Archives for March 2004

ON HAND: Biased audiologists

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

A few years ago, I had to get a hearing test taken. “Mary” had told me that the University of Minnesota provided free audiological exams, so I decided to take advantage of this.

Mary told of how she had been treated at the office when she had her exam. After her test, Mary was asked how she became deaf. After she answered, Mary was asked if she had ever considered a cochlear implant. Mary decided to play along and started asking questions about how the process worked. As she recounted the experience to me, she said, “I sat there listening to the audiologist rave about how wonderful the implant was, and I left feeling so pressured to get one–in fact, I became almost convinced by its benefits just because of how the audiologist talked as if it was a miracle. I can only imagine how parents of newly diagnosed babies would feel after a trip there.”

As I went in the building, I was curious about if I’d be asked about getting an implant or not. After about ten minutes of sitting in an old office with badly beaten-up furniture, an audiologist, Sarah, came out and mouthed exaggeratedly, “Truuudy Suuugggs?” as she looked at me with a smile. I nodded, and wordlessly followed her down a gray hallway.

Sarah suddenly turned around and signed, “I know a little sign.” I was surprised–why hadn’t she signed to me upon meeting me? “But I don’t practice very much.”

I asked, “Why not?” She seemed caught off-guard, shook her head helplessly and shrugged as if to say, “I don’t know.” We walked on without saying another word.

I entered the metallic sound room for the exam, and felt a sense of déjà vu when the door shut. Looking around, I noticed the same toys from when I was tested as a toddler, such as the rainbow-colored donuts stacked on a white cone and various dolls. With the headphones uncomfortably snug on my head, I found myself feeling sleepy as I waited for the next tone to sound, just like I had when I was younger. I also kept wondering if I was imagining tones when I heard them, but raised my hand anyway.

After a dull few minutes, the audiologist motioned for me to come out and said with a nod, “You’re profoundly deaf.” I didn’t respond (I didn’t care, really), and she said she had some questions for me. She actually only had one question: “How did you become deaf?” As soon as I told her that my parents were deaf, she nodded, jotted something on the form, and stood up with a friendly smile. “Thanks for coming, Trudy!”

She hadn’t even asked if I was interested in hearing aids or cochlear implants. Even if she was right that I wasn’t interested, she shouldn’t have assumed–she should have at least asked me, and left the choice up to me.

I used to question whether people going to the audiologist, like parents of deaf children, received neutral, unbiased information or not. I know the answer now.

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ON HAND: HELLO My name is Trudy Suggs!

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

hellomynameis

When I was at my grandmother’s a few weeks ago, she made me take some of my old school papers and toys home with me. I went through the papers, laughing at my horrible handwriting, marveling at how poor my artistic skills were, and studying my English development.

Buried in the pile was a “HELLO my name is” badge from when I was maybe in the second or fourth grade. Scribbled on it was, “Trudy Suggs. I am deaf.” Underneath that, I had written, then crossed out, “I can’t hear.”

I was astonished at how I identified myself at such a young age. As I drove back home, I thought about that badge and how we discover our identities.

I know exactly when I found out I was Deaf. I was 14.

I had always identified myself as deaf growing up, and at school, “hearing impaired.” But I also have scores of journal pages where I pour my anguish out: “Why can’t I be hearing? Why don’t people accept that I’m deaf? I wish I could be hearing so I could have a boyfriend! Everyone hates me because I can’t hear! I wish I could be popular. I hate my deafness so much.”

It’s still very painful for me to read these entries, primarily because I know the environment I was in and the people I was around shaped my perception of myself. The “hearing impaired program” teachers constantly criticized me, even though I wasn’t in any of their classes. I was mainstreamed – sometimes with other deaf students but usually by myself – and I always hated sitting in front of the classroom waiting for the interpreter to arrive. Sure, I had hearing friends, but it wasn’t the same, of course.

The other deaf kids and I had awkward friendships; I was often an outcast, different from them. I realize today it’s probably because I wasn’t in classes with them (the deaf classrooms were in an out-of-the-way annex area, out of reach of my classrooms). I simply wasn’t physically around these students enough to develop solid friendships. It also probably was because I was “more deaf” than they were, which is almost ironic. Only when I was among my parents, who always made sure I knew being deaf was a gift, or deaf adults, did I feel at home, using my natural language and not worrying about what hearing people would think.

This inner struggle of wanting to be hearing disappeared the very first day I arrived at Gallaudet’s Young Scholars Program in July 1989, held at the same time as Deaf Way. It was at YSP that I bonded with kids that were like me. It was there and at Deaf Way that I discovered that there were thousands like me. It was that summer that I found out something I had always known but wasn’t allowed to be at school: culturally Deaf.

I came back refreshed, and more importantly, happy. My journal entries after that summer show nothing but pure acceptance of my identity. Reading them, I can see a marked change in my self-esteem in these entries; my grades improved; and I finally found friends who I felt comfortable with. Instead of, “I’m deaf and can’t hear,” I was able to become me.

