I reread the e-mail to make sure I had understood correctly.

It said I had to pay $60 for a LCD hook-up at my workshop, even though I was bringing my own LCD projector, cables, and laptop. Oh, and I wasn’t getting paid for my presentation—nor for travel or lodging.

Reading that e-mail was one of the many scratch-my-head moments I had last year. I’ve provided countless presentations at various conferences and events over the years, but I now usually decline the invitations if they’re unpaid. After all, I spend hours preparing. Add the travel, and it just becomes too energy-consuming. Even so, last summer I decided to do a couple of free presentations as a way to market my company, T.S. Writing Services.

The first presentation was at a national conference in Washington, D.C. Initially, I submitted a proposal. When it was accepted, I learned that not only would I have to cover all costs to present at this conference—travel, lodging, meals—but I also wouldn’t be paid for my presentation. A few weeks after I declined the opportunity, the organizers asked me to reconsider. After some negotiation, I agreed to pay for my travel. They still didn’t compensate me for my time, though.

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with not being paid. I spoke with other presenters, who said they felt similarly. One mentioned that if it hadn’t been for his company paying for his time, he wouldn’t have even bothered coming. At least we got a nice lunch out of it from the conference organizers.

The $60 LCD fee was for another national conference in September. I wanted to go to this conference because it was in my hometown of Chicago. The $60 LCD was apparently a hotel stipulation. Why the organizers expected the presenters to absorb this fee when we weren’t being paid a single cent was beyond me. Additionally, I had asked the organizers to schedule both of my workshops on the same day so I could save time and money on travel. They scheduled my workshops on different days. When I reminded them of my request—after all, I was paying for all expenses, including the $60 LCD fee, and would be nine months pregnant, they responded with:

“You’re in luck … I’ll switch your Sat morn workshop to Fri @ 2:30. It ends at 4:30 (two full hours) – that’s the deal. ” [sic]

Did they forget I was doing this for free as a favor to the organizers? I had also donated hundreds of dollars in writing services. In that scratch-my-head moment, I debated whether to proceed with the conference or not. Fate intervened; the conference was canceled.

A Deaf colleague told of how he was asked to speak at Gallaudet University multiple times, never once being offered compensation. He stopped volunteering his time the day he found out that a hearing presenter commanded $5,000 just for an hour-long presentation at the university.

I’ve presented at countless Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf state-level conferences and local events. I’ve been paid for every single presentation: presenter fee, lodging and transportation, and so forth. Yet I can think of so many conferences hosted by organizations where I wasn’t given a single cent—not even complimentary registration or banquet tickets. This no-fee presentation mentality exists at many Deaf-run national conferences, especially among non-profits. Generally, interpreters, captionists, and hearing presenters are paid, with their expenses built into the budget. But Deaf presenters? Nah. They’re expected to donate their time, expertise and wisdom because that’s part of giving back to the community. While I’m a strong proponent of giving back to whatever community you’re part of, there are certainly more efficient approaches.

This doesn’t make sense. If Deaf presenters are to be taken seriously as a group of professionals and experts, we must be treated the same and paid the same as hearing presenters. Perhaps Max Kalehoff states it best: “Why would a conference producer pay presenters if there already are so many people jockeying for the spotlight? First, many of the smartest, most relevant presenters won’t show without pay, or some other significant incentive. Secondly, if presenters are what drive paying attendees, shouldn’t conferences share in the financial gain? Thirdly, paying presenters would create demand for such presenter opportunities and drive the quality of the talent pool.”

The solution is ridiculously simple. If there isn’t money to pay presenters, don’t host a conference. Sure, it’s always a good idea to try to get people to donate their time and knowledge—but don’t bristle when they ask if they’re being paid. Build the presentation costs into the budget, and find money for the presenters.

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On June 12, I got an e-mail that rocked my world. The writer, Laurie, asked if I was the “Atari Trudy Suggs,” and that I had become “somewhat of a folklore character” in her family. She explained that she and her two sisters had gotten an Atari console and a box full of games, and that my name was written on all the cartridges in silver pen.

She continued, “We have often wondered about Trudy, who she was, why she gave up her impressive collection of games or where she was today. If I remember correctly, my oldest sister even wrote you into an English class essay as a character at one point.”

A friend and me (in red) playing Atari in early 1985 at my grandparents' house.

I was transported back to when I got my Atari 2600 for Christmas. I hadn’t had the easiest childhood, but I was an only child and grandchild. Whatever crisis came into my family—there were many—the sadness was always overshadowed by the incredible amount of love showered upon me. I never lacked for clothes, toys, food or love.

