Childhood

Nearly 50 Years Later: The Chicago Fire that Killed Two Deaf Students (Part 2)

January 26, 2018

By Trudy Suggs (Click here for my thoughts on this story in ASL and English).

Zee Beranek in 1970 on the phone in the aftermath of the fire.

Zeke Beranek was the sole chaperone, along with the school bus driver, for 40 boys. Many credit him for his calm demeanor during the crisis.

Zeke Beranek: The Unsung Hero
Zeke Beranek was the sole chaperone of 40 boys — something that would never happen today. “Well, how I did it was I set up a buddy system. I had the older boys be responsible for the younger students,” Beranek explained. “The boys who went on this trip had been allowed to go based on their grades and good behavior. But I had more faith in the dorm parents, who were with them all the time, than their teachers, so I trusted who the dorm parents said should go on the trip. It worked out well for the most part.”

Only 37 at the time of the fire, Beranek looked older than his age, although he was rarely without his sense of humor or smile. A well-respected gentleman from Nebraska, he was popular among the students. As a Boy Scouts leader and school teacher, Beranek often took the boys camping and on trips. “The way I saw it was that whenever the boys achieved the Eagle Scout rank or did good things, this was good publicity for ISD,” Beranek explained. “It helped bring awareness to the school.”

And then the fire happened. “I can’t remember how I knew there was a fire, but I woke up and opened the door. There was smoke, and I began trying to do what I could,” Beranek said. “I wanted to wake as many boys up as I could, but it wasn’t possible.”

He continued, “I opened Freeman Harper’s room, and I saw him talking with a few scared younger kids near an open window. One of them started to jump, and Freeman told the kid, ‘Don’t jump! Don’t forget about me!’ That was his way of convincing the kid to not jump.”

The boys learned later that after being rescued Beranek had gone above and beyond in his role as chaperone. “Mayor Daley provided a police escort when he learned who I was and what group I was with, and I instructed [junior] Pedro Medina to be in charge of the boys,” Beranek remembered.

Written notes between ISD students and newspaper reporters.

He saw a group of reporters clamoring to interview the boys at the hotel, and was disgusted. He told the reporters, “Leave the boys alone, they’ve already been through enough.” When they didn’t cooperate, Beranek immediately notified hotel security. “Someone from the Hilton hotel did physically have to pull the reporters away.”

The church service the group was supposed to attend that morning had secured an interpreter. Beranek said, “The church didn’t know yet about the fire, and they actually held off starting the service for about 20 or 25 minutes, waiting for us.”

As soon as the church learned of the fire, the interpreter went to help Beranek as much as possible. “In fact, when I left Chicago, the interpreter said he’d keep visiting the kids still in the hospitals until they were all gone,” Beranek recalled.

The Smoke Clears
After all the chaos eventually settled somewhat, Beranek also had to make arrangements for that evening’s lodging and transportation. The boys clearly could not attend the Bulls game, so some boys had been picked up by their parents, and the remaining boys relocated to the Palmer Hotel, also owned by the Hilton family. Reynolds wondered if his parents, who lived just over an hour away, would come. He had no way of contacting them; although they were Deaf, they didn’t own a TTY.

ISD boys surround entertainer Connie Stevens.

The ISD boys went to Connie Stevens’ performance the night after the fire. Reynolds is fourth from left in the front row; Albert Jones is second from left in the back. Robert Perry, who later drowned, is third from right in the back behind Connie Stevens.

Entertainer Connie Stevens was scheduled to perform at the Palmer Hotel that evening. When she learned of the tragedy, she invited the ISD boys to come to her performance. Saline remembered, “We were given free food on Mayor Daley’s tab. We were treated like royalty. We were also asked to fill out insurance forms to get reimbursed for our belongings and clothes.”

Yet most of the boys were too dazed and could not eat much. Reynolds’ throat hurt too much to eat, and he had lost his sense of taste. They tried to keep their spirits up despite the horrible tragedy. “She sang all evening, and when she spoke to the crowd, we were seated in the upper balcony and she made sure to look at us,” Reynolds said. “After her performance, she came to us and posed with us.”

That evening, the boys retired to their rooms. Five firemen, including a fire chief, stood guard by their doors overnight. Reynolds roomed with Jim Gurley, and as they got into bed, Gurley kept saying, “Look at the door. I see smoke. Do you?” Reynolds indeed could have sworn he saw smoke coming under the door, too. They decided to leave the light on and try to get some sleep. They didn’t get much, of course.

Monday Morning
Beranek woke each of the boys up, telling them it was time to return to Jacksonville. They got early editions of the Chicago Sun Times and Chicago Tribune, and there it was for all of the world to see: two “deaf-mutes” had died. It was a punch in the guts for the boys. Although they already knew Zanger and Kennedy had died, they now felt a mixture of sadness and survivor’s guilt.

The group gathered in a conference room, and Beranek told the group, “As I woke each of you up, I noticed that more than three-fourths of you left your lights on overnight.” When Reynolds learned this, he let out a sigh of relief. He had thought he was going crazy with the need to leave his light on. They all had suffered a horrible trauma that was intensified by the lack of communication access. Worst of all, they had no psychological support. There were no counselors, no trauma advocates, and no family nearby. Although some parents had already picked up their boys, many of the boys’ families lived too far away (some as much as eight hours away) and others had no idea what had happened. They only had each other.

Reynolds later learned that his parents didn’t know about the fire until Sunday evening, when his hearing brother told them to look at the TV. The news reported on the fire, and his parents began to worry. They made his brother call the school, but there was no information yet. When they saw the newspaper on Monday and Reynolds’ name was listed among those hospitalized, they panicked, thinking he had been badly burned. They couldn’t sleep all night, trying to figure out what they should do.

As the boys climbed silently back on the yellow bus, Reynolds looked up at the overhead bins and realized that Kennedy’s pillow, streaked with mud, was still there. He sadly remembered how Kennedy had thrown the pillow at his friends, laughing, as they rode to Chicago.

Beranek stood up as the bus rode along, and talked to the boys in his SimCom style of what had transpired over the weekend. He shared that he knew some students were in their rooms, but he didn’t realize that several, including Zanger and Kennedy, had gone into the hallways. He didn’t know until later about Bright’s jump, which continues to be a legend in the Illinois Deaf community even today.

Saline and Reynolds both remembered how Beranek shared the rumor that Zanger and Kennedy had been found near each other by the elevators, but that this hadn’t been confirmed. (Newspaper articles reported Chicago Fire Commander Robert J. Quinn as saying that the two boys’ bodies were found outside a room on the north end of the corridor; Quinn added that had the boys stayed in their rooms, they likely would have survived.) Beranek also told of how he had to go to the morgue to identify the boys’ bodies, which were badly covered in soot. As Beranek spoke, every boy on that bus shed tears. The ride to Jacksonville was eerily quiet, with Kennedy’s pillow literally hanging over their heads.

The Aftermath
Reynolds remembers vividly how upon arrival, the school bus was swarmed by other ISD students, and the sense of dread he and the other boys felt. “We should’ve had trauma counselors on the ready for us, instead of kids wanting to know every detail about our experience,” Reynolds says. He saw many cars, mostly driven by hearing parents, waiting to pick up their boys. He walked to his dorm and as he put away his things, a houseparent notified him that his family had called.

