It was a question that lingered in many people’s minds, including ours. We all wondered, given that my husband is a third-generation deaf person and I second-generation, whether our new baby would be deaf or hearing. My husband and I threw out the obligatory “The important thing is our baby’s healthy” to anyone who asked. We had sent in our blood to Gallaudet’s genetics program for testing in the fourth month of my pregnancy, but knew the results would arrive after our child’s birth. Either way, it wouldn’t have made a difference for us if the baby was deaf or hearing. Even so, we couldn’t help but wonder in the back of our heads. All we could do was wait.

Meanwhile, I worked with area agencies to enact legislation a statewide early hearing detection and intervention program (EHDI), knowing it’d have an impact upon thousands of lives, including mine. I also made sure I stayed in good physical shape, and counted down the days.

The day after Eavan was born, we asked about her hearing test as mandated by the EHDI law. The nurse said unconcernedly that Eavan had tested as deaf earlier that morning, but had also been fussy so the test would be redone. My husband and I nodded, then we moved onto other topics.

Distracted by a million things, we didn’t give the test another thought until the following morning when the nurse came into our room. When asked, the nurse smiled with an enthusiastic nod, giving us a thumbs up. That threw us off momentarily – what did the thumbs up mean? After a short pause, I asked, “She’s deaf?” The nurse nodded and went to check my blood pressure. Nothing more was said, and we busied ourselves getting ready to go home.

Our own mothers and countless people had told us horror stories of how nurses were sad, uncomfortable, or even domineering in sharing hearing test results – which then affected the parents’ reactions. We were astounded – and encouraged – by the optimistic, “it’s no big deal” attitude at District One Hospital. In fact, a couple of times throughout my pregnancy, we were asked about genetic ‘defects’ in our families. Whenever we mentioned our deaf families, the nurses always said, “No, that doesn’t count as a genetic defect.” Our doctor was equally nonchalant about the hearing issue.

Of course, this is very different for hearing parents with no prior history. But think about it: what if medical folks everywhere were as laid-back and optimistic? What if they were empathetic with parents faced with the often-overwhelming news of their child testing as deaf? What if nurses and doctors didn’t rush to engulf parents with so-called solutions or doomsday predictions? Would this make a difference in how parents initially react? I think so, although I can never put myself in those parents’ shoes.

If doctors were neutral but encouraging, perhaps parents wouldn’t respond with the same amount of shock or negativity that they typically do; human nature is hard to predict. All too often, how we react to something is fueled by the amount of negativity involved, or the lack of.

Maybe my husband and I shouldn’t have been so surprised by District One Hospital’s matter-of-fact approach. After all, this is a town with a large deaf population and the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf. The hospital has had hundreds, if not thousands, of deaf patients over the years. The staff there knows being deaf isn’t a death sentence, and they were prepared in what resources to offer.

Even so, it was a relief to us to not have to deal with uninvited negativity upon learning Eavan’s hearing status. We were simply more concerned about her jaundice, whether she was pooping enough, and if she was warm enough. The hospital provided all the right resources, support and information for us – without a trace of pity or sorrow. That was exactly how we wanted our birth experience to be, especially with such a healthy baby who delights us every single day.

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Last summer, a colleague at a video relay services (VRS) provider contacted me to get names of local key contacts, because the company was looking to set up camp in the Twin Cities. Since I often use this VRS provider – let’s call it ABC VRS – I happily provided names.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. I read, with surprise, on an interpreter e-mail list that ABC VRS was hosting an open house. I thought perhaps I simply hadn’t heard about it, because I knew ABC VRS wouldn’t host such an event without involving deaf people. They had been working with a local deaf organization, so I figured I was just out of the loop. But after talking with board members of this deaf organization, I learned that ABC VRS had not reached out to the local deaf community at all. I e-mailed my contact at ABC VRS to ask why. The response:

This event will be strictly an interpreter recruitment event- deaf interpreters are welcome to attend to apply for jobs…

However, for such an event, where interpreters will be asking about salaries, benefits, personal information in terms of employment recruitment- we think it would be appropriate that this event stays the same, that it is for interpreters interested in working with [ABC VRS] – deaf or hearing.

Rest assured… an open invite will go out to…deaf organizations when we have our grand opening… It is our new model about having a meet/greet event for interpreters being separated from an opening event after getting comments from interpreters afraid to ask personal questions during opening events and it seem to work better in interpreter recruitment. It is not a deaf/hearing issue, but rather an employment recruitment effort.