Today, I would write on the badge: HELLO my name is Trudy Suggs!

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ON HAND: A trip down memory lane

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

My heart was pounding with anticipation. Twenty years after I left, I was finally returning to a place that held so many memories for me: Springfield, Illinois.

As I drove, I thought about all the years at Hay-Edwards Elementary School, where I attended until I was nine years old. I thought about how my first grade teacher would sign “no” in the oddest way; and how Mrs. B would cop attitudes on us and force us to give her shoulder massages. I thought about when Mrs. B explained that her new car had cruise control. “Does that mean you can sleep while driving?” a classmate asked in amazement.

I thought of my hearing classmates who went out of their way to learn sign language, and how some of them still are very involved with the deaf community today. I remembered practicing speaking, “I hate you,” with my hearing girlfriends over and over so I could break up with Matt in the fourth grade. When I walked up to Matt and spoke the words, he frowned and said, “Huh? What did you say?” I stomped back to my girlfriends, humiliated.

I let out a chuckle as I remembered my second-grade interpreter, a reverend with perfectly manicured nails who was also my parents’ marriage counselor (they divorced–enough said). I was always so embarrassed when he came to my classroom in full reverend attire.

I was curious. Were my classrooms the same? Were there still deaf students at Hay-Edwards? Was the principal’s office, where he often paddled disruptive students with a wooden paddle, still at the end of the building?

As I drove to the school, I was taken aback at how uncanny my memory was. All these years, I had remembered details of the town perfectly–the aquarium store on MacArthur Drive, the bowling alley I learned how to play Donkey Kong and Dig Dug at, and certain landmarks leading to my house.

I pulled up to the school. The building was exactly how I remembered. I stepped out of my jeep, took in a breath of fresh air, and noticed that there was no playground equipment anywhere. Finding this odd, I figured perhaps the playgrounds were moved or being renovated.

When I arrived at the main entrance, my heart dropped. The entrance doors said, STATE OFFICE BUILDINGS. I went inside, and there were no classrooms–only cubicles. I talked with a security guard who seemed thrilled by the fact that I had attended the school. He said the school had been converted about 15 years ago. Yet I could see traces of my years there: the paneling on the doors; the layout of the floors, hallways and rooms; and the smell of the school still lingered.

I walked to my jeep, saddened that my formative years in deaf education seemed to have vanished. Then I reminded myself that these years had very much left a mark upon me, and that my memories were precious. I left, feeling content.

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ON HAND: “Impaired Child Area”

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

I did a double take as I drove in my jeep in Eden Prairie, Minnesota. Was I really seeing what I had just seen? I carefully looked again. Yup. I hadn’t misread the yellow diamond sign that proclaimed: IMPAIRED CHILD AREA.

I chuckled and kept driving. What kind of impairment? Mental? Physical? Alcohol? Were drivers to slow down if they saw someone with any sign of impairment? Shouldn’t drivers slow down for any person, period?

njsignThis made me think about when I lived in southern New Jersey. I was on a shuttle back from the airport, and we stopped at a hotel to let a passenger off. I noticed a sign in front that stunned me: DEAF EMPLOYEES ON PREMISES.

I decided this would be perfect for a story, so I called the hotel, Summerfield Suites, and spoke with someone named Jen. When asked why the sign was mounted, Jen said, “It’s to let people know that some people who work here can’t hear… I guess because we have a parking lot surrounding our building to let them know we have deaf people working here, to be careful.” As I hung up, I thought that if these people got jobs, they probably could be taught to look both ways before crossing the street, or in this matter, a parking lot. (For more on this, check the July 2001 issue of Silent News, page 11.)

I also often drove by a sign near my parents’ old house in Naperville, Illinois, that said: HEARING IMPAIRED CHILD AREA. One can only wonder how they managed to fit all of the letters on the sign. I always pictured the sign being lobbied for by an overprotective parent who believed deaf kids were helpless. Or maybe not. My boyfriend’s (deaf) parents have a cabin in Northern Wisconsin, and 20 years ago, a DEAF CHILD AREA sign was suddenly put up much to their surprise. After a while, the parents finally found out who had put it up–it was a hearing neighbor, who wanted to keep cars from speeding down that isolated road.

This is an age-old controversy. Do these signs really serve their purpose? I say they don’t. I’ve often discussed both sides of the issue with parents, deaf people, and anyone remotely interested in the topic. Most drivers don’t slow down, anyway–in fact, there was a show on television once where drivers were tested at random about the most recent sign they had just passed. More than 75% of them didn’t remember what the sign said.

Besides, these signs are easy advertisements for child molesters and kidnappers searching for prey. Why would anyone publicize that deaf children might be wandering around in the middle of the street? It’s just ridiculous to me. Can’t we find better ways to spend money?

Maybe I’ll mount a sign on the country road in front of my house: DEAF PEOPLE (AND DOG) AHEAD.

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