The Importance of Storytelling to Address Deaf Disempowerment

Chapter One in Deaf Eyes on Interpreting (2018) edited by Thomas K. Holcomb and David H. Smith.

View the ASL summary of this article here.

When my two-year-old son broke his leg, I took him along with my one-year-old to the orthopedic doctor for a follow-up. At the time, I lived in a small town that had a deaf school. What this meant was there were hundreds of Deaf residents and practically everyone in town knew how to sign or at least how to work with interpreters. 

After an unusually extended wait time, I had the certified and certainly very qualified interpreter, who I had worked with in the past, accompany me to ask the receptionist about the delay. The receptionist, typing on her computer, said that the doctor’s schedule was backed up. I asked if we could see the doctor sooner rather than later since my children were restless and hungry. On top of that, my son, in a body cast from chest to toe, needed his medicine at home. She refused, so I asked to speak with the doctor or nurse. She again refused. 

Throughout this entire interaction, she never once looked at me. Frustrated, I said, “Could you please look at me?” She turned her head and looked at the interpreter, who quickly pointed at me. I then asked, “Could you please offer a resolution? We’ve been here an hour.” At that very moment, my youngest began crying. The receptionist, sighing, called a nurse, who was far more courteous and apologetic. I asked to file a complaint about the receptionist’s behavior, and the nurse nodded, saying she’d get back to me. The interpreter and I returned to our seats where my son was.

A few minutes later, the receptionist called the interpreter over for a phone call. The interpreter answered the phone, beckoned me over, and said it was the office manager. She interpreted as the office manager began asking questions all the while the receptionist was looking at me with dagger eyes. I asked the office manager if I could email her, since the receptionist was listening in. The office manager agreed, and we hung up. Walking to my seat, I looked back and saw the interpreter casually cover her mouth as she whispered to the receptionist. Once the interpreter returned to her seat directly across from me, I asked what she had said to the receptionist.

“Nothing, why?” the interpreter said.

“I saw you whisper to her, what did you say?” I asked.

She again said, “Nothing.”

I was puzzled. “No, I saw you whisper. What was it about?”

She relented. “Uh, she began apologizing to me for her behavior, and said she didn’t mean to talk to you like that. I told her it was okay.” 

I was surprised. “But it isn’t okay how she treated me. Why didn’t you tell her to apologize directly to me?” As realization of what she had done dawned over her face, we were called into the examination room and the appointment was over fairly quickly.

Such a simple act of trying to mediate a situation—when the interpreter really didn’t have the right to—became a disempowering experience for me. Had the interpreter been in my shoes, would she have told the receptionist this delay and behavior was okay? I don’t know, but this was the start of my extensive work on understanding disempowerment and how we have become complacent with its role in our lives. And there’s been one crucial thread throughout the hundreds of stories shared with me about disempowerment: the importance of storytelling, or autoethnography. (1)

Autoethnography and the Importance of Storytelling

Rachel Freed said, “We tell our stories to transform ourselves; to learn about our history and tell our experiences to transcend them; to use our stories to make a difference in our world; to broaden our perspective to see further than normal; to act beyond a story that may have imprisoned or enslaved us; to live more of our spiritual and earthly potential.”

This is exactly why it’s so important for Deaf people to share stories with each other and with others such as interpreters: to learn about the never-ending history of oppression, audism, and disempowerment.  Yet, interpreter education often consists of academic, on-the-job, and formal, research-based learning about Deaf culture, linguistic aspects of American Sign Language (ASL), ethics, test preparation, and Deaf history—but very rarely does it involve Deaf people telling stories about life on a day-to-day basis. The few stories that are shared often come in the form of mass-produced videos, well-orchestrated interviews, and/or discussion panels focused on generic “What is it like to be Deaf?” discussions, each broad enough to cover the entire community, but not quite capture the intricate experience of being Deaf. In “Being Scheherazade: The Importance of Storytelling in Academic Writing,” authors Pollock and Bono stated, “One impediment to effective storytelling is the lack of a human face—actors acting and the human imbuing all of our experiences. All too often, academic writers remove the human elements from their storytelling in an effort to sound ‘scholarly.’ They engage in arid, context-free theorizing, of interest only to the most ardent specialists in their domains.”(2)

As Pollock and Bono pointed out, it is the day-to-day stories that are so crucial to understanding the challenges Deaf people face, particularly with interpreters — that is, the stories they share in the privacy of their homes and through vlogs. Deaf people’s frustrations are often discarded by hearing people who say, “My gosh, I’d never do that, how horrible!” and then perform this very same disempowering behavior minutes later.