Okaaaaay. While I understand the ‘recruitment’ concept, this exclusion is a slap in local deaf people’s faces. For any new call center, it’s critical to first drum up support from the very core of the VRS industry: deaf people themselves.

A few years ago, another VRS provider, XYZ VRS, came into town and established a call center. The interpreter shortage was severe at the time, and many were caught off-guard by XYZ VRS swooping in and snatching up the few interpreters left. The provider insisted that local interpreters asked the company to come to the Twin Cities. Yet, in a newspaper article, the center manager said that the VRS company had “wooed” local interpreters into establishing the call center. Either way, many locals were unhappy.

The affiliation with the XYZ VRS center got so bad that at a workshop I attended, a participant introduced herself saying, “In addition to being a freelance interpreter, I confess I also work for XYZ VRS.” I was taken aback; had it really gotten that bad – to the point where interpreters were ashamed to admit they worked for this particular company?

This backlash is easily understood, though: you cannot establish a service or company primarily for deaf consumers without involving them. Any company knows that to reach its target market, consumers are to be surveyed, pursued, and included. Interpreters are not the consumers nor the target market when it comes to VRS; deaf people are. We are the ones who utilize the service, relying upon it for everything from personal to professional matters, even life-or-death matters. For interpreters, VRS is an employment option. Deaf people and interpreters are valuable allies with very different goals and needs when it comes to VRS. Besides, without deaf people, there would be no need for VRS.

What ABC VRS and XYZ VRS should have done was involve deaf people at every level – especially locals. Furthermore, any interpreter uncomfortable asking questions in front of the company’s consumers shouldn’t be asking them at an open house; this should be saved for the actual hiring process. Transparency is key, especially with federally funded programs like VRS.

Any event, activity, or venture involving a very specific aspect of a community must involve the community’s core members, regardless of circumstances. It’s not an either-or issue. Involve local deaf people and interpreters when trying to establish a new call center in a particular location.

ABC VRS has shot itself in the foot by not drumming up support among deaf people, even if it’s managed to recruit some of the best interpreters in the state. This has left a bad taste in local deaf people’s mouths – the few who actually know about ABC’s plans, that is. Most of the local deaf people are still in the dark about ABC VRS coming to town, because ABC VRS hasn’t really involved them.

VRS companies must stop biting the hand that feeds them – especially when this hand belongs to the local deaf community.

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For years, I faithfully defended myself.

“Hey, I like what it provides. I’m not going to give up a good thing,” I’d protest without caring what others thought of me. I was called naïve, behind the times, and a fool.

Today, I am admitting defeat.

I’m giving up on T-Mobile. Over the past few weeks, T-Mobile Sidekick users have been dealing with an onslaught of horrible services – being in full coverage but not sending/receiving, and seeing its “fetch e-mail” feature disabled, to name two. (And I know it’s actually Danger who provides the service for Sidekicks. Doesn’t matter to me.)

A bit about the feature I like the most on my Sidekick 3: users can set up POP accounts on your Sidekick to be “retrieved from” their e-mail servers every 20 to 30 minutes or so. In the past, because this 20-minute interval was too slow, I manually retrieved my e-mail by pressing MENU + U. About two months ago, I suddenly couldn’t do this anymore, so I called T-Mobile. They said it was a server issue on their end, and it would be fixed within a week. That was two months ago.

Last Saturday, I called again. Without this feature, it’s difficult for me to run my company when I’m away from the computer. Every customer representative I spoke with did not understand what this feature was, then denied it was down and insisted it was a coverage issue, and then claimed it was limited to my house only when I mentioned that my husband was unable to access his Gmail account on his pager like he had in the past. Never mind that every out-of-state friend who uses this feature is having the same problem.

After an hour and half and countless “Please hold while I check on that” responses, the (supposedly) top-tier supervisor said, “We do not guarantee the POP e-mail feature. We only guarantee the tmail address, the AIM program, and the other buttons on your screen. But for additional accounts you set up on your own, we do not guarantee this.” When I asked to have the contract termination fee removed ($200, folks), given that T-Mobile was not performing to the level I was paying for, the supervisor repeated, “We do not guarantee…”

When I talked with other Sidekick users, they had the same problem. “But we’re stuck in our contracts,” they said, “and we just have to wait it out.” I thought I’d do the same, even though my contract doesn’t expire until August 2008.