Still, there was one item I so craved, besides my Barbie Dream House. On Friday nights, I loved playing arcade games while Mom bowled with her league; I favored Donkey Kong, Q*Bert, and Ms. Pac-Man. I got so much pleasure from dropping a quarter into the slot, and seeing PLAYER 1 appear on the screen. I wanted that at home, in the form of an Atari 2600. My family was definitely at the very bottom of the middle class, borderline poor, so I knew I’d never get an Atari. It was just so expensive, and the games were simply too costly. I still wanted one badly. I’d stare at it longingly every time I saw it in the store.

When I opened my Atari 2600 on Christmas Day in 1982, I did what any kid would have done: I thrust my fists in the air and screamed, “THANK YOU, SANTA CLAUS! THANK YOU!” I was eight, a bit old to believe in Santa Claus, but the sheer joy I felt that moment continues to be a defining moment in my life. (By the way, I figured out the truth about Santa that following January.)

Given the bad family situation I was in, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house two hours away. The Atari went back and forth with me, and was my source of comfort oftentimes.  Although I was a physically active child, my Atari games provided me with a unique way to relax indoors. Mind you, the games back then weren’t necessarily filled with realistic scenes like today’s games. The mental challenges in winning such simplistic games were what I liked, and gave me a sense of satisfaction even when I lost.

One of my prized notebooks. Note silver ink on right.

I pored over magazine articles on how to capture a perfect snapshot of my Pitfall high score. I spent quite a bit of time trying to angle my camera just right to avoid having the flash reflected on the screen. It never worked. That didn’t stop me from excitedly getting the photographs developed and trying to figure out which one to mail in for my free gift.

I had the Atari until perhaps high school, when I got a Nintendo 64 after much begging. I sold the Atari at a garage sale, and forgot about it for the most part. But still, when I saw pop culture references to Atari, it would bring a smile to my face and a brief, but happy, yearning for Atari.

On June 12, nearly three decades after I first got the Atari, Laurie’s e-mail transported me back in time. I remembered chortling as I mocked my mother’s futile attempts at playing Pac-Man and the happy times playing Atari with friends. I responded, confirming that I was the same Trudy Suggs. I knew it wasn’t a prank e-mail, because Laurie specifically referred to my writing in metallic silver ink. I have quite a few things from childhood I wrote on using that same silver marker. That silver marker was such a valuable commodity for me back then. The marker smell was heavenly, and to add a shiny touch to my name was gratifying.

I was astounded to find that my Atari had not faced a lonely, abandoned fate in some landfill; instead, it had gone to a family that seemed to have loved it as much as I did. I got introduced to a trio of wonderfully zany, hilarious and awesome sisters: Sara, Nancy and Laurie. This began a flurry of e-mail exchanges that delighted me. Even though I grew up in Illinois and they in Wisconsin, we all now live in Minnesota—something I like to think isn’t exactly a coincidence. Each had such a wonderful story about what she thought I was like and who I was, and they told of how they’d sit around talking about who Trudy Suggs was. They weren’t kidding when they said I was like a folklore character.

I felt oddly honored, almost incredulous, to know that I had such a fun role in another family. I knew I had to meet the sisters.

One of the pages from my notebook, listing all of the Atari games I had.

On June 26, my three-year-old daughter and I met the sisters at a coffee shop. As soon as I saw Sara coming towards me, I realized I was really among friends. They immediately gave me genuine hugs, and we all were excited at this amazing twist of fate, that such an antiquated item would have brought us together.  They were exactly what I had imagined from their e-mails. I showed them a notebook from when I was a child, filled with my juvenile writings—some in silver ink. One page contained a comprehensive list of all my Atari games that I had put together as an eight-and-half-year-old. They got as much of a kick out of that as I did, especially because in an earlier e-mail exchange, they had discussed the different games they got from me.

(L-R) Me with the Atari Sisters: Nancy, Sara and Laurie.

Nancy presented me with a metallic silver marker that I shall honor by writing on a few items with. I came home and told my husband I had found the perfect set of siblings that I hoped our children would emulate.

The Atari sisters also gave me something else: a renewed sense that this world is filled with the gifts of sincere, good people. And these gifts can be found anywhere, even in the form of an Atari console from 29 years ago.

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I recently watched Bernard Bragg’s new DVD, Bragg on Bragg, a delightful glimpse into Bragg’s life. Although there are numerous memorable moments on that DVD, one thing Bragg said jumped out at me. In talking about teachers and deaf children, he said that too often teachers prioritize grammar before communication—something that should not happen.

As he said that, I nodded quickly because this is something I have said many times as well. I also remembered a talk I gave to a group of parents who had deaf children. During the question-and-answer session, the participants asked fantastic questions. There was one father who had brought his 14-year-old son, which I talked about in a 2004 article:

A father of a 14-year-old boy went into an explanation of how his “hearing-impaired” son was obviously smart, but he found it frustrating that his son struggled with where to place commas. I glanced over at his son sitting next to him, and the boy was clearly embarrassed. The father ended by asking if commas were found in ASL.