Many interpreter education courses and workshops pertain to stereotypes or “what if” situations, but very few actually focus on the countless examples of disempowerment, and the consequences, simply because the disempowerment is so deeply embedded into their mindset of “it’s just how things are” — much like the example shared at the start of this chapter. Another factor is that many programs emphasize the positive aspects of the field, rather than the nitty-gritty of what Deaf people experience at the hands of interpreters. On top of that is the severe lack of data, resources, and education available for Deaf people. Most of the money for training and data goes to hearing-led interpreting projects, programs, and studies geared towards hearing interpreters. Even if such projects, programs, and studies involve Deaf people at lower levels, they are still hearing-led and therefore hearing-influenced at the final decision-making level.

Therefore, this anecdotal discussion and the subsequent chapters center on personal narratives, rather than statistics or research-driven evidence. “One of the main advantages of personal narratives is that they give us access into learners’ private worlds and provide rich data.” (3) The autoethnographic approach in this book, with each author contributing a personal experience, is “a useful qualitative research method used to analyse people’s lives, a tool that Ellis and Bochner define as ‘. . . an autobiographical genre of writing that displays multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal to the cultural.’ There are different uses of the term and it varies according to the relations between the researcher’s personal experience and the phenomenon under investigation. Autoethnography can range from research about personal experiences of a research process to parallel exploration of the researcher’s and the participants’ experiences and about the experience of the researcher while conducting a specific piece of research.”(4)

Researcher and popular speaker Brene Brown said, “Vulnerability is about sharing our feelings and experiences with people who have earned the right to hear them. Being vulnerable and open is mutual and an integral part of the trust-building process.” (5) Since I first spoke on disempowerment some years ago, hundreds of stories about disempowerment have been shared with me to the point where I have felt overwhelmed, even drained, at the gravity of their experiences. So many Deaf people have told me of their discomfort in sharing their experiences with hearing people, preferring Deaf people like me who have been in the trenches of disempowerment. By sharing my vulnerability through my stories both in my presentations and my blog, Deaf people and quite a few hearing interpreters have come to trust that I understand and validate what they share.

It is my hope that by having Deaf people share their disempowerment stories along through various channels such as this book, articles and blogs, workshops, social media, and in autoethnographic research, we can all recognize that sharing stories does not always imply anger, bitterness, or vengeance. Rather, it is a profound way to share experiences that are rarely told because of fear of so many things: denial, judgment, and worst of all, dismissal of their experiences. Deaf people also often hesitate to share such stories with outsiders for fear of being called militant, bothersome, complainers, or any other number of labels. Let us not forget that many have grown up being indoctrinated with feedback that they’re expecting too much when they ask for equal treatment, that it’s not important to know what was just spoken, or that they’re not as valued as others. Talking about real-life instances of disempowerment, ordinary or extraordinary, can help challenge the status quo, and create greater opportunities for increased societal equity among Deaf people.

Disempowerment and Hearing Privilege

The word disempowerment has quite a simple definition for such a powerful concept: to take away power. Disempowerment takes place on a daily basis for most deaf people, and runs the gamut of seemingly meaningless incidents to life-changing situations. When we think of disempowerment among Deaf people, we usually think of things like being denied interpreters, watching films or TV that aren’t captioned, being told not to sign, or seeing hearing actors in roles portraying Deaf people. Yet there are smaller, everyday acts (microaggressions, if you will) that hold just as much capacity, if not more, to disempower Deaf people. And these everyday acts are often performed by perhaps some of the most powerful allies of the Deaf community: interpreters. 

A crucial element to understand before delving into disempowerment is hearing privilege. Much like “white privilege,” hearing privilege is an emerging topic. Tiffany Tuccoli, in her master’s thesis, described it as “…advantages or entitlements that are enjoyed by people who can hear which are denied to those who are Deaf. These advantages give hearing people power and authority to decide how society should be designed” (emphasis added). (6)

This power and authority of designing society is what is often taken away from Deaf people as we go about our daily lives. Worse yet, we often aren’t sure if it’s because we’re Deaf or not. This is often found among other minorities as well:

To use a non-interpreting example, Oprah Winfrey was denied access to a store in Paris. She felt that she had been discriminated against because she was black. The store claimed that they were setting up for a private party and couldn’t let her in. Tim Wise suggests that the reason doesn’t matter. What is more significant is that “Oprah Winfrey, with all her money, all her power, and all her influence, still had to wonder, even if only for a moment, whether her race had trumped all that in the eyes of another person” (Wise, 2008, p. 72). Deaf people frequently have similar thoughts and experiences when encountering systems and institutions that favor the ability to hear, or hearing privilege. No matter how competent or powerful those individuals are, the risk of encountering doubt and insecurity is simply a part of living in a hearing-dominated society. (7)

Another example of hearing privilege is illustrated in a video featuring Roger Claussen (8), who led a National Association of the Deaf committee disseminating a survey about open-captioned films instead of having to use devices such as rearview captioning. In his 10-minute video, Claussen shared a humorous, yet realistic, narrative about the annoying factors hearing people never have to deal with or even think about. He talks about how, with rearview captioning, Deaf people are required to leave their driver’s licenses if they want to use the captioning equipment, struggle with holding refreshments because the device installs in the refreshment holder leaving no place to put drinks, fiddle constantly with placement of the device for optimal viewing, have to carry the device to and from the bathroom, and have to stay well after the movie’s end just to retrieve their driver’s licenses.