But then I got to thinking. Didn’t T-Mobile cater to deaf people in the past, given that we were their largest specialized customer base? There used to be T-Mobile representatives at every deaf event. When I was living in Chicago, there was even a local T-Mobile representative exclusive to the deaf community. Where are they these days? And why aren’t we doing anything about this terrible service from T-Mobile? Why are we simply calling T-Mobile (in a few cases) and asking for credit, sometimes without success? Why aren’t we mobilizing a letter-writing or some kind of e-mail campaign? Are we simply too lazy or do we think we’re too unimportant?

I did a Google search to see if I was the only one having frustrations. I found quite a few websites, but what amazed me was that T-Mobile has “catapulted to the top of J.D. Power’s rankings of customer care in the wireless industry. It has now won the biannual title six times in a row,” says this article.

Sure, T-Mobile representatives are obviously well-trained in customer service – they always say, “Can I call you Trudy? How are you today, Trudy?” But that means diddly-squat to me when they don’t know what they’re talking about. Case in point: last Saturday’s call, when I went through four or five representatives who had no clue, even though the ‘fetch e-mail’ feature is in the instructions, on the Internet and listed in the menu on the pager itself. Besides, I know I’m not the only one who has called about their ridiculously slow service the past few months. So why hasn’t anything changed? Why is this still happening? Why hasn’t anything been posted on DeafRead or on blogs in order to try and get this fixed?

Deaf people are among T-Mobile’s most valuable customers, and T-Mobile must realize that pagers for deaf people are crucial.For me, my Sidekick is quite literally is a lifeline, given that I have my first child due in the next three weeks. Because of T-Mobile’s unreliable service, my husband and I have had to set up alternate communication methods in case we’re not together when labor starts.

T-Mobile needs to get its act together for its Sidekick users, but first, we Sidekick users need to get our act together in mobilizing some kind of campaign demanding better services. Otherwise, we have no right to complain about shelling out money every month for sub-par performance.

So, who wants to start?

How to send a letter or e-mail to T-Mobile:

Customer Relations
PO Box 37380
Albuquerque, NM 87176-7380
E-mail: http://support.t-mobile.com/caseSubmitForm.html

They also list a TTY number and other contact methods.

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As someone who has traveled the nation presenting on a variety of topics, I figured I’d share some words of wisdom and list the top ten things to do when working with presenters. A quick disclaimer: These tips are written for those who coordinate presenters. I also have a list of tips for the actual presenters, but that’s a different article.

1. Have bottled water ready. Have bottled water ready for presenters. This should be a no-brainer, but it apparently isn’t. I arrived at an out-of-state presentation only to find that there was no water, nor a vending machine. The annoyed coordinator went to the sink and got tap water that was muddy in a smeared glass. I didn’t drink it. (After the presentation, he also gave me a crumpled up check that he dug out from his disgustingly tight jeans.) I’ve learned to bring my own water, but when traveling, that isn’t always possible. So put out bottled water and make everyone happy.

2. Have a welcome packet ready at check-in or registration. Once, my plane was terribly delayed and I arrived at the deserted hotel at 11 p.m. I had no idea of where I was to go the next morning, and only learned of my workshop time and location by watching the hotel closed-circuit television. Have a welcome packet ready at check-in. Include all details, such as time and location of the presentation, who the contact folks are, and local details, such as restaurants open late at night. Keep in mind that deaf presenters may not always have access to the phone even on their laptops, especially if the hotel’s Internet connection isn’t working.

3. Treat presenters like royalty. At a deaf state association conference, I saw out of the corner of my eye a committee member saying to an attendee, “I have no idea…she’s from Minnesota, I guess? I think she’s hearing? Her presentation will probably be boring.” The attendee nodded knowingly and said, “Thanks, I won’t go…”

I walked up to the duo and said with a big smile, “I’m deaf, and my presentation won’t be boring!” They both looked horrified that I had caught their conversation. I saw them talking later in a corner about how much they had learned from my presentation.

Have committee members read the biography of each presenter, and even if the workshop seems dull, encourage people to go. Hold a pre-conference session with committee members to share information about presentations. Have committee members ask if the presenters need anything, if they’ve met their contact person, and if they know where their workshops will be held.