Reynolds quickly went to pick up the phone and call his family. When his brother picked up, “It was at that moment that I realized I couldn’t speak. I had lost my voice, and could only speak a few words.” His brother asked, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” Crying, Reynolds responded that he was okay and that he loved them.

Meanwhile, Saline’s mother and niece drove down from Rio to see him that evening, and took him out for dinner at the local Hardee’s. They wrote back and forth, talking about what had happened.

The next morning, the survivors went to class on the second floor of the main building. Saline said, “So many people hugged me, and it was weird. It was really hard on me, knowing that Donald, who was my roommate at the hotel, and Bruce both had died. I wondered about them for a long time, and it took a while for that feeling to wear off.”

Soon after class began, Reynolds was thrilled to learn that his parents and brother were there to pick him up. As soon as he made his way to the first floor, his brother ran to him. Reynolds recalls bittersweetly, “I never had that hard of a hug from my own brother before that, and it was the best feeling.” He went home for a week.

Upon his return, Reynolds practiced with the school basketball team. On game day, on the court in uniform, he had one of many epiphanies. “I was warming up, and as I was dribbling, I looked around the gym. There were people in the bleachers, I was playing with my teammates, and I thought, I’m alive. I have another chance to play basketball. My view of the world changed at that moment, and I embraced my newfound maturity. I ran and did a lay-up, never forgetting the boys we lost in Chicago.”

Bright went home after seven days, where he had virtually been isolated from the world. After all, back in those days, TVs were inaccessible and no interpreters were provided. Newspapers reported that he would not return to school that year. After two weeks, though, Bright was going stir-crazy. He was the only deaf person in his family and town, and missed his friends. He begged his parents and ISD superintendent Dr. Kenneth Mangan — who wasn’t too fond of him, since he was somewhat of a troublemaker — to let him return. Bright’s doctor felt he wasn’t ready, either, but Bright lied and told Mangan that the doctor had given approval.

Mangan still refused. Dean of Students Lawrence Huot spoke on Bright’s behalf, and finally convinced Mangan to let Bright return. Mangan finally agreed to let Bright return. Bright walked using specially fitted crutches for about a month, but was overjoyed to be back. Reynolds and others were stunned to see Bright back so soon after his near-death experience. “We all thought Bright would be crippled for life, and even today, I am astounded he survived,” Reynolds said.

Bright was thrilled to be back, and wasted no time in healing. He went on to have a noteworthy athletic career both in the last years of high school and in adulthood, and graduated with his classmates in June 1972.

Charles Bright, shown here with his mother and their family lawyer, had to return to Chicago for a medical follow-up visit. (Courtesy of Charles Bright)

Bright also remembers how a lawyer representing the Hilton corporation showed up at his house and convinced his parents to sign a $10,000 agreement, although today he isn’t sure what the agreement stipulated. When Bright returned to Chicago for further medical care, his family lawyer accompanied him — and his mother wouldn’t leave Bright’s side during an overnight stay at the hospital; she was too afraid something would happen again.

For decades, Bright refused, and still refuses, to stay overnight at the hotel where the fire took place, even when softball or basketball tournaments were headquartered there. In 2014, Reynolds and Bright returned to the hotel, now named the Hilton Chicago. Although they had been back to that hotel for various events, this time was different: they were going to confront their memories and visit the ninth floor. Bright says, “I had a sense of trepidation, and it was difficult to see that floor again. So much of the hotel looked the same, yet so different.” Reynolds echoes this, which is why he wants to create a film based on this experience.

“It’s the little things that jump out at you,” Reynolds said. “I still have my room key from that night.” For Bright, one of the small details was that he had borrowed his good friend Ronald Sipek’s suit for the weekend, which then was destroyed in the fire.

Beranek, when asked how he recovered from the terrible events of that weekend, said, “It bothered me for so very long, yeah. It bothered me until that kid, what’s his name? Perry. Robert Perry drowned.” In August 1970, Perry, of East St. Louis, had gone swimming in a quarry with fellow survivor Frank Bazos of Aurora. Despite desperate efforts by Bazos, Perry drowned — just a day before he was to start a new job.

“When Perry died after having gone through the fire, I realized that when it’s your time to go, it’s your time,” Beranek continued. “There’s nothing I could have done.”

Kennedy and Zanger were the only two fatalities of the fire; the 14 injured ISD students included: Charles Bright, 17; Thomas Byrnes, 15; Michael Davis, 15; Freeman Harper, 16; Albert Jones, 18; David Newcum, 14; Scott Noyes, 14; Larry Peterson, 16; David Reynolds, 16; Danny Thomas, 18; Michael Tonner, 17; and Michael Ubowski, 14.

The cause of the fire was never confirmed; it was later revealed that there had been a fire on the same floor two years earlier.

Today

Zeke Beranek, who turns 86 in February, lives in Jacksonville, Ill., with his wife of 55 years. After 32 years, he retired from education and now works with H&R Block as a tax preparer when not walking his dogs.

Charles Bright, 65, has worked for the U.S. Food and Drug Administration for 40 years, and is considering retirement. He has two children and one grandchild, and makes his home with his wife Genevieve in Schaumburg, Ill.

Freeman Harper, 64, retired from a career as an educator at the Phoenix Day School for the Deaf, and resides in Iowa City, Iowa.

David Reynolds, 63, became an educator and worked for years at the Indiana School for the Deaf before moving west to Fremont, Calif. He has three sons, and has an acting career, most notably as Dr. Wonder on Dr. Wonder’s Workshop. He and his wife, Alyce Slater Reynolds, recently relocated to Riverside, Calif., where he intends to create a movie about the Chicago fire, among other films.

Dale Saline, 62, retired from the U.S. Postal Service after 20 years. He now works at his family’s pig farm in Rio, Ill. and lives with his wife.

Click here for my thoughts on this story in ASL and English.

All photographs are taken from the Chicago Sun Times, Chicago Tribune, Chicago Daily News, the Illinois Advance, and the interviewees unless otherwise indicated. Special thanks go to Joan Engelmann and Rosa Ramirez.

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Community resources, Culture, Deaf Community, Deaf education, Disempowerment, History, Humanity, Language, Media, Notable People

Reflections on “Nearly 50 Years Later: The Chicago Fire that Killed Two Deaf Students”

January 26, 2018

Video description: Trudy Suggs, a white woman with brown shoulder-length hair, is wearing a black cardigan over a black shirt with green and white dots. She is seated in a corner with brown bookshelves on her right and a sea blue wall on her left.

Read the article here.

Earlier this month, my family and I went to the Great Wolf Lodge, a waterpark and hotel. That night, as I was about to go to bed, I realized that there was no accessible fire alarm in the room. I stood there for a second, wondering what I should do. My children were already out cold, so I didn’t want to wake them up and move them. My husband and I decided it would be okay since we had a balcony and sliding doors, and weren’t far up from the ground — we were on the third floor. But the irony of that experience didn’t escape me, because I was working on this article at that time.