Hearing privilege is natural for most people, and while it is often automatically integrated into a hearing person’s life, it needs to first be recognized and understood before addressing disempowerment. Yet even this seems to be fraught with resistance. In 2016, a social media campaign took place focusing on “#hearingprivilege,” in which people posted their experiences and how they were affected by hearing privilege. Some expressed discomfort at seeing hearing people posting their own experiences with #hearingprivilege, commenting that this was yet another example of hearing people intruding upon Deaf people’s safe space and not necessarily honoring this space or their experiences. What was more striking was that there were others who felt this #hearingprivilege campaign was simply another way for Deaf people to complain and even attack hearing people. This goes back to the aforementioned act of dismissing Deaf people’s experiences, and the vulnerability they faced in posting their experiences, as Brown stated.

For another example of disempowerment, let’s go back to when I was 13 years old. I went to a public high school that had eighty deaf students and eight full-time interpreters. I took a theater course with three other deaf students and maybe twenty-five hearing students; it was interpreted by one of the better interpreters. She criticized my signing every single day, saying that I signed “too ASL.” She even went as far as voicing gibberish if she didn’t understand me — often causing the hearing students and teacher to break out in laughter.

For an extremely insecure teenager struggling with her identity, having attention called to her like this was beyond horrifying. This was humiliation, pure and simple. The interpreter, to compensate for her lack of fluency, purposefully disempowered me. Interpreters should be accountable for their lack of fluency and not put this on the Deaf person’s shoulders. Unfortunately, this is an all-too-common scenario among mainstreamed students. As a Deaf person from a Deaf family surrounded by Deaf role models, I still didn’t know what to do. One morning, I refused to go to school, dreading the thought of dealing with such humiliation. When I explained what I had to endure every morning in what was the first class of the day for me, my mother immediately contacted the guidance counselor, who was a CODA and also the interpreter coordinator. The counselor brought the interpreter in for a meeting with my mother and me. He scolded the interpreter for what she had done, saying she had no right to demean my language and that she needed to respect my language. That was one of the first times I had ever seen someone advocate for my native language to be left alone.  While the interpreter did stop mocking me, her disempowering acts as a whole did not cease for any of the students and still affect me to this day.

To take away a deaf person’s power, whether intentionally or unintentionally, is unacceptable.  One common feedback from hearing participants and readers is that the disempowerment examples I share — not all my experiences, but also other people’s experiences — shared are “extreme examples,” or that there must be reasons or more details I didn’t share. Unfortunately, they aren’t extreme; every single time I’ve shared an story, there is a chorus of, “I went through that, too!” from so many Deaf people. Simply because hearing people don’t necessarily encounter disempowerment or recognize the rawness of the experience, doesn’t mean the examples are extreme, far-fetched, or explainable. 

Knowledge Imbalance

Many people, both Deaf and hearing, have appropriately lauded the interpreting profession, namely the Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf (RID), in raising its standards especially within the past few years. Yet there is one act of disempowerment throughout this progress that has been deeply, and easily, overlooked: the knowledge imbalance, creating a major disadvantage among Deaf people.

RID now requires its interpreters to have bachelor’s degrees, among other criteria; this is a fantastic requirement because it ensures that interpreters are educated even if not in interpreting. Yet this automatically places them in a more educated position than Deaf people who don’t have bachelor’s degrees. Add to that the fact that many Deaf people don’t have the same access to education as hearing people. 

Interpreters, to receive certification, must also have the necessary (even if minimal) training in all the aspects involved with interpreting.  Are Deaf people given interpreters with top-notch fluency in both languages? Frequently, the answer is no. This education and the lack of full ASL fluency create a major imbalance in knowledge and power. After all, do Deaf people have the same access to education as interpreters? No. 

Are Deaf individuals generally trained to work with interpreters on advocating for interpreter quality, and on how the interpreting process ideally works? No, absolutely not.  Is there any training provided to Deaf people in elementary school through adulthood on how to work with interpreters in various settings, or on self-advocacy? The answer is no once again; any existent curriculum is typically very limited in its availability. Consider that many interpreters receive formal, professional training in everything from ASL to ethics to business practices. Interpreters are also tested on their knowledge and skills, and then maybe certified.

Meanwhile, Deaf people have had to constantly educate each other on a grassroots level on how to deal with interpreting dilemmas because there is simply no formal training for Deaf people of all ages in working with interpreters. It’s a catch-22 situation for most Deaf people: they can’t get access to the very education they should have for the employment they should gain.  Yet, through educational programs, interpreters are given the knowledge that Deaf people so greatly need and deserve. When Deaf people do not receive this same knowledge about interpreting, linguistics, their rights, and everything else under the sun, this has deep-seated repercussions.