4. Always include combination and banquet tickets in the presenter’s compensation. I’ve been surprised time after time when I hear of events that don’t include banquet or combination tickets in the compensation. Even if the banquet itself is pricey, involve the presenter as much as possible by inviting participation in all conference events.

5. Move heaven and earth to make sure the workshop room is exactly what the presenter needs. At another conference, the room temperature dropped to 50 degrees during my workshop. After a while, blankets were brought for everyone, but the participants were already wearing coats and gloves. The opposite happened last week, though: the room steadfastly stayed at about 74 degrees, and we all sweated throughout the day-long training. Make sure the room is at a reasonable temperature, and that the presenter can tweak the temperature and/or lighting.

6. Never schedule a lesser-known presenter against a high-profile presenter. At a local event, a video relay services (VRS) provider was scheduled at the same time as a renowned linguistics expert. As a result, the VRS workshop had four participants, while the rest of the 150 conference-goers went to the other presentation. Always balance the presentations out. Otherwise, the lesser-known presenter ends up feeling slighted.

7. Have handouts and equipment confirmed at least a week prior to the event. I sent in my handouts, equipment requests and other information four months prior to an event. Upon arrival at the room an hour early, I saw an overhead projector instead of a LCD projector. I notified the equipment coordinator, who insisted it was my fault. When he took a look at my papers stating that I had requested a LCD projector, he walked out without apology. A student representative brought back the LCD for me two minutes prior to the event, barely enough time for me to hook everything up.

Apparently, they also “forgot” my handouts, which were part of workshop activities. I finally got the first set of handouts 10 minutes into my standing-room-only workshop, and got the final set about two hours later. I found out later that all of the presenters had encountered the same problems.

Arrange all the logistics at least three weeks prior to the event. Then a week prior, send the presenter a checklist including hotel reservation information, address and directions, conference coordinators’ contact information, and workshop details.

8. Assign a representative to each presenter. Have a committee member assigned to each presenter; this individual becomes responsible for staying during the workshop and getting water, making extra copies, adjusting room temperatures, or simply providing support.

9. Provide evaluation summaries to the presenter. I love evaluations, because they help me gauge the quality and success of my presentations. Create a summary showing how many participated, summaries of each question/answer, and other comments, and send the summary within two weeks.

10. Pay right away if possible. I once had to wait almost a year before I was reimbursed for a presentation. Their excuse? They didn’t have checks printed yet. The best method I’ve seen utilized at several events is to give the presenter an appreciation gift and a thank-you card with the check enclosed. That’s classy.

So, there you have it. There are so many horror stories from both event coordinators and presenters. The bottom line is everyone wants a successful event.

Just don’t forget the water.

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There seems to be a little secret at many deaf schools across the nation.

Apparently, if you want to work at a deaf school, you have to be either a local hearing person or have someone on the inside to pull you in. Okay, maybe this isn’t such a secret after all. It’s frustrating, though, in so many ways.

Time after time, I learn of people, deaf or hearing, hired at deaf schools only because they had friends in the personnel office or knew someone who had influence within human resources. I also constantly learn of people who were passed over simply because the job was never posted publicly, or because the school decided to hire from within.

Sure, this happens at schools and companies everywhere. That’s why so many employment trainers emphasize the importance of networking. Still, for state-funded deaf schools, we gotta be reasonable. Shouldn’t it be the school’s responsibility to create opportunities for deaf people in an environment where deaf people are the pillars of the school? If deaf folks can’t even get jobs at deaf schools, what message does this send?

The problem with this common practice is that most of the people who work within human resources or personnel aren’t deaf. At the majority of deaf schools I’ve visited or met people from, the human resources folks can barely sign. They’re not quite in the know about how to really reach out to the deaf community, nor do they really care. They don’t quite realize – although they may have a vague understanding – how critical jobs at deaf schools are to a lot of deaf folks.

There’s a person I know (actually, I know a lot of people in similar situations) who has an outstanding resume, excellent references and amazing experience. Yet because this person doesn’t have any direct ties to the deaf school in the state he lives in, he’s constantly passed over for jobs for one reason. He simply never is told of the jobs, even though an application is on file and he has often contacted the (hearing) superintendent and human resources office. I keep thinking after I hear about every job he’s passed over for, “My goodness, what are they missing out on?” I’ve seen this individual at work, and he’s ethical, a graduate of the school, fluent in American Sign Language and English, and well-deserving of any job he wants.