This story was written based on firsthand accounts, interviews, and newspaper articles from 1970. My mother and stepfather both graduated from the Illinois School for the Deaf in 1970, so I grew up being told this story a thousand times. My stepdad didn’t go because he had been suspended from school, but he had grown up with almost every boy in the group who went to Chicago. My mother had attended school with many of them — namely Donald Zanger, who was from the same town as my mother. In fact, Donald’s sister Rosey was my mother’s best friend for many years. I grew up with Rosey almost as an aunt, and I remember always seeing a sadness in her eyes.

When writing this story, I learned that the night before the fire, my mother and grandparents had stayed at the Zangers’ house until almost three in the morning playing cards. After only a few hours of sleep, my grandmother woke my mother up and made her get dressed. Mom didn’t understand why until they were in the car, when Grandmother broke the news of the fire and that Donald was one of the missing boys. It was later that day that the Zanger family learned Donald had indeed been fatally injured. Mom, who was as devastated as if Donald were her own brother, spent almost every minute at the Zanger household that week.

The newspaper articles printed on the days after the fire were also interesting to read. This was not the hotel’s first fire; another one had taken place two years and two days earlier, and also began on the ninth floor. The deaf boys had unknowingly been put on the service floor, which meant it was a high-traffic floor used by service personnel.

One article in the Chicago Sun Times reported that the hotel public relations director Alan Edelson said that ninth-floor occupants were informed of the fire by telephone and instructed to stay where they were. Obviously this didn’t work for the deaf boys. The words “deaf mute” and “handicapped” were repeatedly used. The language was very defective, portraying the deaf students as helpless, unintelligent, and pitiful. Times were different back then, indeed, but the challenges continue to this day.

I remember looking at the grainy photographs in the newspaper clippings when I was a little girl and being awed by the incredible difficulty of that experience. Even today, it’s hard for me to put together the Charles Bright I’ve known all of my life with the Charles Bright who fell from the ninth floor. You’d never know it by looking at him, because he’s such a cheerful person with a great sense of humor. He was always the person I ran to at community events when I was a child because he was just so much fun to talk with, and still is today.

As I began talking to the people featured in this story, and many others who I didn’t have the space to include here — many who I had grown up knowing — I was shocked at the details that emerged, details that never made it into the media: stories about the aftermath, stories about the survivors, and stories about how that made them hold onto their lives with so much more appreciation. As Dale Saline said, “Even today, many years later, that experience has made appreciate life, every minute, and I’ve cherished my time since then.”

This story has reminded me that each and every person really does have a story to tell.

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Culture, Deaf Community, History, Humanity, Language, Notable People

Nearly 50 Years Later: The Chicago Fire that Killed Two Deaf Students (Part 1)

January 25, 2018

Illinois School for the Deaf Main Building (Courtesy of 1969 Illinois Advance)

By Trudy Suggs

PART 1 (Click here for Part 2)

It was going to be a splendid trip. Forty boys from the Illinois School for the Deaf (ISD) were headed to Chicago to watch a Chicago Bulls game. In past years, they had gone to watch the St. Louis Hawks and visit the St. Louis Arch — both a mere 90-minute drive away — but the Hawks had moved to Atlanta, so Chicago it was.

The boys eagerly packed their suitcases. On Saturday, January 24, 1970, they climbed onto the school bus; it was nothing fancy, just your standard yellow school bus with green seats that bounced so hard at times you felt as if you might shoot through the roof.

The ride took nearly five hours up I-55. The boys joked and talked excitedly about what they would see. For some, it was their first time to the big city. They came from rural towns, and had only heard gangster stories about the city. For others, it was their hometown. Chaperoning the trip was Zeke Beranek, a teacher and coach who spoke crisply as he signed each word.

They arrived in blustery Chicago and checked into the Conrad Hilton Hotel on Michigan Avenue, a stately building overlooking Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan. The boys were abuzz with excitement as they explored their fancy surroundings, and went sightseeing. Beranek immediately chose older kids as leaders to help the younger kids. He collected each room’s key in the event of an emergency and so he could wake them up for church the next morning.

Four boys were assigned to each room on the ninth floor; Beranek roomed with the school bus driver. Most of the boys slept in one wing, with the remainder spilling over into another wing. Charles Bright, a 17-year-old sophomore, was with roommates Bruce Kennedy and Robert Perry as they flirted with hearing girls from Ohio in the fifth-floor lounge. When some hearing guys came up, unhappy with the unsolicited attention the girls were getting, the boys went back to their room and headed to bed.

David O. Reynolds, a 16-year-old sophomore from rural Kankakee, was having the time of his life fooling around with his friends in the hallways and elevators, as teenagers are apt to do. “I was a huge Chicago sports fan, and always read the newspaper every day,” he said, “and I was so excited for the game.” Reynolds decided to go to bed and get ready for the next day — but not before he read that day’s newspaper.

Bruce Kennedy (Courtesy of 1970 Illinois Advance)

The Beginning of a Nightmare
At 3:00 a.m., feeling unusually warm, Bright woke up. He walked to the window and opened it before walking to the door and propping it open. Even in the 1970s, this was still a bold move in the big city. The dangers of leaving the door wide open didn’t occur to Bright, a naïve small-town kid who was the sixth of eight kids from Moweaqua, 20 minutes south of Decatur. Bright noticed it was rather warm in the hallway as well, but climbed back into bed without a second thought.

Two hours later, the fire alarms finally went off. Back then, hotels weren’t required to provide visual fire alarms, so none of the deaf boys had any way of knowing unless someone woke them up or they smelled the smoke. Kennedy, who was hard of hearing, shook Bright awake, saying, “Fire! Fire!” Groggy from deep sleep, Bright saw the room filled with smoke. Seeing that Kennedy was ready to run from the room, Bright clutched Kennedy’s wrist and said, “Don’t go!” But Kennedy wriggled free and ran out, never to be seen again.

B+W photo of firemen looking at charred corridor

The ninth-floor corridor was the most damaged of all the hotel floors.

Bright, who had become deaf from spinal meningitis and had terrible balance as a result, began coughing and choking on the smoke. He later realized the room was so filled because he had his windows open, which sucked in smoke from the hallway. He saw Albert Jones, another roommate, running into the wall three times, desperately looking for the door. Although the sun had begun to rise, the room was pitch black.

Bright panicked. “I had never experienced a fire drill at school and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do,” he recalled. He ran to the bathroom to grab a wet towel, and crawled back to the window. He tied three bed sheets together to lower out of the window, thinking maybe he could climb down somehow. The sheets immediately dropped to the ground below, and Bright began to sob, fearing death was inevitable.

Room 909
Reynolds was soundly sleeping when roommate Mike Davis tapped him awake. Smoke had already seeped into the room. “I woke up coughing, and ran to the door to open it,” Reynolds remembered. “That was a big mistake, because there was a wall of blackness right there. I remember this clearly. There was just this black wall, and I was so confused. I stumbled backwards and fell down.”