Like it or not, interpreters have an incredible amount of jurisdiction over Deaf people’s access to people, medical appointments, education, employment, phone calls, and pretty much everything else. This isn’t necessarily bad, as long as they use this power appropriately and without malice. But this so-called jurisdiction can create even further potential for conflict and division. Making things even harder is how this power imbalance can become magnified in small towns where interpreters might, by default, rule the roost because they know everyone, Deaf or hearing, in town. This has happened time after time, where Deaf people lose jobs, are rejected for jobs, are perceived as unintelligent, and so much more, all because they had conflicts with interpreters.

This, then, leads to incidents as shared by so many Deaf people, demonstrating how interpreters are often among the most common disempowerers, even if unintentionally.   Keep in mind that there certainly are many hearing people who take power away from Deaf people deliberately, and may believe they have the right to do this and express shock and disbelief when Deaf people react negatively. 

Consider medical appointments as an example. Often, interpreters are trained and/or instructed to wait in the hallway whenever the nurse or doctor leaves instead of staying in the room with the Deaf patient. From the interpreter’s perspective, this is necessary given the potential for ethical dilemmas to arise. Suppose the Deaf patient says something to the interpreter that is medically relevant, but doesn’t share this information with the doctor. Is the interpreter bound to tell the doctor? Yet, is it really fair to keep the patient isolated in a room where there’s no visual access to all the sounds and conversations that a hearing patient could overhear? Many Deaf people say no.

Anita Buel, a certified Deaf community health worker (DCHW) in Minnesota, has an ongoing frustration (personal communication). CHWs are certified, trained advocates who accompany patients in their own communities (in this case, the Deaf community) and provide advocacy, information, and clarification for patients who may feel overwhelmed by medical jargon, procedures, and the overall health system. DCHWs, however, are not certified deaf interpreters; they have as much of a need for interpreters as the Deaf patients. Buel said she gets frustrated when she knows interpreters are in the hallway waiting and then enter the room already deep in conversation with the doctor or nurse. This, to her, shows that the patient already is at a disadvantage because interpreters often build relationships with medical professionals and therefore aren’t always perceived as neutral parties or allies. Interpreters, by doing this, also have a rapport established with the medical staff that Deaf patients themselves often want to have.

This is also true for many other settings, such as courtrooms, where interpreters often are on a first-name basis with the judges, bailiffs, stenographers, and other individuals. Perception can have a major impact, and when a Deaf person sees that an interpreter has an already-established relationship with someone in a setting, it can create a power imbalance along with all the other challenges already in place. 

So what’s the solution to this imbalance? There must be some kind of education in place for Deaf people, starting at early ages in schools. Education, in the form of classroom lessons and children’s workshops, could include how to work with interpreters as well as knowledge of rights to communication access (such as interpreters), of the interpreting process, of the opportunities to work with interpreters, and of the other aspects involved in working with interpreters.

There are continuously multimillion-dollar grants provided for interpreting projects, expansion of interpreter programs, increasing people of color and diversity in the interpreting field, curriculum development, and much more (and of course, the majority of such funded programs is hearing-led). Yet very little, if any, of that money is devoted to educating Deaf people — especially young children who don’t have deaf family members — on how to work with interpreters, on knowing their rights, and how to act if their rights have been obstructed in any way. Numerous possible ways can make this happen, such as having curriculum in place at Deaf schools, having interpreter preparation programs teach students how to arrange such a training with Deaf community leaders, and so on. The best way to accomplish this would be to work together as allies.  

Creating Alliances

Interpreters have a very delicate line to walk on the job: they have to figure out how to mediate culture, conflicts, personalities, and so many other components all at the same time as interpreting. This is on top of constantly striving to respect the culture, language, and community values they work in. At best, this is a difficult task for many. Robert Lee said in his keynote at the RID Region III conference, “As a hearing, late-second-language learner of ASL, I have been invited into the lives of Deaf people, and I could just as easily be invited out. I have no intrinsic ‘right’ to be an interpreter, just as no outsider can claim the right to be a member of another culture, like people don’t have the right to be part of a Swahili [sic] or a Native American tribe.” [Note: Swahili is a language, not a tribe.] So how can “outsiders” be allies to a community they might not feel as if they’re allowed to be part of? 

The best thing interpreters or hearing “outsiders” can do in their quest to respect the Deaf community while providing as much support as possible is to become cognizant of the many manifestations of their individual and collective power and privilege, and to know that Deaf people do not need saving. This can be rather difficult to embrace especially if one has entered the profession with the noblest of intentions.  Deaf people also should understand their own roles in the relationship dynamics of disempowerment, and that interpreters are not always trying to claim ownership. 