Every time I hear of yet another job being filled without appropriate advertisement, I feel almost stabbed in the heart. Although I have never applied for nor worked at a deaf school – aside from substitute teaching a few years ago – I know firsthand the impact and importance of having qualified deaf folks working at deaf schools. I also know the importance of reaching out to the deaf community for any vacant position.

Typically, state-funded positions, like those at deaf schools, are required to meet specific criteria and then submit the position to the state employment agency. People are then expected to check the state agency’s website or job database on a regular basis to see if a job opens up. Some states even allow applications to be put on file and will alert the applicants when their desired position(s) are available.

We won’t even get into how many job announcements are never physically posted on bulletin boards or passed around. And of course, state employment websites aren’t updated regularly. Bureaucracy aside, this simply isn’t right.

Given the vast geographical diversity within the deaf community, so many deaf people live in various states and want to relocate to be closer to (or farther away from) family. Or maybe they’ve met someone new in another state and want to begin a new life. If they don’t know anyone at the deaf school, or aren’t perceived as high priority because they’re not in-state, they’re pretty much screwed. Unless, of course, they have a contact in the personnel office, or went to college with an employee at that school who can rush their applications through.

Say a deaf applicant doesn’t have access to the web, and lives in another state. How does he find out about job opportunities? Maybe he calls the human resources office, but he can’t do that every week – the office would get annoyed of his calls. Or maybe he does have access to the Internet, but the website doesn’t update its information. Or maybe he gets the information, but his application is lost in the shuffle The list goes on forever. Yet the solution is so simple: be fair and as far-reaching as possible when announcing job vacancies.

This is fairly easy to accomplish. Post job announcements outside of the school by posting them on websites or in mainstream publications and e-zines. Physically post job announcements on bulletin boards and leave copies with various school offices and deaf organization offices. Place neutral people on interview committees who are open-minded and have minimal biases. Don’t get stuck in the “local is better” thinking; there might just be that ideal, out-of-state employee who brings nothing but good things to the school.

The real secret is that a school’s hiring practices send a loud message about what type of school it is.

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I’ve never felt as deaf and alone as I did a few weekends ago.

That’s because I was at the Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf Region III conference in Milwaukee. The conference itself was fabulous and the workshops were terrific. The committee must be applauded for pulling off such a well-coordinated conference.

There were signs everywhere reminding people that they should use American Sign Language (ASL) (which I think is perplexing – shouldn’t this be automatically the case in any situation involving deaf people or ASL? But that’s another article). The majority of attendees, of course, were hearing interpreters, although there were quite a few deaf people in attendance – like me, a Certified Deaf Interpreter (CDI), and others who are supporters/allies of the interpreting community.

I’ve been to many RID events, sometimes as a presenter and sometimes as a participant. They’re an enjoyable way to see how far the interpreting profession has come, and a terrific place for me to learn new things about ASL and English. But this one was where I felt the loneliest in my life.

I arrived in Milwaukee on Thursday afternoon, and made my way into a workshop room. As I sat at the end of a row by the doors, six people – I counted – began to sit in the seats next to me. As they squeezed their way by me, they each spoke, “Excuse me.” None of them signed.

Later I walked the hallways browsing exhibits and looking for people I knew. I saw not one single person signing, except for deaf people. I sat down and watched all the conversations from afar. I couldn’t understand a thing because nobody was signing. It was the same on Friday. On Saturday, when I was again in the hallway, one of the exhibitors bumped into me and spoke , “I’m sorry!….blahblahblah.” I looked at his lips, analyzing how they looked while moving. When he had finished speaking a full minute later, I signed, “Maybe you’d like to sign that? I’m deaf.” His eyes widened, and his mouth formed a small “o” before he signed, “I’m so sorry!” I smiled, nodded and walked on.

I talked with several interpreters about this lack of access to communication. Most of them said, “Yeah, that’s what always happens at RID, although it’s usually not this bad.” I had a healthy dialogue with several of them, discussing about when it was necessary to sign and when it wasn’t. I don’t think it’s necessary for people to sign at all times if deaf people aren’t present. But, how do they know if a deaf person is there? If you didn’t know me, you wouldn’t have known I was deaf at that conference. Yet, I didn’t sign because I didn’t see anyone signing. It’s almost a catch-22 situation.