I thanked the father for asking a good question, and explained that there are the equivalent of commas (head pauses, body movement, etc.) in ASL. I also said gently that I, as a deaf person, would be more concerned about whether a deaf child could read Hemingway or communicate his feelings. I added that I preferred to encourage deaf children in expressing themselves, rather than pigeonhole their comma use. The boy smiled at me and nodded in gratitude. The father sat down, deep in thought. After the session, the boy approached me shyly, and I was blown away by how intelligent he was, and how gentle yet beautiful his signing was.

On the DVD, Bragg talked about how he saw time after time a teacher stopping a child mid-sentence to correct his/her grammar. By the time the impromptu grammar lesson has ended, the child often has lost his train of thought or motivation to say what he originally wanted to.

Even with modern-day, greater understanding of ASL and language diversity, I continue to see teachers and parents prioritizing grammar over communication, defeating the child’s initial enthusiasm. While grammar is certainly an essential part of any language, it should never, ever take precedence over a child’s need to share thoughts. This is even truer if that child has not had full language access from birth.

Besides, there is a time and place for everything. Too often teachers, usually those who aren’t fluent in ASL, forget this. Instead, they maintain mindsets that are so deeply penetrated by the notion that grammar is a life-changing problem that must be corrected at all times in a child’s life. As a writer, I am all too cognizant of the importance of proper grammar, especially when I make grammatical mistakes as anyone does. However, and this is something I always tell people, I will always choose to have a person feel satisfied that he has shared his thoughts regardless of grammar over having a person say something in perfect grammar with limited or no substance.

Imagine a child, particularly a deaf child, who grows up constantly being corrected whenever he tries to say something in sign language or in writing. Is it any wonder, then, that so many people who have been corrected—again, typically by hearing people who aren’t fluent in ASL—they become unsure, even defensive, about their abilities for the rest of their lives? And then they might even begin to believe that they are incapable of proper grammar, or worse yet, of communicating at all.

Teaching grammar is an important thing, but it must be done at the right time and with respect to the child’s individuality and need to express himself. More importantly, it must never be done at a child’s expense.

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Two incidents took place recently that made me think about the inherent, subconscious biases that we all carry and how they spill over into our interactions with others. The first incident was when I took my two-year-old daughter  in for allergy testing. We went to a different clinic from the one we usually go to, so I wasn’t sure who the interpreter would be. The interpreter arrived a bit out of breath because he was late, but he was pleasant enough.

My daughter, as she usually does with anyone who even as much looks at her, started chatting away with the interpreter in American Sign Language (ASL). Keep in mind that the appointment was for my daughter, and so the interpreter was primarily there to facilitate communication for her, although he obviously was there for me also. I found it worthy of note that he never once asked what our communication preferences were.

Halfway through the appointment, as we were waiting for the nurse to return, the interpreter and I began chatting politely. He said, referring to my daughter, “I’m impressed by her language. Normally, with kids that age, I have difficulty understanding their ASL, but she’s so clear and easy to understand.”

“That’s probably because her first language is ASL,” I replied.

The interpreter nodded knowingly and said, “Yeah. And I’ve noticed she responds really well to my voice, too, and to other people’s voices, too. She listens intently and understands their voices really well.”

I was thrown off for a few seconds. I finally said, “Really? She’s deaf.”

The interpreter paused in confusion and then said slowly, “You could’ve fooled me.”

Before I could say anything more, the nurse returned. After the appointment, I reflected on the conversation. Obviously, the interpreter hadn’t been told that my daughter was deaf. What bugged me about his statement, though, was that my daughter responded really well to voice.

Of course she would have responded well to voice, had she been hearing. But why would the interpreter—who mistakenly thought my daughter was hearing—even say such a thing? Was the interpreter speaking with a bias that hearing children of deaf parents don’t respond as well to voice as hearing children of hearing parents? Anyone who is hearing and has deaf parents will immediately tell you this is one of the most bizarre misconceptions.

I shared this encounter with several hearing friends who have deaf parents and they all told me that their parents often were praised for raising hearing children who had excellent speech skills. I also shared my experience with a deaf colleague who has three hearing children. He recounted how, at a parent-teacher conference, the teacher shook her head in amazement and said, “I don’t know how you do it.” She was referring to how he and his wife, also deaf, could raise three “normal” children.

The second incident happened a few weeks later. On an e-mail list, an interpreter (who is certified, by the way) posted a request for interpreters for an event the following day. Buried within the e-mail was this:

Why? Free Delicious Dinner! You WILL get a real dinner break far away from the deaf people if you prefer! Payment right away! If you bring your invoice to the event, we will have a check waiting for you! Platform stuff can be fun!

