Archives for February 2004

ON HAND: IM, VP, e-mail, pagers, oh my!

February 27, 2004

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

I remember being a teenager and having to wait for weeks for letters from a boy I liked in Washington, DC, and from another boy in England (we won’t discuss how many crushes I had in high school)–the wait was almost unbearable. I also remember the long-distance phone bills I ran up, which was much to my mother’s dismay.

Today, we have pagers, email, instant messages (IM), web cams, and videophones. I love receiving immediate responses to my messages, and being able to email or IM with my 81-year-old hearing grandmother on a daily basis.

Still, I wonder sometimes if the availability of immediate communication makes life almost too convenient. It seems almost as if many of us are slowly and unintentionally replacing live, in-the-flesh relationships with technology-driven relationships. I’ve been to the wedding of a couple that met on-line, and they’re blissfully married today with kids.

Yet I also know of other people who have gotten wrapped up in online relationships without having ever met in person. I even have a few friends I’ve become IM buddies with but never met in person. Is this good or bad? I really don’t know.

But I know one thing: my life has become dependent upon technology. A couple of weeks ago and then again over the weekend, a major wireless provider had a server go down. The problems with this were monumental–messages were not sent or received immediately and arrived hours or days later. This made for a lot of confusion and moments of wondering. It affected my day-to-day operations at my job, and I felt disconnected from both colleagues and friends for a few days. I’ve become so accustomed to instant gratification that if my messages aren’t responded to quickly, I feel cut off or ignored. And this made an interesting question for me: have I become too dependent on instant communication?

At a recent basketball tournament, coverage was nonexistent for the Sidekick pager, so most of us were pagerless for the weekend. At one point during the boys’ championship game, I looked around at the bleachers. Nobody was interrupting each other by suddenly looking down at their pagers. Even though it was difficult to make plans with people, it was surprisingly easy to live without the pager. In fact, I felt almost liberated.

Of course, as soon as I drove back into range, I quickly hunched over my pager and checked for messages.

I’ve tried to live a life of simplicity and ease out here in the boondocks of Minnesota. But I wouldn’t be able to have this life or keep in touch with friends from all over the world if not for the Internet–a Catch-22 situation. So I’ve made a conscious choice to appreciate the availability of instant communication, but to also make an effort in keeping friendships intact by seeing them in person.

Until then, they can IM, e-mail, page, or call me on the videophone…

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Leaving His Mark Upon Faribault: Olof Hanson (1862-1933)

February 25, 2004

This article originally appeared in Community Voice, March 2004.

One cannot help but marvel at the majestic designs of some of the buildings in Faribault. Driving through town, it’s easy to conjure up images of days long gone, buildings richly filled with stories. It is no wonder, then, that Olof Hanson, one of Minnesota’s very own architects, may have drawn inspiration from the buildings in Faribault as a teenager.

Born hearing on Sept. 10, 1862, Hanson became deaf at 12 years old due to harsh weather conditions.  When Hanson’s father, Hans, bought land in the Willmar area, the family decided to move to America. However, before they actually moved, Hans died suddenly in March 1874. A little over a year later, Hanson, along with his mother, older brother, and younger sister, finally arrived in Minnesota.

Hanson attended public school in Sweden, but he didn’t receive formal education in America until Minnesota School for the Deaf (MSD) Superintendent Jonathon Noyes learned of Hanson. Noyes contacted Hanson’s family, and the boy eventually enrolled at the school in early 1878, where he learned to sign and read. He has, in some of his writings and interviews, credited his years at MSD as being some of the happiest years of his life.

Hanson then headed to the National Deaf-Mute College (now Gallaudet University) in Washington, D.C., where he majored in architecture after some indecision.  He also learned several languages while there, including Latin, French and German, and was a great orator and debater. He was also involved with sports, and met his future wife, Agatha Tiegel, at the college, although they weren’t quite acquaintances until years later.

After graduating as the class valedictorian in 1886 with a bachelor’s degree, Hanson went to Minneapolis as a draftsman. The job had been arranged through his college roommate’s father, who was Senator William D. Washburn. While working in Minneapolis, Hanson earned a master’s degree from the National Deaf-Mute College in 1889. After Hanson moved with the firm to Omaha, he decided he wanted to study European architecture.

Spending ten months overseas, Hanson attended the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris and developed a friendship with renowned deaf sculptor Douglas Tilden, and took notes on various buildings in Europe. In addition to his studies, he went on tours of deaf schools, studying the methodologies of instructing deaf students at these schools while mingling with the deaf community in each country. These observations were submitted in a report to Minnesota educators.