Transactional Relationships

Martin Buber, an eighteenth century philosopher, explored the concept of how people treat each other. He identified two types of relationships among people engaged in transactions: the I-It Relationship and the I-You Relationship. The I-It Relationship is what we create when we are in transactions with people whom we treat like objects—people who are simply there to serve us or complete a task. An example of this would be when interpreters look at consumers (Deaf or hearing) as simply opportunities to earn money and go home, and/or when Deaf people look at interpreters as simply there to serve their every whim (such as during video relay service calls). The other relationship, the I-You Relationship, is characterized by human connection and empathy. Over the years, the interpreter profession has moved from the helper model to the machine model to a continuum of sorts.

Brene Brown, who often cites Buber’s work, said, “When we treat people as objects, we dehumanize them. We do something really terrible to their souls and to our own. I am suggesting that we stop dehumanizing people and start looking them in the eye when we speak to them. If we don’t have the energy or time to do that, we should stay at home.” 

Interpreters might also feel discouraged by what they perceive as constant negative opinions of the interpreting field (which are in actuality Deaf people’s lived experiences, not necessarily personally about interpreters—prompting the need to separate the interpreting work from themselves). Interpreters can either become complacent and maintain the status quo, or they can recall their original passion for the community. This book contains many new ideas, approaches, and models that can help interpreters get out of this complacency. 

Understand, Analyze, and Act. 

Brown said, “Trust is a product of vulnerability that grows over time and requires work, attention and full engagement.” (9) Yet how can we come together to prevent disempowerment, especially if someone is mistrustful of interpreters (or hearing people)?  It’s easy to become discouraged, especially as an interpreting student or someone new in the field. As an outsider to the community, it quickly becomes overwhelming to realize that you, a hearing person, are entering a community so fraught with emotion, oppression, and triggers that were in place long before you were even born, and that you may perpetuate, knowingly or not, many of these triggers or stereotypes. This in itself is a daunting realization, but this awareness is the first wonderful step towards minimizing disempowerment.

Concluding Thoughts

To come together, we can first become aware of disempowerment of Deaf people in all of its many forms, especially situational, and how we contribute to this whether we’re Deaf or hearing. By actively resisting the almost automatic temptations of empathizing with hearing consumers, or even Deaf consumers, we can minimize, even eliminate, potential disempowerment. In addition to educating ourselves, it’s crucial that we recognize that disempowerment doesn’t always happen on purpose; it’s often by accident. Still, as renowned vlogger and blogger Franchesca “Chescaleigh” Ramsey says, “It’s not about intent. It’s about impact.”(10)

By refusing to engage in conscious disempowerment, deferring to the Deaf person whenever appropriate—especially when being asked about anything relating to the Deaf community, and allowing Deaf people to be primary decision-makers when appropriate, we can take steps towards ensuring that Deaf people retain their power. Interpreters can also serve as allies by supporting Deaf leadership, businesses, and agencies, and by operating under the assumption that a qualified Deaf person should be the automatic choice—and if this isn’t the case, be among the first to question why not.

It is also crucial to remember that if a deaf person expresses frustration about an experience of disempowerment, it doesn’t necessarily mean she or he is angry, divisive, or separatist. Nor does it mean that an interpreter is the worst person in the world. Rather, take a look at the situation, and figure out how, if at all, interpreters or hearing people might have contributed to the situation.  More importantly, do not instinctively blame the frustration on the Deaf consumer or say that the Deaf person is pulling a person down or is working against someone.  Instead, support each other, recognize (and validate) frustrations and vulnerability, and possess cultural competency. Listen to Deaf people’s stories, even if the emotions are raw and may sting for any number of reasons. 

Even the seemingly small acts of disempowerment that deaf people have become so accustomed, almost immune to, have major impact on their everyday lives. It is crucial we all become fully educated as early in our lives as possible about acts of disempowerment, the interpreting process, legal rights, and how to deal with conflict or oppression. In addition to reducing disempowerment, this education and the tools it would put in place for the Deaf person would help reduce the ingrained frustration that often comes from encountering such disempowerment. 

By understanding the gravity of each situation, small or large, through a storytelling or autoethnographic approach, we can then come to identify the steps leading up to that situation. By analyzing all the parties involved and their perceptions, and by figuring out what resources we have, we can then determine the best steps of action. By embracing what may seem to be difficult ideas, opinions, and stories from Deaf people, we can move forward together. 

This mindset of understanding, analyzing, and acting is precisely what this book strives to achieve through personal stories, along with academic and real-life knowledge. By sharing stories and working together to develop solutions addressing the constant disempowerment that Deaf people experience, Deaf people and interpreters can stand on a more level playing field with equal knowledge, access, and power.