While I understood the intention behind this message—interpreters often aren’t allowed to eat on the job because they need to interpret and logistically, it’s not easy to eat and interpret—but the “far away from the deaf people” line struck me as insulting. “Far away” implied to me that she perceived deaf people as having an affliction and being bothersome or a nuisance. I e-mailed the interpreter and suggested that she use better word choices. I also reminded her that interpreters aren’t for “the deaf people” only; they’re also for the hearing consumers.

Her initial responses were flippant and cheerful, probably because she didn’t realize just how serious I was until a few messages later.  She also didn’t realize that I was deaf in the first few messages. She then apologized and asked if we could talk on videophone so that she could “explain” (explain what, she didn’t say). I responded saying that I didn’t need any explanation, but that she might want to examine her subconscious, even inherent, biases.

A few days later, the interpreter who posted that message sent another e-mail to the list. An excerpt from her e-mail said:

I also would like to apologize that my description in the email of eating dinner “far away from the deaf people” came across as insulting. It was never my intention to undermine the relationship between interpreters and the deaf community. My (deaf) brother would argue that I work to strengthen those relationships. My intent in that comment was that interpreters would be advocated for in having a work-free dinner.

I’m not sure why she felt the need to emphasize that her brother was deaf—just because someone has a deaf relative does not automatically mean that person is free from biases or has more validation within the community. Even so, I’ll take her apology at face value.

In both situations, the interpreters displayed deeply rooted biases, probably unintentionally. Unfortunately, such biases exist all around and help perpetuate frustrating misconceptions. Interpreters are allies. They must think, act and speak as allies—and this needs to be reflected in their language and word choices at all times.

Granted, biases are difficult to identify sometimes and even more difficult to eradicate. Still, it’s important to be conscious of subtle biases that aren’t noticeable in everyday language or even in thought processes.

One thing’s for sure: I will now always wonder whether interpreters want to be “far away from the deaf people”—meaning, me—at any event they work.

This article originally appeared in American Society for Deaf Children’s The Endeavor, Fall 2010.

I saw a post on Facebook recently that made me pause. A friend wrote that she had told her two-year-old son, “Mommy’s ears are broken, cannot hear…can’t hear, I use my hands to talk.” Her son then looked inside her ears to “see” what was wrong.

As the parent of three Deaf children under the age of two, I thought this was a cute anecdote. I also liked how she said, “I use my hands to talk.” But what made me pause was the mention of “broken.”

Let me go off in another, but relevant, direction. In recent issues of Reader’s Digest, which I have read faithfully since I was yea high, there were letters from parents of deaf children who proudly proclaimed that their children never let being deaf stop them. While I understood where the parents were coming from, I thought to myself, “Why in the world would they think in that framework?”

To me, being deaf is just like being a female. While it might not fit the greater society’s preconceived notions of what perfect is (read: white, hearing, male) here in America or elsewhere, being deaf is not an issue in my family, just like being female or being a southpaw is not an issue.

Besides, my friend’s Facebook post made me think: if we tell people – especially our children – that our ears are broken, what message are we sending? What are we implying when we say, “My children haven’t let anything stop them from being normal?” To me, being deaf is normal. When we tell a child that a deaf person’s ears are broken, especially since a child thinks in very basic paradigms, we instill early in that child’s life that a deaf person needs to be repaired, isn’t whole, and, yes, is “broken.” This creates a negative perception, however subconsciously.

Perhaps a bit of family history will explain why being deaf is normal to me. My Deaf father grew up at a Deaf school and came from a hearing family with a hearing sister and a Deaf brother. My Deaf mother is from a hearing family and didn’t learn sign language until she was 17; she is equally fluent in American Sign Language (ASL) and spoken/written English. I grew up in a mainstream setting except for a year at a residential school. My husband is third-generation Deaf, and attended Deaf schools all of his life. His Deaf parents went to public schools without support services. My three children are Deaf and attend a Deaf school.

I obviously have a diverse family in terms of communication preferences and educational backgrounds. Yet in my family, “Deaf” is the norm. Being Deaf is never a topic of anguish or even discussion. Rather, our conversations are of far less drama: world happenings, people who irritate us, whether the dog has been fed or not, and whose turn it is to load the dishwasher. Never are our conversations stilted because of communication challenges. We happily live life as an ordinary family.

If we think that being Deaf can prevent accomplishments, or that our ears are “broken,” then we are certainly going to instill those ideas in the people around us and in future generations. But if we reframe our thoughts from “brokenness” to wholeness, imagine how we can change perceptions, little by little.

What do I say, then, when my children ask the inevitable question: “Why don’t people sign?” My younger two are still not quite at the ages of asking this, but my oldest asked this when she had just turned two. Fortunately, I was prepared. I said casually, “Ah, they haven’t learned yet. Maybe you can teach them someday.”