Reynolds began crawling, recalling a movie he had watched at school about how to stay safe by crawling under the smoke. “I thought I could easily beat the smoke,” he said. “But even as I crawled, the smoke still came down on me.” He figured he would open the two windows, but they had been illegally sealed shut with insulation tape. After giving it a few tries, he knew it was futile.

“I fell back on the floor, and put a pillow over my face. I couldn’t breathe, and I could feel the smoke filling my lungs,” Reynolds said, lost in thought as he remembered the sensation. He had no idea where his roommates were, but became focused on saving himself. “I got up and went to the window again, and tried again to open it to no avail.” He desperately pulled down the curtain rod and tried to break the window with it. He succeeded, creating a baseball-sized hole. “I put my mouth to that hole, and it was the very first time I had ever given up. I remember thinking, Okay, God, it’s now my time. I have good parents and good faith. And then I passed out.”

Floor map

Donald Zanger (Courtesy of 1970 Illinois Advance)

The Second Fatality
In a corner room, eighth grader Dale Saline of Rio, near Iowa, was about to celebrate his birthday. He had gotten special permission from his parents to go on this trip, and roomed with high schoolers Donald Zanger, Michael Ubowski, and Dennis Lovstad. “At about 5:30 or 6:00, I woke Donald up,” Saline said. “Donald immediately ran out in a panic, and I woke Mike up as well. He did the same, and ran out.”

Saline, unsure of what to do next, put a wet towel by the door. Fortunately, Ubowski returned a short time later, and a lost Danny Thomas wandered into their room. “We weren’t that close to the elevators where the fire started, so it wasn’t as bad as in the other rooms,” he said. “We waited for the longest time and I was really scared. A fireman tried to get a ladder up to us, but it only went up to the seventh floor and we were on the ninth floor.”

Some time later, their door suddenly burst open. A fireman had arrived to lead them to safety. As they made their way through the hallway, Saline kept tripping over the many hoses on the floor. They took a service elevator to the kitchen where all the others had congregated.

B+W photograph of hotel with smoke coming out of the windows. At bottom is the concrete terrace that Bright jumped to.

Charles Bright jumped from his ninth floor room onto the concrete terrace, located at the top of the ladder in this photograph. Miraculously, he survived.

Jumping to His Future
Meanwhile, Freeman Harper, 17, of Quincy, was in another room with three other boys. Their room was near the elevator shaft where the fire originated, so their room filled with smoke quickly. “I suddenly woke up, terrified, and screamed in fright,” Harper said. Unlike Reynolds, he and his roommates opened two large windows and waited approximately 45 minutes until firemen rescued them.

When Harper was safely on the ground, he and the many others looked up at the hotel searching for survivors. He watched in horror as Bright climbed out of his window.

Bright, still sobbing, made a split decision. He scampered onto the ledge, and saw a woman on a lower floor waving, “No, no! No!” He lowered himself, his fingers tightly gripping the edge of the ledge, and hung on for dear life. He looked down and then back at his window that was emitting more smoke than ever. He could feel his fingers slipping, so he let go. “I blacked out and can’t remember anything after my fingers left the ledge,” he said.

“I screamed, ‘Oh, my God!’ and watched his body fly down the four floors,” Harper recalled. “I remember his lifeless body on the balcony and fearing the worst.” Bright crashed into a fifth-floor concrete terrace and vaguely remembers waking up and trying to take a few steps before falling to the ground where he passed out for the final time.

Firemen eventually carried Bright into a fifth-floor room, where he waited for an ambulance to take him to the hospital.

A black and white photo of Charles Bright wrapped up in blankets on a hotel bed after his fall.

After Charles Bright fell four stories onto a concrete terrace, firemen carried him to a hotel bed. Miraculously, he survived the fall.

Fighting for Survival
Back in his room, Reynolds was regaining consciousness. He said, “I woke up, after I don’t know how long, because of the draft. I don’t think if I had stayed passed out for another minute, I would have survived.” The draft was coming from an opened window. Roommate Larry Peterson had ripped the tape off and then snapped open the window in a fit of super-strength. Reynolds scrambled to the window and leaned out. As he took deep, painful breaths, he looked in all directions, and saw others sticking their heads out of their windows as well. He also saw people making their way down fire escapes, and wondered if he could do that. He returned his eyes to his roommates, Davis and Peterson, and realized that their faces were completely covered in soot. He said, “There were lines going from inside their noses to their lips. It was surreal, and I knew I probably had them, too.”

The boys quickly talked about what to do. They also worried about where their other roommate, Mike Tonner, was. Tonner had cerebral palsy, and had run out into the hallway in a state of panic. Just then, the boys realized that the open door and open window created a cross-breeze that helped clear the smoke. The wind slammed the door shut, and Reynolds said, “Against all common sense, I ran to open the door. I could see that same wall of smoke, but the open door helped clear the room of smoke.”

Michael Tonner is shown in a hospital gurney surrounded by two nurses.

Michael Tonner, who had CP, was carried to safety by a fireman and taken to the hospital.

At that moment, Tonner returned, badly shaken up. The soot-covered boys grabbed him and brought him inside the room. The room was quickly becoming cold from the window, so Reynolds — at that point dressed only in his underwear — went to put on his clothes and his glasses. Since he could speak and hear a bit, Reynolds picked up the rotary phone and spoke to whoever was on the other end, “Please come get us, we’re trapped!” He had no idea if anyone was listening.

The boys stood at the window, screaming at people and waving to other people trying to get some help. By then, it was past 6:00 a.m., and daylight had almost fully arrived. Davis was confident that they would be safe by then, reasoning that Reynolds had called for help so people knew they were in that room. They waited for what seemed like a very long time when suddenly Peterson said, “I can feel footsteps!”

Sure enough, the door opened and a big, burly fireman came in, coughing. Reynolds immediately pointed to Tonner and said, “He has CP, he can’t walk.” The fireman easily swung Tonner over his shoulder, and told the boys to follow him. “As we went down the hallway, thinking everyone else had died, I noticed that the hallway carpet was frayed from the fire. There was smoke billowing everywhere,” Reynolds said. The floor was also covered in water from fire hoses.

They walked down the long hallway, and Reynolds saw a splintered exit door. Reynolds, Davis, and Peterson ran to the door as the fireman went in a different direction. “We never saw the fireman again,” Reynolds said. They ran down the fire escape to safety. Reynolds said the first thing he noticed when they got outside was how cold it was — this was Chicago in January after all — and then he thought, “I’m alive! I’m alive!” People were waving at them, and they had to jump a few feet from the bottom of the fire escape to the ground.

Fire trucks were parked everywhere they looked, their lights flashing like no tomorrow. Water hoses were blasting cold water in every direction. “It was like a movie, that’s the best way I can explain it,” Reynolds said. He stood there for a few minutes, taking in the stunning event he had just survived.

“We all had suddenly become men. And we weren’t ready for that.” – David O. Reynolds

Collecting Themselves
As Reynolds stood figuring out what to do next, he was directed to a mailroom where the other guests were. As he walked towards the ISD group sitting off to the side, he saw how every face looked exceptionally sorrowful and sad. Looking at each boy’s grim, shell-shocked face, Reynolds realized something startling. “We all had suddenly become men. And we weren’t ready for that.”