After his trip, Hanson went to Philadelphia as a draftsman for the Pennsylvania Institute for the Deaf project. Next were Minneapolis and Duluth, where he worked on many projects, including the design for the North Dakota School for the Deaf.  However, economic factors led to Hanson’s unemployment. Superintendent Noyes offered Hanson a teaching position at MSD, and Hanson accepted. It was here at MSD that Hanson became friendly with Tiegel, although they didn’t marry until 1899.

After two years, Hanson established a private architectural firm in Faribault in 1895. His firm flourished in design of various community buildings, stores, churches, schools, and houses, mainly in the Faribault area. Some of the notable designs include Superintendent Noyes’ home, and the Charles Batchelder Residence – both in Faribault – along with the Jay Cooke Howard resident in Duluth..

In 1901, Mankato architect Frank Thayer asked Hanson to form a partnership, so Hanson moved to Mankato. With the success of their business and being given a project designing a courthouse and jail in Juneau, Alaska, Thayer and Hanson formed a new practice in Seattle in 1902. Hanson was unexpectedly left to run the practice solo when Thayer became ill and retired. Still, Hanson preserved, and stayed in Seattle for a few more years, being an active deaf community member and starting a Bible class.

Demand for architecture work again faltered during World War I. Hanson returned to the Midwest and worked in both St. Paul and Omaha in the drafting field. He still wanted to be in Seattle, though, so he returned in 1918, working as a draftsman for the University of Washington and working his way up to Landscape Architect.

During these years, Hanson felt the need to be involved in spiritual service to deaf people. He became ordained as a deacon in the Episcopal Church in 1924, then as a priest in 1929, and supported his ministry by continuing his work at the University.  He died in 1933 at the age of 71.

One of Hanson’s most remarkable architectural achievements is the Charles Thompson Memorial Hall in St. Paul, which became a historical landmark in 1994. According to the historical landmark nomination papers, Hanson never forgot the needs of his own people. “Because architect Olof Hanson himself was deaf, and he was designing a building for the deaf community, he incorporated in the building several features that specifically aided in its usage. The large windows, both bow and double-hung, on all floors and in the raised basement, were included to allow adequate natural light needed for efficient sign communication. The second floor assembly hall was built with lighting controls adjacent to the speaker’s podium. This arrangement allowed use of the lights to attract audience attention when beginning an event.”

The building, named after a deaf wealthy community leader, continues to stand proudly across the street from Merriam Park Library in St. Paul. It serves as a social and cultural gathering place for deaf people, ideal for banquets, meetings, weddings, and other social activities.

Hanson also designed Dawes House, the only building on the Gallaudet University campus designed by a deaf architect. Hanson Plaza and Dining Hall is named for Hanson’s wife, who was also the first woman to graduate from Gallaudet in 1893. Back in Faribault, the street leading to the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf is named Olof Hanson Drive.

Hanson is revered and respected by alumni and students of the school, and by deaf people everywhere, for his accomplishments and remarkable influence upon local architecture.

Compiled from various reports and websites, including the Gallaudet University Archives, Merriam Park Post (July 1994), and Faribault Heritage Preservation Commission.

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ON HAND: Cheerleading in signs?

February 20, 2004

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

Basketball season is coming to an end, and there’s been something bugging me about the past season: the cheerleaders.

One of the most overlooked aspects of any basketball game or tournament is the cheerleading squad. We all take them for granted: smiling faces, colorful uniforms, and perky hairdos. At deaf schools, cheerleaders are often few in number, but never low in spirit and energy. They spend hour upon hour practicing, just like the basketball players do–and it’s astounding for me to think about how much work goes into their performances.

At the Central State Schools for the Deaf tournament a few weeks ago, I sat down eagerly to watch the cheerleading competition. I had just come from chatting with one of the cheerleading coaches beforehand, who said she was absolutely terrified with pre-show jitters. I could only imagine how the cheerleaders felt, having rows of bleachers of people staring intently at them as they did their cheers.

By the time the third squad ran out on the floor, I was perplexed. All of the squads, except one, barely used signs. They were mostly screaming their cheers, with the occasional sign here and there–and most of the cheers weren’t interpreted or signed. Some of the people in the crowd, like me, started jittering, looking at each other whenever the cheerleaders would speak instead of signing, trying to decide if we were wrong to feel confused. It was odd to watch: “(Screaming something) GO! (screaming something) (insert sign of mascot here)! (Screaming something)!”