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It’s not often that I am deeply affected and impressed by university promotional materials. After all, they’re intended to, well, sell the school. So I’m always wary of their sincerity.

We’ve all seen promotional materials distributed by any given university. They display pictures of smiling, carefree students wearing sweatshirts or t-shirts imprinted with the university’s name. Brochures and booklets slickly detail how great the university is, how it has superb academic and extracurricular programs along with a cozy and supportive residential life, blah, blah, blah. Lest you think I’m immune to such public relations charm, I’m profiled in a current Gallaudet University booklet.

But Gallaudet, an eight-minute film, is something else, all right. Despite a few glaring typos in the onscreen text, Gallaudet is so stunningly profound in so many ways. Each time I watched it (six times), I found new meaning and inspiration. Gallaudet provides wonderfully reflective messages while successfully highlighting what makes Gallaudet University so great. Alumni will nod in understanding, connectedness and pride as they watch the story unfold. People who haven’t attended Gallaudet will also nod in understanding at the film’s underlying implications.

Gallaudet has everything – diversity, inspiration, suspense, hidden meanings, and elegant cinematography. The film also has an amazingly clear point: that Gallaudet is an extraordinary place to be not because it’s “for deaf people,” but because it offers so much more. The university offers the human experience an opportunity to thrive, and Gallaudet captures that significance perfectly.

Check the film out at http://www.facundoelement.com/gallaudet.

When I see a company name that includes the word “Deaf,” I automatically assume that it’s a Deaf-owned company. And more often than not, I’m disappointed to learn the opposite is true. I once worked with an individual who ran a company that I’ll call Deaf 123. Given the company name, I assumed the company was Deaf-owned. The owner and I had never met in person, though; everything was done online. As I asked about her background, the owner realized I thought she was deaf and took that as a personal compliment. In fact, she said she was honored that I thought she was deaf because she had worked so hard to achieve this status.

I had to quickly backtrack and explain that my mistaken notion was based primarily on her company name. I also reminded her to be careful about misleading people, even if unintentionally, into believing she was deaf when in reality she was hearing and could hardly sign. Even today, this company has a lackluster reputation among many Deaf people because the owner doesn’t respect the culture and language.

Sure, a person has the right to call his/her company anything, but with the use of a cultural group’s name comes responsibility in being transparent about cultural and language affiliations. And of course, simply because someone is Deaf doesn’t mean she or he is qualified to work with the Deaf community. But my focus here is on people who are hearing yet use “Deaf” in their for-profit business names.

Several friends compared hearing people’s use of “Deaf” in company names to how some white people regularly wear Native American clothing or jewelry without really having the appropriate connections to do so. This is an excellent example; there are many white people who claim to be of Native American lineage (it’s always Cherokee, isn’t it?) and go to great lengths to try and be as embedded in the Native American culture and community as much as possible without authentication. Imagine if I established a company called “Somali Mortgages.” I think most people would understandably assume I was Somali and part of the Somali community if I didn’t make that clear otherwise. So why would I dare to do such a thing? The answer is obvious. I see a market, I think I can make money off it, and so I target it. This isn’t necessarily ethical even if it’s perfectly legal, yet this happens all the time in the Deaf community.

When I see hearing-run companies with “Deaf” in their names, I always wonder, “What’s in it for them? Do they really support the Deaf community? Are their employees mostly Deaf? Does the money they make go back into the Deaf community at all?” Perhaps I’m being ridiculously territorial and suspicious, but this is how I automatically react. I think anyone who is part of a minority group typically will have this response when a group’s identity is minimized, disregarded or even exploited.

One could even argue that if a company sells products or services for Deaf people, this qualifies the inclusion of “Deaf” in the name. I still don’t think that’s the best idea. Why not simply name the company something else and then mention “Deaf” in the slogan or service listing? Don’t get me wrong – I’m all for companies that have “Deaf” in the name as long as they’re genuinely Deaf-run, such as DeafVision, a terrific company. But there needs to be some level of validity, too.

Besides, to narrowly define a company in this way is not always the best business practice. As a Deaf company owner, I deliberately stayed away from using “Deaf” in my company name because I didn’t want to alienate people who could hear or didn’t identify as being Deaf. And it’s paid off; a good number of my customers are not deaf. This has expanded my potential market that much more, and has helped break down misconceptions about deaf people.

On that note, take a look at the names of some successful Deaf-owned businesses: Harris Communications, DawnSignPress, Schwarz Financial Services (which also runs DeafTax.com), Kramer Financial Services, Rawland Cycles, Alternative Solutions Center, and DM Multimedia. Notice something in common? Yeah, none of them have “Deaf” in the company name.