Word had already gotten out that there had been some fatalities, but nobody knew for sure. Many had been whisked off in ambulances to area hospitals, and the rest kept checking on each other, making sure they all were okay. Reynolds, still coughing up soot, declined a trip to the hospital.

Details began coming together. The boys began ticking off names, trying to figure out who was missing and who was accounted for. They wrote back and forth with emergency responders. Saline, who had roomed with one of the two missing ISD boys (Donald Zanger), was interviewed by emergency personnel with Beranek interpreting. Shortly after that, Beranek left.

Firemen examine the room where the fire is suspected to have started.

Firemen are shown examining the area where the fire supposedly started. Charred remains of furniture are visible in this photograph.

Information began trickling in. The fire had started in an elevator shaft on the ninth floor, and since that floor was undergoing renovations, there were furniture and other things piled up near the elevator, creating an extremely flammable area. Theories began piling up: Was it arson? Did the boys who got angry at Bright, Perry, and Kennedy throw a cigarette to start the fire? Or was it just an electrical failure?

“We were in deep shock, us boys. We couldn’t believe what was happening,” Saline said.

The boys sat there waiting for someone to tell them something and wondering what would happen next. Reynolds suddenly began to feel sick, and realized he probably should get some medical attention. He was quickly taken to an ambulance, where he put on an oxygen mask and was driven to a hospital.

There, Reynolds was told to put a tissue to his mouth and start coughing. He did, and was shocked to see piles of soot coming out of his mouth. His lungs had completely filled with soot, and his larynx had been burned by the smoke. He later would learn that he had blood in his lungs for several years because of this smoke inhalation, which caused him to have nosebleeds often for many years. After several hours sharing a hospital room with Albert Jones and Freeman Harper, a somber-faced Beranek appeared at their hospital room door.

Click here for Part 2. All photographs are taken from the Chicago Sun Times, Chicago Tribune, Chicago Daily News, the Illinois Advance, and the interviewees unless otherwise indicated. Special thanks go to Joan Engelmann and Rosa Ramirez.

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Culture, History, Humanity, Language, Media, Notable People

My letter, 26 years later

July 15, 2016

Video description: Trudy Suggs, a white woman with brown shoulder-length hair, is wearing a purple v-necked sweater that ties at the neckline. She is seated in a corner with brown bookshelves on her right and a sea blue wall on her left.

One of my favorite teachers, Barbara Turner, found an October 1990 letter I wrote to Silent News, a newspaper I later served as editor of for two years. As I re-read the letter (found at the end of this article), I was struck by what I wrote back then, especially given that I was only 15 years old.

In 1990, I was deep in the trenches of what was then a deeply emotional discussion taking place everywhere. I remember sitting down in frustration after reading a few articles in Silent News, and pecking away on my electric typewriter. My perspectives stemmed from what I saw on a day-in, day-out basis. Today, I have mixed feelings about what I wrote (especially some of my word choices), although I do staunchly believe, as I did 26 years ago, that “a student’s best educational setting can only be determined by the individual — the child.”

I’ve also come to understand so much more about the mainstreaming versus deaf school controversy, and I’ve watched the pendulum swing back and forth. I’ve recognized that one of the challenges is ensuring that each family has full awareness of all the consequences of either choice. Most importantly, I’ve become a mother to four deaf children.

Looking back, I realize now just how oppressive many of the teachers were towards us Deaf students, except for Ms. Turner, in terms of audism, linguicism, and the most basic of respect. To be fair, that was the norm back then and still is the norm at so many schools today. This oppressive attitude spilled over into our daily perspectives of ourselves; I’ve written extensively about how I struggled with my self-esteem and identity because of these teachers. It’s bittersweet to think of how Deaf students, including me, thought we were “lucky” to be mainstreamed when in reality, this was dysconscious audism at its finest. We simply were indoctrinated to believe that hearing was better.

With that said, I was so fortunate to have had access to a Deaf family, the Deaf community, publications like Silent News and Deaf Life, and most importantly, Deaf friends and role models. My classmates didn’t necessarily have this same access, except through the three deaf families at my school. After all, the nearest deaf school was about four to five hours away. The school we attended didn’t really expose us to deaf role models on a consistent basis, although we did have guest speakers and attended a very few events with deaf students from other schools.

Let’s take a quick look at some of what I wrote.

“Some deaf students, in my opinion, will perform at their best abilities in mainstreamed settings, such as I do.”

Actually, I sucked at school. I was never a great student, and I never felt as if I was academically or even personally smart. I would struggle in class, trying to understand why I couldn’t follow along. I had to put up with teachers’ scorn, because they had higher expectations of me given that my papers said I was gifted and had skipped two grades at another public school. Today I realize I struggled because the interpreters weren’t qualified for the most part, and I didn’t have direct communication access. I had attended a deaf school for a year, but it wasn’t the best option at the time; also, my mother got remarried and we relocated to the Chicago area. Even though I was one of those students who participated in a million extracurricular activities and had a lot of hearing friends and even a hearing boyfriend, I never felt as if I really fit in. In between classes and after school, I would always run to my deaf friends and drink up every minute with them.

If I could do it all over again, I would probably have requested better interpreters, or perhaps homeschooling — or found a way to go to a deaf school again. Even with the best interpreters, the access still would not be equivalent to the access at deaf schools.

“I think all the controversy over whether to mainstream or to put a child in a residential school is overly absurd. . .

But I think it is totally ridiculous that people battle endlessly . . . Come on, let’s stop whining about this issue and concentrate on other things such as bringing deaf awareness into the hearing world and promoting deaf rights.”

Yikes. “Absurd,” “ridiculous,” and “whining” aren’t words I’d use nowadays. The controversy, which persists to this day especially in light of so many deaf schools closing, is a very serious topic — especially given the dramatic increase in solitary mainstreaming of deaf children. Even so, I thought, and still believe, that this controversy is putting the horse before the cart. The more pressing issue is ensuring that every child has access in the form of sign language along with whatever other communication mode(s) are accessible, and that every family has full information and is fully educated and aware of the importance of cultural and linguistic access in all aspects of the child’s life. Only when this has been achieved can we focus on educational options.

“Going back to my statement that a child can succeed in a setting that he feels most comfortable in, I can say that I know of many people who are thought of as role models today that come from both types of school. . .I do have a lot of hearing peers. So do a lot of the other deaf students in my school. But those deaf students and I socialize with deaf people outside of school — which counteracts with the often-found misconception that students who are mainstreamed are not proud of their deafness, do not socialize with other deaf people, and are sheltered from the deaf world.”

I still agree, but I also recognize that even with the oppression students at my school faced, we still had access to resources that are not available to many deaf mainstreamed students, such as direct instruction in ASL, Deaf-centric extracurricular activities, and even books and publications about ASL and Deaf people. Unfortunately, it’s even more of a fact today that so many mainstreamed students do not have access to or awareness of the Deaf community.