At a forum, deaf people were asked how we felt about the conference. I said I felt absolutely left out, and one of the hearing interpreters looked shocked in a guilty way. Another deaf person said, “In this room, I’m normal. In that hallway, I have no arms because nobody is signing.” The shocked interpreter teared up as she said, “I’m so sorry. When I’m at these conferences, I see old friends and forget immediately about signing. I feel so awful.” An hour later, I saw her speaking to another interpreter without signing, even though a deaf person was within five feet.

A week later, I went to a five-day, intensive legal interpreting workshop. Again, the coordination of the workshop and the presenter was fabulous. When the sponsoring agency let me know that this workshop was taking place, I immediately signed up. I then asked about interpreters. “You don’t need an interpreter; the workshop is going to be conducted in ASL only,” I was told.

I was thrilled by this surprise. When I arrived, I was disappointed to learn that the other CDI had backed out, making me the only deaf person out of about 30 interpreters. The presenter announced the communication policy, saying that in small groups, people could speak if there was no need to sign (translation: if I wasn’t in the group, they could speak). That was fair enough. I didn’t really want people to sign all the time just for the sake of signing if nobody deaf was there. One of the participants – a long-time community interpreter who is notorious among deaf people for his continued sim-com (signing and speaking at the same time) habit, raised his hand and signed-spoke, “Can we sign and speak at the same time?”

My hand shot up, but before I was called on, the presenter said, “When you tell people that you interpret two languages – ASL and English – and that they’re separate languages, yet you sim-com, you’re contradicting yourself and not giving full credit to the languages.” I stood up and said, “I literally can’t understand when people sign and speak at the same time. I prefer one language at a time. If you prefer to speak, that’s fine, we can use an interpreter.”

A few days later, one of the participants – a CODA who always signed in my presence, which made me gain so much respect for him – notified me that several interpreters were complaining about how I demanded that ASL be used at all times. They thought it was unfair that the entire workshop revolved around my communication needs. I was hurt, because this rule was established by the presenter before I signed up. Besides, if they wanted to work in legal settings, then they’d better be ready to use sign language for days on end.

I also often, uncomfortably, had to politely remind people not to use their voices during small groups, or ask that someone interpret for me. I felt frustrated that I had to ask interpreters, of all people, to accommodate my communication needs when a policy had already been established. They had the option of using one or the other language; I did not. Some of them asked me to join them at lunch or after the workshop for drinks, but I always declined, because I knew I’d be the factor that messed up their communication styles. It’s similar to when deaf people go out; it’s just easier for us to be together without having a person not fluent at our language be part of our group.

When I was told of the interpreters’ comments, I realized just how far we have not come in the interpreting profession. There is still that level of disrespect towards deaf people, and this realization is heartbreaking. Interpreters are such valuable allies, such assets to our community.

Even though I felt left out and even ostracized, there were some good things that evolved from these experiences. At both events, I learned who the true allies of our community were. They were interpreters who respected my experiences, my language needs, and my position as a deaf person. They went out of their way to accommodate my communication needs, knowing that I would work around theirs as well. It was a marvelous feeling to see these interpreters who had the right attitudes and levels of respect for such a fragile yet strong community, culture and language. They are our true allies.

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Growing up in Chicago, I often took Amtrak rides to my grandparents’ house in Quincy, Ill. When I was 15, I went there for my spring break. These rides were leisurely for me, because I could nap, read, write, or play games.

That evening, we were at top speed after leaving the next-to-last stop in Macomb, a college town about an hour away from Quincy. I was hunched over with my head resting on the seat in front of me, playing on my GameBoy. I realized that I had better move my head up, because my neck could snap if something happened.

As I leaned back, there suddenly was a phenomenal screeching, with a foul stench filling the train. What I remember the most was the screeching and grinding of brakes; it seemed to go on forever, with every passenger leaning forward in sync with the train’s bumpy motions. After the longest time, the train finally came to an angry stop as we all snapped back into our seats. Time froze; the air was eerily quiet.

Slowly, people started standing up, looking at each other, picking up luggage that had fallen. I stayed in my seat, trying to see if I could figure out the situation. Everyone looked dazed. I was absolutely clueless and trying to figure out my next step, then I remembered I had what proved to be the most valuable tool that night.