The bottom line for me is transparency. Just like any company – Deaf-run or not – I always like to know who the owner is, the owner’s background, and what the company’s practices and philosophy are. On top of that, I want to ensure that the company is respectful of people’s cultures, languages and values. This type of transparency and authenticity is what makes me feel comfortable and proud to do business with a company.

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Perhaps Rodney King isn’t the best person to quote, but “Can we all just get along?” is what keeps running through my head as I learn of more and more stories of rivalries between deaf schools and programs – especially those in the same state.

I’m not talking about fun athletic rivalries, but rivalries where families and staff go to great lengths to badmouth other schools, criticizing the quality of education, communication levels, and even the students. This blows my mind. What do people think they accomplish by condemning families and students for choosing specific schools?

A few years ago, I watched a teacher’s face twist in disgust as he said to a student attending a rival school, “Why do you go here? It’s a terrible school. Why don’t you come to my school? It’s got better education, better opportunities. Why would you want to lower yourself by staying at this school? You can do better.” This teacher – who I considered an honorable man until that conversation – didn’t realize anyone was watching him. I was floored because I had never seen this side of him, although I had heard stories. The student’s school was actually a great school with a solid enrollment size; on the other hand, the teacher’s school was struggling with enrollment. To this day, I find it sad that the teacher felt an aggressive pressure tactic was the way to recruit students. But what broke my heart was how the student looked defeated, even embarrassed, by the teacher’s words.

I’ve also heard stories of how parents are treated by peers, board members and community members once they decide to send their children to a specific school. It’s not just the parents; the students also get this treatment sometimes. After I was encouraged by teachers at the Illinois School for the Deaf (ISD) to go to a school that could provide for my particular needs, I decided to join my newly remarried mother in the Chicago area, a good four hours north. When word got out about my decision, a classmate’s parent who also worked at the school came up to me and fingerspelled angrily, “Traitor.” I was 10 at the time. I still wonder if he realized that ISD’s teachers – both Deaf and hearing – were the ones who encouraged me to find another program.

So many Deaf schools have seen drastic drops in enrollment numbers over the past few decades, but many are also seeing their numbers climb back up. Many look to Texas, Indiana, Fremont and Maryland as the “best” schools because of their sizeable enrollment numbers, among other reasons. And they certainly are great schools. This does not mean that we have license to criticize or look down at the smaller Deaf schools, charter schools or deaf programs. We must band together instead of dividing ourselves by competing over which school is better or making snooty comments intended to degrade.

Some students flourish in schools with large enrollments, and others prosper in schools with smaller enrollments. Anyone, especially me, knows there is no one-size-fits-all approach for students. After attending a large public elementary school and a moderately sized deaf school and public junior high school, I went to a high school with nearly 2,000 students. Next was Gallaudet University, with about 2,000 students. For graduate school, I went to the University of Illinois-Chicago, with at least 30,000 students. I can safely say that at each school, there were challenges and drawbacks, but there were also benefits. What I was most affected by was not the school’s enrollment size, but the quality of one-on-one and class instruction I received, the Deaf community surrounding the school, and the opportunities I had before me.

We need to encourage, rather than discourage. We want deaf students to grow up surrounded by deaf people who are peers and role models – and not be isolated. The bottom line is we cannot afford to generalize or badmouth a school based on personal motives, recruitment, or even one student. We also cannot base our comments on what the school’s reputation was in the past. Schools have ebbs and flows, and if a school had a poor reputation during the 1980s or 1990s, that doesn’t mean it’s still weak today. Change constantly takes place, especially at many deaf schools.

When a student says what school he or she attends, we should say, “That’s awesome! Tell me more,” rather than, “Isn’t that school mostly hearing people? I’ve heard the education is lousy there,” or “Why don’t you go to so-and-so instead?” Don’t punish, discourage or embarrass the student. This serves absolutely no purpose, and only furthers the bitterness that may already exist.

Deaf education is a precious thing. We must continue nurturing our deaf schools through collaboration, pushing for higher standards, and ensuring that our deaf children grow up with healthy self-esteem levels and identities. It’s not about being “better than you,” nor is it about what school has the highest enrollment numbers. It’s about our future.

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This article originally appeared in Gallaudet University’s The Buff and Blue’s Oct. 24, 2009 issue.

When I went through my father’s things after his death, I found newspaper clippings about Gallaudet. They were mostly about the Deaf President Now (DPN) protest, but one stood out. It was from 1986, when Gallaudet College became Gallaudet University.

I was surprised that my father had even saved the article. My father, who was academically dismissed from Gallaudet in 1972, was not by any means what we would call a remarkable community leader. Rather, he was quite ordinary; he had an entry-level job with the state and rarely went to deaf events outside of town.

Yet he felt that Gallaudet’s accreditation as a university was noteworthy enough to save a clipping about. This, to me, speaks volumes about the influence of Gallaudet.