NOTES

  1. Rachael Freed, “The Importance of Telling Our Stories,” The Blog: Huffington Post, November 17, 2011. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rachael-freed/legacy-telling-our-story_b_776195.html.
  2. Timothy G. Pollock and Joyce E. Bono, “Being Scheherazade: The Importance of Storytelling in Academic Writing,” Academy of Management Journal 56, no. 3 (June 2013): 629.
  3. Mariza Méndez, “Authoethnography as a Research Method: Advantages, Limitations and Criticisms,” Colombia Applied Linguist Journal 15, no. 2 (June-December 2013): 282.
  4. Méndez, “Autoethnography as a Research Method,” 280-81.
  5. Brene Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead (New York City: Avery, 2012): 45.
  6. Tiffany Tuccoli, Exploring Hearing Privilege, (Master’s Thesis, Gallaudet University, 2008), 23.
  7. Doug Bowen-Bailey and Trudy Suggs, “To Lead or Not to Lead: Sharing Power in the Field of Interpreting,” RID Views, 31, no. 2 (Spring/Summer 2015): 28-29.
  8. Roger Claussen, “Movie Caption Survey,” YouTube video, 10:08, published March 18, 2013, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQ1JHyP_jYE.
  9. Brene Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead (New York City: Avery, 2012): 45.
  10. Franchesca [Chescaleigh] Ramsey, “5 Tips for Being an Ally,” YouTube video, 3:31, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dg86g-Q1M0.

Deaf Schools: TRUE-BUSINESS Deaf?—20 Years Later

By Trudy Suggs

Read the 1997 article or the 2007 article. Scroll down to see my thoughts about this year’s results.

For full text, contact the author.

(For a larger version, click on chart.)

A survey sent to 40 schools in the fall of 1997, revealed, to many people’s surprise, that no deaf school had a majority of employees who were deaf. Out of the 21 schools that responded, the highest percentage was 46% (at the Model Secondary School for the Deaf and California School for the Deaf in Fremont) — not even 50%. Following a close second was Maryland School for the Deaf, at 41%.

Ten years later, in the fall of 2007, this same questionnaire was distributed to 57 schools, with 46 responding. The highest percentage was 55% for Maryland School for the Deaf, with Indiana and Washington at 50%. Even so, the numbers remained the same or even lower at many other schools.

In the fall of 2017, this questionnaire was once again distributed, with 27 schools responding. In the past, only residential schools were contacted, but for this year, charter schools were also contacted.

The deaf staff percentages were higher this time around, with the highest percentage going to the Clerc Center (Kendall Demonstration Elementary School and Model Secondary School for the Deaf) at 78% of employees being deaf, and two charter schools following at 69% and 66%. Next were Maryland at 65%, Indiana at 64%, and California (Fremont) at 63%. There has also been an increase in deaf superintendents, with the number growing to 24 in 2017, according to a database compiled by Joey Baer, who is Deaf and works at the California School for the Deaf in Fremont.

However, it is crucial to recognize that the statistics include all levels of employment — from entry-level to administration. If each set of data were isolated by administration only, or teachers only, the numbers would likely paint a different picture. Just take a look at California School for the Deaf in Fremont’s breakdown of its numbers:

For a text version of this chart, please contact the author.

(For a larger version, click on chart.)

A light-skinned man with black-rimmed glasses and a salt-and-pepper goatee smiles into the camera. He is wearing a suit and a PSD pin.

Peter Bailey

Peter Bailey, Head of the Pennsylvania School for the Deaf in Philadelphia and Deaf himself, attributes the increase in the hiring of deaf employees to “the timing of modern changes. People are more aware of what deaf students need, such as full access and seeing adults just like them. In the past, we had limited resources and options, but now they’re more broad.”

Teaching Profession No Longer Top Choice
The low numbers of deaf employees at many deaf schools may be credited to a number of reasons, such as location, student population, and credentials, according to Bailey. “Schools in rural areas may have a harder time recruiting deaf employees, while schools in large cities generally have more choice in application pools. This is true for any job, really.”

A light-skinned, bearded man with brown hair is in a suit, smiling at the camera.

Dr. Bradley Porché

Dr. Bradley Porché, Superintendent at the New York School for the Deaf in White Plains (more commonly known as Fanwood), agrees. “Schools with larger student bodies typically have more applicants than those with smaller bodies, but at the same time, we’re not seeing the same pipeline churning out teachers as we have historically.”

Porché,who has been at Fanwood for nine months, cites increased accessibility and media visibility as possible reasons. “Social media may be a factor, in that younger generations are seeing people like Nyle DiMarco and other deaf people rise to incredible success,” he explains. “There are so many successful deaf people in a variety of fields, and as the media has reported, the teaching field is severely underrated, underpaid, and unappreciated. Teaching is an incredible profession, one that should be celebrated and respected. Yet many deaf people, just like their hearing counterparts, see the drawbacks to teaching and choose to go into other fields because they don’t want all the stress that comes with teaching.”