My high school also had a critical mass of deaf students — about 80 — as opposed to only 5 or 10 students. This was imperative, because it enabled us to have our own sub-groups, our own culture, and even our own vocabulary (just ask me how we signed “fump” or “gross”). The most important thing is that we developed a network among ourselves, and through the deaf families and extracurricular activities at school found other deaf people. Even so, this critical mass is nothing like the one I see at my children’s school nowadays, and I now fully realize just how much I missed out on.

“And I also know that residential schools are very remarkable in producing people that achieve so much for the deaf world. This does not need to be even said because it is almost a granted fact.”

Unfortunately, we do have to say this, because residential — or rather, Deaf schools — have gotten such a bad rap especially in the past 50 years. We need to go back to basics, and recognize that many people’s ideas of what deaf schools offer are often outdated and rooted in the outdated concept of “institutionalization.” Many Deaf schools offer a variety of programs and services, including audiology and spoken language, and offer comprehensive education. It’s also imperative to recognize that most of the community leaders in our storied Deaf history came from deaf schools, and that many community leaders also come from deaf schools. For example, the receptionist at the White House, Leah Katz-Hernandez, attended a deaf school. Claudia Gordon, a White House lawyer, attended a deaf school. Nyle DiMarco, the hottest star to hit Hollywood, graduated from a deaf school. The recent chair of the FCC disability office, who left the position a few weeks ago, Greg Hlibok, also comes from a deaf school. The list goes on and on.

Nowadays, that demographic may be changing — through no fault of our own. With mainstreaming forced upon more deaf students as a result of an increased reliance on technology, the closing of Deaf schools, dissemination of naccurate information, and a general lack of resources in many parts of the country, more and more community leaders will come from mainstreamed settings. Some of them have or will become successful leaders if they have tremendous resources and support at home; others will probably struggle with all the same issues of fitting in, self-esteem, language barriers, trying to do what others expect of them —on top of normal development challenges such as puberty and socialization. So it’s important for us to continue identifying successful people who have happily embraced the Deaf community and its culture, heritage, and language.

“If we could get more people to be aware of deafness and its glorious culture, then we could get parents to make the best and RIGHT decision about where to put their child for the best possible education. We do, after all, have to realize that each child is an individual and each has his own way of learning.”

Even as passionate as I am about the importance of Deaf schools and reviving the critical masses that once existed at every Deaf school, I still believe that each child has to have choices. If we could bring Deaf school numbers back to what exists at schools like Maryland, Texas, and Indiana, we’d have choices at each and every Deaf school instead of “resorting” to mainstreaming as a choice. By choices, I mean choices in educational methods, communication modes, services, courses, social circles, and so much more. Every child should have access to these choices without having to sacrifice full, complete, direct access to education and every aspect of school — especially socialization and world knowledge.

I will say this, though, as a final statement: many of my fellow Deaf students at Hinsdale South High School went on to have Deaf children. The majority of us, including me, have chosen to enroll our children at deaf schools. This alone speaks volumes.

Letter to Silent News Editor, October 1990

Dear Editor:

In response to all the letters about whether to put a deaf child in a mainstreamed setting or a residential setting, I would like to add some of my own comments, if I may.

I am a 15-year-old senior at Hinsdale South High School in Darien, Illinois. Yes, I am mainstreamed for all of my classes with the use of an interpreter, but I am also a former residential school student. So I can safely say I have an idea of what both worlds are like. And regardless of all the arguments I have absorbed about which school gives a student a higher reading/writing level, I strongly believe that a student’s best educational setting can only be determined by the individual — the child.

Some deaf students, in my opinion, will perform at their best abilities in mainstreamed settings, such as I do. Others will find mainstreamed settings too difficult or too easy and lean toward the residential school. I think all the controversy over whether to mainstream or to put a child in a residential school is overly absurd. If one scoffs at mainstreaming and says that deaf schools are the only way to go, or vice versa, then I believe that is a very subtle kind of discrimination. Who is one to say what another can do? This is a free country, and every one of us is an individual. I believe that a child can succeed anywhere he feels like he fits in the most.

My most vivid memory of leaving the residential school I attended was a staff member coming up to me and calling me a “traitor” to my face — simply because I was transferring to a public school with a program for deaf students. I will never forget the disgust and fury in his face as he spelled out that word to me. I was only 10 at the time. I think that’s exactly the type of picture that someone would NOT want a child to have.

Going back to my statement that a child can succeed in a setting that he feels most comfortable in, I can say that I know of many people who are thought of as role models today that come from both types of school. I come from a deaf family; so I know a lot of deaf adults who are very successful individuals and many of them come from public schools with a program for the deaf; and yet others tell me of their residential school experiences. I do not have an outstanding and superior level of speech — I firmly believe in the use of sign language, so do not think that I am a deaf person who marches around in life being oral. But I do have a lot of hearing peers. So do a lot of the other deaf students in my school. But those deaf students and I socialize with deaf people outside of school — which counteracts with the often-found misconception that students who are mainstreamed are not proud of their deafness, do not socialize with other deaf people, and are sheltered from the deaf world.

True, many mainstreamed people do need to be educated about the deaf world, but we are fortunate to have very many teachers at Hinsdale South who are knowledgeable about this. And there are students who have participated in all kinds of sports, such as soccer, basketball, baseball, and so on. And I am one of the editors of the school paper. And there are countless clubs that our deaf students have participated in. The program at Hinsdale South is living proof that NOT all mainstreaming programs are total failures.

And I also know that residential schools are very remarkable in producing people that achieve so much for the deaf world. This does not need to be even said because it is almost a granted fact.

But I think it is totally ridiculous that people battle endlessly about whether mainstreaming or residential schools are the best way to educate our deaf children. Come on, let’s stop whining about this issue and concentrate on other things such as bringing deaf awareness into the hearing world and promoting deaf rights. If we could get more people to be aware of deafness and its glorious culture, then we could get parents to make the best and RIGHT decision about where to put their child for the best possible education. We do, after all, have to realize that each child is an individual and each has his own way of learning.

Trudy Suggs
Westmont, IL

This article can not be copied, reproduced, or redistributed without the written consent of the author.

Filed Under: Childhood, Community resources, Culture, Deaf Community, Deaf education, Disempowerment, Humanity, Interpreting, Language, Media, Parenting

Full, unfiltered access to ASL and the world

February 14, 2016

(Reposted from my Facebook page, February 13, 2016)

My (deaf) daughters and I went out for dinner, and my four-year-old asked me why it rained. My oldest, eight years old, started explaining, but the younger interrupted and said, “My friend says it’s because God cries.” I said, “That could be true, too.” We all laughed and came up with different reasons (God sneezing, birds spitting, etc.) — all very silly and cute.

That led to a conversation about why it was cold outside, and how countries below the equator had opposite seasons. I described how the earth rotates daily and around the sun (thank goodness for ASL, because it helped them understand immediately) and how this related to why we count 24 hours and 365 days. I also showed them a few videos off the Internet showing the solar system and all that stuff.

At that moment, it hit me: how lucky are we?! My girls and I have full access to communication at home and at school/work. I had that growing up, too. I can’t imagine how it would be if we didn’t have this full, unfiltered access to ASL, and subsequently, the world. We *never* have frustrations in communication with each other — not even for the most complex of topics.