Alumni and students alike are constantly bombarded with dazzling publicity about the world’s only liberal arts university for deaf students. Recruiting materials highlight carefully selected students and alumni – each with a determined look or a sunny smile – who come from every cranny and nook of the world. It’s easy to get drawn into how great Gallaudet is and not consider the effects that the university’s antics and accomplishments have upon ordinary people like my father.

Gallaudet had such an impact upon me long before I became a student. When the DPN protest took place, I was a freshman in high school; the protest greatly influenced how hearing peers and “teachers of the hearing impaired” at my high school perceived us deaf students. Years later, I am friends with many of the DPN leaders but I still get starry-eyed around them. Although there are so many more opportunities today that we no longer perceive as remarkable like they were decades ago, I continue to be in awe of so many deaf people and their ordinary and not-so-ordinary accomplishments. This sense of awe is something I hope to never let go of ever again.

I say again because I lost that feeling once, in 2006. The outrage and deep division over the presidential selection in 2006 had been simmering for years. Despite media reports and what some people said, the anger that surfaced wasn’t an overnight thing. In fact, I remember exactly when I began feeling disillusioned about the division at Gallaudet: during my husband’s graduation in 1993.

You see, he was among the wide-eyed freshmen at Gallaudet in 1988 when DPN took place. By 1993, the last of these freshmen had graduated, taking with them the pride and sense of entitlement that DPN had instilled in deaf people everywhere. As I watched the graduation ceremony, I was sad that the DPN veterans wouldn’t be students anymore, because they were the movers and shakers then. They would call the university out on unfair situations, and constantly kept the administration on its toes – but they always made sure everything was done with a positive attitude. I was fortunate to have Mary Malzkuhn – often called the “Mother of DPN” –as my academic adviser and teacher for my government classes, which were filled with many DPN veterans. I learned so much from them and was always excited to be in their presence because they were superstars to me. Watching them march across the stage that day, I wondered if future classes would understand the sparkle that existed immediately after DPN. When I came on campus in 1991, I was blown away by how everyone was so confident about his or her roles at Gallaudet. They had the right to be there and had the right to expect nothing but the very best in communication access, in educational quality, and in respect.

By the time I graduated in 1995, there was a growing black cloud hanging over the university, a cloud of fear. The division between students and the administration was deepening at an alarming rate. I frequently saw faculty and staff being pulled in two directions. People quit or were fired. There was a lot of underground talk about the administration’s intimidation tactics. Still, I was no longer a student so I figured I didn’t need to pay much attention.

A few years later, I finally understood this intimidation firsthand. When I was the editor at Silent News, Ryan Commerson told me that the university was closing the television and film program. I assigned a writer to the story, and she contacted the administration for a statement. She got a response that essentially freaked her out, and she forwarded it to me in a panic. I read the e-mail and was astonished by the contents.

The e-mail threatened Silent News with a lawsuit if we proceeded with the story. The writer hadn’t even asked any hard-hitting questions. What had started as a somewhat dull news story was now a controversy. This was a signal that something was terribly wrong at the university, that this was a politically fueled approach by the administration. I responded and said that this was Gallaudet’s opportunity to clear up misunderstandings about the program’s closure (or as they called it, merger with another program). The administration’s response remained unchanged: that a lawsuit would be filed if we went ahead with the story.

Not one who easily backs down, I gave the go-ahead to run the story. Just as I had predicted, the lawsuit was an empty threat. But that e-mail exchange was the perfect indicator of what was to come, especially considering how an administrator involved in that e-mail exchange was at the center of the storm in 2006.

Regardless of what people felt about the 2006 protest, it was a catalyst for change, one that was and is desperately needed. Although bitterness is rampant in the blogsphere/vlogsphere, I sense that most people are ready for positive change. At least, I know I am. This positive change is part of why President Davila has been so warmly welcomed and so successful in taking care of business. More importantly, he has brought back something that was missing for too long: integrity.

Whoever the new president is – at the time of this writing, the president hadn’t been announced yet – he or she must strengthen this integrity immediately. The new president must ensure that the faculty, staff, students and alumni can see this integrity in action.  These groups must be inspired to carry the same integrity and pride in our identity, our language, and our culture.

I’m optimistic that any one of the four candidates will help dissolve the black cloud that has hung over Gallaudet for at least a decade. Having said that, it is crucial that the new president be a mover and shaker, unafraid to create an ideological change that brings back the pride we once had. For me, what will affirm that the new president is doing the job is when ordinary citizens begin saving clippings about Gallaudet’s accomplishments once again.

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As I sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s office today, I picked up the Spring 2009 issue of Mom&Baby, a magazine published by FitPregnancy. I flipped through it without too much thought until I came across Dr. Michael Cohen’s advice column.