This echoes an observation by Texas School for the Deaf Superintendent Claire Bugen, who said in the 2007 article, “Clearly, deaf people have many more career choices today than in the past, and with changing technology I suspect that will only continue to be a factor – that’s a good thing. Salaries in education, on the other hand, have not kept pace with the private sector and many young people both want and need to be paid better than most educators are paid. Now with the requirements of highly qualified teaching under various laws, our already shrinking pool of qualified deaf and hearing candidates is compromised even further, which will likely cause more challenges in the years ahead.”

In a September 2016 article in The Washington Post, a new study revealed that there was a nationwide shortage of teachers. The article reported, “Although nearly every state has reported teacher shortages to the U.S. Department of Education, the problem is much more pronounced in some states than others. But across the country, the shortages are disproportionately felt in special education, math and science, and in bilingual and English-language education.”

A post by McDaniel College about its Deaf Education program

Dean of Graduate and Professional Studies at McDaniel College J. Michael Tyler wrote in an April 4th Facebook post that the McDaniel deaf education graduate program was facing an uncertain future.

This shortage has affected deaf education training programs as well. On April 4, the dean of graduate and professional studies at McDaniel College, J. Michael Tyler wrote in an announcement shared on Facebook, “Due to ongoing enrollment issues in Deaf Education [sic], a decision has been made that we will be unable to start a new class in the fall of 2018. We will start a new class this summer, and all introductory courses will be offered. Graduate and Professional Studies faculty will work in the next 90 days to determine if there is a viable path forward for this program.” McDaniel, formerly Western Maryland College, has been a popular graduate program for those wanting to become teachers in deaf education.

Tyler further wrote, “Enrollment in Deaf Education [sic] has been in decline for a number of years. While low enrollments have created serious revenue issues, ultimately the College’s ability to deliver a strong, vibrant program that meets the needs of students pushed us to this point.”

Credentials
Credentials and certifications continue to be a challenge, as in 1997 and 2007. Testing standards have become so difficult that many choose to become paraprofessionals or teachers in fields that don’t require testing. In an attempt to address this, Minnesota passed a state law permitting deaf teachers to request exemption from the reading and writing portions of the examination process in order to gain licensure. As outlined on the Minnesota Professional Educator Licensing and Standards Board, “…an applicant who is deaf must complete the skills examination in mathematics adopted by the Professional Educator Licensing and Standards Board. The reading and writing skills requirements can be completed by either passing the examinations adopted by the Professional Educator Licensing and Standards Board or by an evaluation completed by board approved colleges and universities of demonstrated proficiency in the expressive and receptive use of alternative communication systems, including sign language and finger spelling as measured by the Sign Communications Proficiency Inventory (SCPI).

Bailey came to PSD after the school experienced numerous challenging years in which it had several heads of the school, community protests over board decisions, and strained community relations.  In under two years, Bailey has managed to repair many strained relationships, and increase the number of applicants by offering incentives for employees to pursue teaching credentials through reimbursed tuition, tutoring, and other options. “Whatever I can do to help encourage the growth of teachers who our students can identify with, the better,” he says.

Meanwhile, Porché points out that he’d like to see teachers be hired based on their work experience and knowledge, rather than testing. “I’ll always ask to see a teacher’s portfolio, because that tells me far more than what a teacher’s test scores do,” he says. “I always tell state legislature that teaching is an art and a skill that is acquired, not something you can just be tested on.”

The Lack of Diversity Among Employees
Another challenge is the lack of diversity among employees at deaf schools. Bailey says that at PSD, “We have about 74% of students of color, yet only 46% staff of color. The challenge for me then becomes: do I hire people who are deaf, or people who are of color? Ideally, we should hire deaf people of color, which I want to do. But we can only make do with what we have in our application pool, and try to reach out to diverse communities as much as possible.”

And this is a step Bailey takes seriously. He attended the National Black Deaf Advocates conference in Baltimore last year, and recalls, “I was surprised to see that only two superintendents were in attendance, and we were both deaf.” The other was Donald Galloway, Superintendent of the Lexington School for the Deaf in New York City. “Why were we the only ones there? How can we ensure that our schools serve underserved and oppressed populations if we don’t reach out? And how can we hire more people of color if we don’t pursue them?” Bailey asks.

Language Deprivation and Outreach Efforts
Yet another obstacle is that many deaf schools have become a last resort, rather than a first resort. Deaf students often come to deaf schools later in their educational years, severely delayed in language, socialization, and world knowledge. As a result, schools invest more time trying to catch these students up before they graduate.

Bailey notes that there are over a thousand students who are deaf or hard of hearing in the Philadelphia area, yet only 200 attend PSD. “Where are they? How do we bring them in earlier in their education, rather than later in their education after they’ve experienced language deprivation and delay, not to mention a lack of socialization or opportunities?”