That’s why it’s so important for parents like Cam (see previous post) to share their stories. I’m so grateful to Stacey Abrams for creating the Why I Sign page, and even more grateful to all the parents and family members who have responded overwhelmingly to that page. Teach deaf children to speak if it’s really important to you, but never, ever, ever at the expense of sign language or the child. I speak from experience, and so do my children. ‪#‎whyisign‬

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Culture, Deaf Community, Humanity, Language, Parenting

The Power of the Written Word

October 23, 2014

My oldest, six years old, has started to understand how powerful the written word can be. I’ve been marveling at her acquisition of English as a second language and remembering my own acquisition. Still, when I saw a piece of paper on my table last summer, I was stunned. My grandmother, 91 years old at the time, was visiting us from Illinois. She and I have always had a very special relationship growing up; I stayed at her house so often that she was like a mother to me. Actually, she still is like a mother to me. She doesn’t sign other than homemade signs, although she says she wishes she did. She’s tried to learn many times, but has never really succeeded.

Grandmother learned my mother was deaf when Mom was three. Like so many others back then, she was told to teach my mother to speak instead of sign. I don’t think she ever imagined she’d be the lone hearing person in my family, my children being fourth-generation deaf on their father’s side. Whenever she’s at my house, she has never once complained when we all sign without including her—although I often feel guilty about that, and always try to have her know what we’re talking about. I remember asking her once at a restaurant when she was the only hearing person in a group of 11 how she felt being the only hearing person. She said, “I think it’s great.”

My children absolutely adore her for so many reasons, and they especially love her “spin” game where she spins the kids around by their legs on any smooth floor. It’s a sight you have to see to believe. The kids clamor for this game the very minute she enters the house, even as big as they are now.

So, last summer, I was cleaning and picking up random pieces of paper from tables and shelves and countertops. I took a second look at the blue piece of paper in front of me, because I recognized Grandmother’s handwriting. I also thought I recognized my writing, from when I was a child. I thought it was from my childhood. It wasn’t.

My heart warmed as I read it more carefully. It was a conversation my oldest had with Grandmother. I immediately reminisced about when I was six years old. My grandparents lived two hours away from me, and I spent practically every weekend and every break with them. I loved being at their house; it was the only stable home I had until I was much older. My best friend lived across the street from my grandparents’ house, and we made up all sorts of creative schemes. And Maid Rite! The best place to eat in Quincy, hands down.

Since my grandparents didn’t sign, and I didn’t speak, we had to find a way to communicate—especially when my mom wasn’t around to interpret. The answer was easy: we wrote back and forth. My granddad was a man of a few words, but full of mischief, which could be seen in how he wrote. My grandmother was always a wordsmith, the poet in the family. She and I would talk for hours. We’d watch THE PRICE IS RIGHT (which wasn’t captioned back then) when she was home from work, and she’d patiently explain the rules to me, or tell me what Bob Barker was saying. In fact, I credit this for much of my English acquisition, along with having ASL as a first language and reading.

When Grandmother tucked me into bed, she would sit next to me and write in a notebook. She’d ask, using rudimentary gestures, “TRUDY TODAY WHAT?” (“What did Trudy do today?”) I’d tell her what I did, and she’d make me fingerspell the words one by one, or she’d write the sentences out and make me read them. It was my all-time favorite activity with my grandmother. Today, the notebooks are my most cherished documentation of my relationship with her. She was the best at doodling next to the sentences, even though she scoffs when I tell her that her drawing skills are awesome. She still doodles on her cards and letters to me, which I get such a kick out of.

Happy 92^nd birthday, Grandmother. Thank you for the loving and lasting impact you’ve left not only on me, but on your great-grandchildren as well.

Copyrighted material, used by permission. This article can not be copied, reproduced, or redistributed without the written consent of the author.

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Language, Notable People, Parenting

The boy at Target

September 17, 2013

As I sit here working well past midnight, I can’t stop thinking about the most random encounter at Target last Saturday that lasted all of three or four minutes.

My family and I had just arrived at the store, and my younger two were throwing hissy fits over having to sit in the cart (control, folks; carts are how we control our younger kids in stores). My oldest two were pushing each other and giggling. As I attended to the youngest — deeeeep into her terrible twos, which means she screams bloody murder if we try to make her do anything — I saw a father with two kids walking by. The oldest, an adorable boy with the cutest black-rimmed glasses, shaggy short hair, and a green shirt (soccer game, maybe?), kept staring at us. I ignored him at first thinking he was just some hearing kid fascinated by our ASL or our unruly children. But then I looked up, and suddenly noticed his hearing aids with the coolest green ear molds. He had stopped in his tracks, and was watching us intently.

I was trying to calm my daughter down while my husband was herding the other three. As I looked down at my daughter, I could see, and feel, the boy staring at us from maybe five or ten feet away. He seemed to be eight or nine. His father and sibling had already gone into the dollar bins area, and he was standing there, staring at us with so much interest. As I got my daughter happily comfortable in her seat, I mentally debated about how to react to the boy’s gaze. Should I ignore him? Does he know sign language? What if I try to talk to him and his dad gets upset? What if he doesn’t sign and doesn’t understand what I say? What do I do? Are my kids ever going to calm down?

I glanced back at him and gave him a big smile as I snapped my daughter’s cart belt into place. “Hi!!” I signed, looking at him directly.

The biggest smile came over his face as he excitedly signed back, “HI!” Just then, his father came back, looking a bit unhappy at his talking to us. The boy looked reluctant about having to join his family, glancing back at us twice as he walked off. I hoped to see him again in the store so I could talk a bit more with him, but I never saw him again.

I’ve been thinking about him a lot since then. The look on his face was so filled with hunger and hope. It’s a look I’ve seen a million times before, usually on the faces of deaf children (or even adults) meeting other deaf people for the first time. It’s the look of realization that they’re not the only deaf person in the world, that signing is perfectly acceptable and natural, that we’re all incredibly ordinary people just like them. I am so grateful that I have never felt like the only deaf person in the world, because I’ve always had deaf role models around me from day one of my life. I’ve never gone a single day in my life wondering what other deaf people were like or if they even existed.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about my children and their unfiltered, unlimited access to communications 24 hours a day at home and in school. They will not realize for years to come just how fortunate they are, just like my husband and I didn’t realize how fortunate we were to have deaf families and 24-hour access to sign language. I’m extremely grateful that I can chat with and listen to my kids, especially their references to poop and boogers. I’m also fortunate every single person in my household can argue, joke, and love each other without a single communication barrier, even if it means we (namely me) have to be careful what we say at the dinner table because every word we say gets repeated the next day in school, thanks to my children’s eagle eyes.

I hope that the boy in Target is in an environment where he can sign freely and can be as deaf as he wants to be, to whatever degree. Maybe all my assumptions are wrong, and he’s perfectly happy. I just wish I had paid more attention to him once I realized he was deaf. And I so wish I had said hi sooner.

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Culture, Language, Notable People

An Epilogue: Can I Speak Now?