A question was asked: “What do you think about teaching babies sign language? Is it worth the time and trouble?” As the Deaf mother to two Deaf children, I eagerly read on to see how Dr. Cohen responded. He wrote:

Teaching your baby signs before he can talk is a fun thing for some parents to do, but I think its benefits are limited in scope. What’s more, it may even have some drawbacks.

Proponents say teaching a baby to sign helps him communicate before he can talk and that this prevents frustration and resulting tantrums. But I believe that signing may actually delay a child’s ability to deal with frustration. Basically, a baby will naturally begin to talk when he becomes irritated enough by not being able to speak. Learning sign language may act as a distraction but will not get at the root of frustration. Also, once a baby is able to sign, he is actually able to speak, too - so why not let him go directly to speaking?

In my practice, I also see delays in talking among some babies whose parents practice signing with them. The parents’ enthusiasm actually reinforces the babies’ not talking. This is not a very big deal, however-eventually, they all learn to talk.

The bottom line, in my opinion: If signing with your baby is a fun activity for both of you, do it. But think of it as a game-that’s its main value. It won’t do any real harm, but it won’t work any miracles, either.

I was so disappointed to see his nonchalant, almost negative, response to this. In particular, what bothered me were these words: “…think of it as a game” and “…delay a child’s ability to deal with frustration.”

My daughter, now 20 months old, had a vocabulary of over 100 words by the time she was 12 months old. Today, her vocabulary is well over 200 words – actually, we’ve stopped counting because it’s not about numbers for us, and because there are simply too many words she knows. Rather, it’s about what she says and her ability to express complex, abstract thoughts. She also started signing in sentences well before she was one year old. This is important, because children generally can’t speak (as in vocally) full sentences at that age. In fact, many publications state that the average spoken vocabulary of a one-year-old is between one and three words. See why I swear by the value of sign language?

Let me share an example of my daily interactions with my daughter (my son is only three months old, so he’s not quite signing yet). Yesterday, I bought her a Sesame Street “Look and Find” book. One of the pages had a picture of a wolf and a pumpkin. I showed my daughter the sign for “wolf” (she already knew “pumpkin”) then moved onto the other pages without further ado.

This morning, when I greeted her in her crib, she excitedly signed, “WOLF PUMPKIN WOLF PUMPKIN!” Once out of the crib, she ran to the book, pointed to the wolf, and signed, “DREAM WOLF PUMPKIN DREAM.” She was saying she’d dreamed about that wolf. I’m not sure she fully understands what “dream” means, but she knows the word because she saw a picture of the Cookie Monster dreaming about cookies.  (Think maybe she’s a fan of Sesame Street? Yeah.)

That, to me, shows how babies and toddlers can use sign language to express abstract thoughts. We don’t always realize children have the ability to understand abstract concepts – because they usually can’t tell us. I tire of how people think children who sign have no language, and that the children are simply making “cute” gestures or pictures. Sit with my daughter for 30 minutes, and you will walk away happily exhausted because she talks non-stop, just like her mama, grandmother and great-grandmother. I dare anyone to say that sign language for my children is a “distraction,” like Dr. Cohen claims.

Simply put: sign language is not an obstacle to speech or language development. In fact, the opposite has been found to be true. American Sign Language (ASL) is a stand-alone language, and studies consistently show that ASL actually helps the development of speech and English. Research also shows that babies begin to express themselves in gestures early on, babbling, and that it reduces frustration. That’s probably why baby sign language has become so popular – not because it’s a trend, not because it’s a cute thing to learn, and not because it’s “a game.”  Rather, it’s popular because it works for so many families and children.

“But Dr. Cohen is talking about hearing children,” you may say. True. Still, once again, studies have shown that babies who learn sign language prior to speech development generally use signs to accelerate their English acquisition. Just ask hearing people who have deaf parents and learned ASL before they learned to speak. More often than not, their language skills are superior – and they speak just fine. ASL is hardly a game to the millions of families who use it for daily communication, and to call it such not only promotes a negative attitude, but is offensive to families like mine.

Even with Dr. Cohen’s disclaimer that he was merely sharing his opinion, he should have read up on existent literature showing the enormous benefits of children learning sign language, deaf or hearing. As a medical professional, his opinion carries weight, and so he has an obligation to share accurate, well-researched information. It disheartens me to think of the impact of Dr. Cohen’s opinion on the magazine’s 500,000 readers.

Perhaps I should send Dr. Cohen a tape of my daughter signing and see if he thinks signing is really a game rather than a bona fide language. Heck, my daughter can even tell him about her dreams starring Count von Count, Cookie Monster, Elmo and Oscar.

If you disagree with Dr. Cohen’s perspectives, drop him a line at babybasics@fitpregnancy.com.

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