I took a notebook out of my backpack, scribbled, “What happened?” and leaned over to a young woman across the aisle. I now realize she probably was in her late 20s, but at the time it seemed like she was so much older. She shrugged and wrote, “I have no idea!” She spoke with her co-workers, who also shook their heads. After a long wait, an announcement was made. I waited as the woman wrote, “They said we hit a pick-up truck.” The smell of gas and rubber continued to float in the air, and I didn’t really know what to do. I decided to stay put.

By now, people were going to the food car, getting beer, pizza and talking. It was a festive atmosphere, much to my puzzlement. I kept worrying about how I could notify my grandparents, who were probably in their car at the station. The woman’s boss gestured, asking if he could play with my GameBoy. This 20-year-old drummer sat next to me, fascinated by the fact that I was Deaf. He offered me beer, saying he could get me more. I politely declined and was given an ink-stained business card if I “ever want[ed] to just talk…”

After about an hour, the woman said that the driver was dead, and that the truck had been dragged half a mile. She also said that we could look at the truck. Being the rubber-necker that I am, I went outside with my notebook in hand. There were blinding red lights flashing everywhere. The red truck, hit at a rural railroad crossing without gates or lights, was smashed flat in the middle, wrapped around Amtrak’s trademark pointy front. There was a hole in the window where the driver had been ejected. In the bed were gloves and a toolbox. I stood there for the longest time; I felt helpless. I went inside, and for the next two hours, the woman kept me constantly updated on how we would get to Quincy. We finally got to Quincy at nearly two a.m.

The driver was a man named Ron, 51 years old with two kids.

I think of Ron and that night often. But what I always remember more was the woman’s willingness to keep me updated. She even called my grandparents the next day to make sure I was okay. If I had not brought a notebook and pens and if I had not taken the initiative to ask her, I probably would have been scared beyond belief that night.

I used to make fun of how my dad would always carry around a notepad and pen in his shirt pocket. I don’t do that anymore; I now carry around paper and a pen with me everywhere I go.

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A friend recently referred to the head of a major deaf services agency as Dr. Smith (Smith, of course, being a fictitious name). I asked why he was referred to as a “Dr.” when he didn’t have a doctorate and wasn’t a medical doctor. “But this guy has a honorary doctorate, so of course we should call him Dr.!” was the e-mailed response.

When I edited Silent News back in 2000, I got an e-mail from a representative of the same agency requesting that I refer to its CEO as “Doctor” in all printed materials. You see, they often sent in press releases and articles referring to the CEO as “Dr. Smith” and I would always remove the “Dr.” before printing stories. Apparently this didn’t make them happy, and the e-mail reflected this displeasure.

I replied by quoting the Associated Press Stylebook, a book that has stringent guidelines on how to word or spell things in an article, such as abbreviations of state names or words and how to spell/use certain words. On the page listing “doctor,” it says:

Do not use Dr. before the names of individuals who hold only honorary doctorates.

After I faxed a copy of this page from the stylebook, I never received a complaint from that agency again.

Honorary doctorates are bestowed upon those who have performed a great service in certain fields. I have no question or doubt that individuals who have earned honorary doctorates deserve the recognition that comes with being granted such a privilege; they usually have done so much for the community. An honorary degree is just a meager but valuable recognition of their work and contributions.

However, in our quest as Deaf citizens to become as intellectual as and equal to our hearing peers, I’m afraid some of us have lost sight of the appropriateness of being called “Doctor,” especially when an individual has an honorary doctorate rather than an academic doctorate. I don’t have a doctorate and doubt I ever will have the energy to pursue one, but I recognize just how much work is involved in earning such a degree. Years of research, meetings, writing, and presentations, at the very least. I think to call someone who has received an honorary doctorate “Doctor” may be a bit of an insult to those who have actually earned their academic doctorates or those who are in the medical field (including dentists and veterinarians).

Even actress Marlee Matlin received an honorary doctorate soon after she won an Oscar. Should we dare call her Dr. Matlin for being able to swim naked and scream her character’s anguish out in the landmark film Children of a Lesser God, putting her in the same categories with individuals who have academically earned a doctoral degree? I’d prefer that we recognize her for her sudden and impressive surge to stardom at the age of 19, her impact upon the community, and recognize what work she has done to date — and say, “Oh yeah, by the way, she’s got an honorary doctorate. Isn’t that great?”

We should absolutely laud the achievements of individuals who earn honorary doctorates. But unless an individual actually has a doctoral degree that s/he earned through years of academic sweat and toil, let’s not get ahead of ourselves and call that person Doc.

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