January 10, 2013

This is a follow-up to an article I was invited to write for the NAD Monograph in 1997. To read the original piece, click here.

“A year to the day I was born, PL 94-142 was created. That’s when bureaucrats began to speak for me.”

– From the 1997 “Can I Speak Now?” article

My Can I Speak Now? piece, written over 15 years ago, is one of my most popular articles. People often tell me that what I shared resonated with them because they, too, had similar experiences and frustrations. As I reread it today, I find it interesting how my perspectives have changed only slightly. The biggest change in my perspectives—at least until 2026—is that I will speak for my deaf children, but nobody else. It fascinates me how my children’s educational experiences are already so different from mine, and yet so similar.

I have chosen to enroll my four children—the oldest being five and the youngest being one—at a deaf school, because it’s clearly the best environment for them at this point in their lives. I also love the close-knit community here. But what I am most grateful for is my children’s unfettered access to communication 24 hours a day in school and at home. This comes from a Deaf-centric—and child-centric—educational environment and home environment.

With that said, one comment I got in response to the 1997 article stands out. Back in 1998, I shared the article with a mother of a deaf six-year-old; I was her supervisor at my then-job at a nonprofit agency serving the deaf community. She was still somewhat coming to terms with her child being deaf, and had chosen an ASL environment for her child’s education.

After she read the article, I asked for her thoughts. Her response was that I “sounded so angry like most deaf people.” This was the last thing I expected her to say, especially given our shared views on deaf education and communication options. Now, in retrospective, I realize it was because she was still new to the community and didn’t yet fully understand that this article and my experiences weren’t written in anger. Rather, it was a honest look at how the educational system has been for so many deaf people. Interestingly enough, later that year during a meeting with me, she got upset at not receiving a pay raise. As I looked away at the end of the meeting, she grabbed my jaw and turned my face so I’d look at her. Looking back at that incident, I realize now she was the one dealing with anger and I happened to be the nearest outlet for her. I’d love to talk with her today and see if she still has the same perspectives she did back then. Her child is now college-aged, and doing very well from what I understand.

Back to the point: I continue to speak only for myself, because we each have such different experiences, perspectives and needs. I only hope that my children will grow up to become the best experts on what they need—not school professionals, not my husband or me, not anyone else. When they can speak for themselves, that’s when I’ll know I’ve done my job as a parent.

Filed Under: Blog, Childhood, Culture, Deaf education, Gallaudet, Language, Parenting

Can we all just get along?

February 3, 2010

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. [Read more…]

Filed Under: Childhood, Culture, Deaf education, Language, Parenting

Welcome Addition, Indeed.

September 19, 2007

This article originally appeared at i711.com.

I received a coupon booklet in the mail recently from Similac, a company that produces infant formula milk. Typically, I put junk mail in the recycle bin, but I opened this one – and I’m glad I did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen this on the included flashcard:

Yup, that’s a baby signing DRINK, as in “drink alcohol.” At first, I laughed at the picture because of its sheer silliness. I thought maybe Similac had the world’s worst illustrator, because many of the other signs were also inaccurately drawn. Then I thought, Obviously a hearing illustrator working with a hearing consultant.

But then I remembered how I had been at Babies R Us, trying not to feel greedy about registering for everything in the store. There, I walked by the books section and saw a whole bunch of baby signs books. I skimmed through them, and not surprisingly, the majority of signs in the books were incorrect, or at least not part of any sign language I knew.

This isn’t about the controversy of teaching sign language to hearing babies but not deaf babies. Amy Cohen Efron’s The Greatest Irony has become one of the most referenced commentaries on this issue, so, I won’t even get into that; we must teach signs to both deaf and hearing babies. I began signing when I was six months old, thanks to my parents having signed to me from day one. That alone shows me the benefits of teaching babies sign language.

The real issue here, for me, is something I’ve mulled over for quite a while. Should we worry about correct sign production, or should we simply try to get babies and toddlers to communicate in whatever ways they can? I used to think that it maybe didn’t matter, as long as babies were being taught signs at least. Now, I think otherwise.

With this flashcard and the books on the market, I am even more convinced that the correct American Sign Language signs must be used, regardless of whether the child or parents are deaf or hearing. While I am aware of how babies and toddlers (including me when I was a tot) often cannot produce “full” signs – i.e., using one finger to sign EAT instead of the whole hand – this doesn’t mean we now have leeway to teach them whatever we think is easier.

After all, ASL has its own grammar, signs/words, and rules. I don’t know how many times I’ll say this for the rest of my life, but people have to learn that. They can’t just make up words and expect the nation to accept the new words, especially if they don’t know the language. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had parents say to me, “Oh! My kid knows sign language!” and then proceed to show me all the wrong signs while I nod with a polite smile.

We, deaf or hearing, should at least try to use correct signs with babies while getting them to communicate in any way possible. This has nothing but positive benefits: they grow up already knowing ASL, even if rudimentarily, and this eventually leads to a more cohesive ASL community for both deaf and hearing people. And we certainly don’t want to mislead people into thinking they can simply invent signs at any time.

A friend, expecting her second child, pointed out that the overused “I Love You” sign is also harder for babies to produce than simply signing “love.”

I thought about all this as I chuckled at the flashcard. I e-mailed Similac and explained what this particular version of the DRINK sign meant. I also mentioned that they would probably benefit from having a fluent, even native, Deaf person involved in this flashcard project, which I thought was a great tool. I also ignored the recommendation that the parent “say the word while signing to emphasize…”; obviously they don’t think deaf children are included in the “baby” category.

I, of course, did not get a response other than a form e-mail. Meanwhile, they’re going to make money off showing a baby how to drink alcohol.

But hey, anything to bring about awareness of sign language for babies, right?

UPDATE (September 21, 2007): I typically get a lot of e-mail after each column, but this one took the cake! Thanks to the group of teachers and deaf people who contacted Similac about the pictures/signs. I was just notified, and I confirmed this by looking at the website itself, that Similac has removed the file from its website.

It’s my hopes that this will lead to more work for deaf ASL teachers who are truly fluent in the language and the techniques of teaching babies (regardless of if they’re deaf or hearing) ASL. And of course, it’s my hopes that this will lead to increased ASL awareness. But I didn’t expect this outstanding response rate, so I must thank each and every one of you who contacted Similac or e-mailed me.

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Filed Under: Business, Childhood, Community resources, Culture, i711.com, Language, Parenting

Nearly 50 Years Later: The Chicago Fire that Killed Two Deaf Students (Part 2)

Reflections on “Nearly 50 Years Later: The Chicago Fire that Killed Two Deaf Students”

Nearly 50 Years Later: The Chicago Fire that Killed Two Deaf Students (Part 1)

“We all had suddenly become men. And we weren’t ready for that.” – David O. Reynolds

My letter, 26 years later

Full, unfiltered access to ASL and the world

The Power of the Written Word

The boy at Target

An Epilogue: Can I Speak Now?

“A year to the day I was born, PL 94-142 was created. That’s when bureaucrats began to speak for me.”

– From the 1997 “Can I Speak Now?” article

Can we all just get along?

Welcome Addition, Indeed.

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