I wondered why the cheers weren’t being made accessible to the deaf fans. Sure, cheering doesn’t take a lot of work to understand–Go, Go, Win, Win, Defense, Defense–but why couldn’t these words at least be signed? After all, this was a tournament taking place at a deaf school where the majority of people were deaf–coaches, players, athletic directors, parents, fans, and students. I also wondered whether the cheerleading competition judges (who were all hearing coaches from universities and colleges) could truly understand the deaf cheerleaders’ spoken words, or if they listened to the ones who could speak well. Signs weren’t being judged at all, obviously, since none of the judges signed.

Out of maybe eight squads, only one actually used signs throughout—and I’m proud to say it was Minnesota (yeah!). The winning squad definitely deserved the title, given their astounding energy, marvelous skills, immaculate appearance, and perfect synchronization. I just think it’d have been nice if I could’ve understood what they were screaming.

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ON HAND: A harsh reality

February 13, 2004

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

Reality is harsh sometimes, especially if you’re a newcomer to a community.

I have two late-deafened friends. One is a New Yorker who has progressive hearing loss and is in absolute love with her new language and culture. The other friend, currently doing an internship in Colorado, became deaf literally within a matter of hours when he had an operation. In fact, he went into the surgery knowing he’d wake up stone-deaf. He’s also quite integrated into the deaf community, though it’s a work-in-progress for him.

I’ve watched them stumble through cultural lessons, and my heart has ached for them as they realized just how harsh the world could be. For people like me, it’s not such a harsh wake-up call. I grew up with lack of accessibility as a way of life, but I had a deaf family who understood how I felt. But for late-deafened people within the culturally deaf community, it’s not so easy.

Both of my friends, hundreds of miles apart, were recently put in situations where they were thrust into an all too common dilemma: the refusal of their schools to provide qualified interpreters. Each became frustrated to the point of wanting to give up and leave school.

They told me about their respective struggles during the same span of time and to their realizations about how narrow-minded people could be at times. I listened to how they were shocked that hearing administrators were so blatant in the refusal to meet their academic needs. I thought to myself how strange it must be to be hearing for the majority of your life, and then suddenly find that your own people aren’t always so nice after all. I also thought about how unique it must be to suddenly enter a community where discrimination is a way of life and learn the hard way that just because you’ve lost your hearing, some idiots might consider you less of a person.

Regardless of the disappointment they experienced in their struggles, they fought for what they needed, and no matter how much they wanted to, they didn’t quit. They continue to embrace being deaf, and are thankful that they’ve been welcomed into such a close-knit community. In fact, the New Yorker wrote me today saying she still sits in awe at deaf events and is so happy to be part of such a community.

I’m incredibly proud that they’re my friends. I’m even prouder that they’ve become part of my community, warts and all.

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ON HAND: Deaf person coming!

February 4, 2004

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

A friend of mine told me once he always gets irritated by how hearing people at deaf schools immediately start signing whenever a deaf person enters the room or walks by. “It’s so ridiculous,” he said, “Why do they immediately pick up their hands and start signing as if they’ve been signing all this time?”

I was puzzled. Shouldn’t this be how things are? Isn’t it appropriate to provide the deaf person with access to communication as soon as a deaf person enters a room? What was wrong with this picture?

He responded that the answer was so obvious that it was easy to miss. Why weren’t these people signing all the time, rather than only when deaf people were around? Since they were at a deaf school, why weren’t they using ASL all the time, without resorting to speaking?

Why do hearing people need to speak to each other if they can sign at a deaf school? Obviously, there are times when speaking would be necessary, such as meeting with non-signers. But there are very few situations at a deaf school where speaking is an absolute necessity. Let’s face it–speaking is more of a convenience than anything else for hearing people, which is only understandable given that it’s been their main mode of communication for all their lives. Even so, we’re talking about deaf schools where the majority signs. Many schools have signs saying, SIGN LANGUAGE USED HERE. Shouldn’t this mean that sign language is used 24 hours a day on campus, not only when deaf people are around?

Signing at all times, without speaking (and by this I mean signing and speaking at the same time, which is a whole other column), would have such tremendous benefit for everyone involved. Hearing (and probably deaf) signers would have improved fluency, especially those who didn’t learn ASL as a first language. Deaf people wouldn’t feel as if their presence was being announced by the sudden pick-up of hands. Students and teachers would feel comfortable knowing that ASL was available at all times anywhere on campus, rather than only when deaf people were around.

I told my friend that I agreed wholeheartedly with him, but that it’d probably never happen. He said, “Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

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