!”

There are some drawbacks, though. Some people I barely know ask me to be on their list of friends–and out of politeness, I usually say okay. There are also messages from men “looking for a woman,” even though I clearly list that I’m in a relationship. With Ringo.com’s limit at 300 friends per member, I suspect the fad will die out within a few months. Ringo is in reality a popularity contest, and the novelty has long worn off for me.

Nonetheless, I’ve reconnected with people I haven’t seen in decades. It’s also fun to look at everyone’s pictures and get a glimpse into their lives. Really, it’s a brilliant way to demonstrate the almost-sick interconnectedness of the deaf community.

So I’m going to enjoy Ringo while it lasts.

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