This is a problem that Porché wrestles with. “A lot of time students are language deprived because of the lack of access to language at an early age. This places a stress on schools to try to address this language deficiency and to ensure that students receive quality education.” He notes that Fanwood shares with the community and parents that “deaf and hard of hearing children should be exposed to American Sign Language at an early age as a safety net regardless of hearing level or communication choices. We need to work with everyone to reach a common dialogue on how to best support deaf children.”

Bailey is also working hard to ensure that PSD becomes attractive not only to families of deaf and hard of hearing children, but also to potential employees and community members. As part of outreach efforts, Bailey has developed a solid relationship with neighboring communities, legislators, and even the Chamber of Commerce.

“By becoming more visible, it’s more possible we can reach out to more families,” he says. He also releases a monthly vlog on the PSD website, which has helped strengthen relations between stakeholders and the school board. “It’s my hope that with increased visibility, we’ll have increased student enrollment, which will naturally lead to increased employment opportunities and a greater applicant pool.”

Rising to the Challenges
Porché believes there are many solutions to the long list of challenges facing deaf schools.  “One potential solution is to invest more in early childhood education via an outreach or intervention program that would guarantee success across the spectrum,” he says. “We also need to ensure that key people who are deaf or hard of hearing are more involved in outreach so that parents are exposed to more than just a language. They need to see that there are successful deaf people in every area possible.”

Porché further suggests working at the legislative level to ensure that mandates for academic standards and language access are enacted, such as those supported by the Conference of Educational Administrators of Schools and Programs for the Deaf (CEASD): the Child First, Alice Cogswell, and Macy Sullivan Acts.

Porché also points to the Language Equality and Acquisition for Deaf Kids (LEAD-K), a nonprofit organization that is rapidly gaining momentum. LEAD-K states on its website that it works to “end language deprivation through information to families about language milestones and assessments that measure language milestone achievements, and data collection that holds our current education system accountable.” LEAD-K also works to ensure that all deaf and hard of hearing children, regardless of communication choice, are kindergarten-ready.

Indeed, more and more schools have turned to early hearing detection and intervention programs, ensuring that their schools are included in informational packets given to parents of newborn babies identified as deaf. For example, in Maryland, all parents are automatically referred to the Maryland School for the Deaf when their babies are identified as deaf.  More schools are also offering programs designed to accommodate students with cochlear implants.

Despite all the challenges, it is certainly motivating to note that there are now 23* superintendents of deaf schools or charter schools who are deaf. Porché, who is Deaf and was raised in a mainstreamed setting in Louisiana, says, “I grew up not having [access to] all the features a deaf school provides, such as full communication access, athletics, deaf role models, and much more. I’m now in a position to make sure every deaf or hard of hearing child has these opportunities. My leadership style is a reflection of my upbringing in a flawed deaf education system, and I want to make sure students today experience things I never did, and that I can give them what I didn’t have.”

Special thanks go to Joey Baer for his assistance with superintendent data.

*At the time of this survey last fall, there were 24 deaf superintendents. However, in March 2018, according to The Daily Moth, Nancylynn Ward was relieved of her duties as the Tennessee School for the Deaf superintendent after eight months on the job.


In the time since the 1997 article, I’ve had four kids, all Deaf (all born after the 2007 article). My oldest is now a fourth grader, and we’ve relocated from one state to another. Being the Deaf parent to Deaf children has added to how I experience the deaf education system. I’m also married to a Deaf teacher who has worked at four deaf schools, including a charter school, for 23 years.

An interesting result of this survey was that the first schools to respond were all Deaf. Yet so many schools were reluctant to share data, which isn’t anything new — they’ve been reluctant in the past, too, as I shared in the 2007 article. I suspect this reluctance is because of a few things:

  1. They didn’t want to admit that their numbers were nowhere near where they should be.
  2. In today’s social media age, they were uncomfortable with how this information might backfire and be used against them.
  3. They didn’t want to face that they were possibly perpetuating audism.

I didn’t bother chasing them after the second request for data. Schools should be forthcoming with their data, whether it’s about deaf people, people of color, communication philosophies, or anything else affecting schools — after all, this information is generally public information.

As I read through the data, I was struck by one thing: how many hearing employees continue to work at deaf schools. Mind you, I’m not talking about those who have direct relationships with the Deaf community, such as those with Deaf family members. Rather, I’m talking about those who have no direct relation to the Deaf community, and just work there by chance.

At the previous school my children attended and my husband worked at, there was a good number of Deaf employees. Yet the school was strongly hearing-centric. Many of the hearing employees had worked there for at least 10 years, even 20 or 30 years. Many still couldn’t sign fluently, of course. I often wondered why they stayed for so long, when so many Deaf people were struggling to get jobs at the school. Job security, perhaps. That school was in a very small town, where jobs weren’t as readily available as in a bigger town.

Many hearing employees obviously have the heart and soul for working with Deaf people — but are their intentions misplaced? Are they taking jobs away from Deaf people who already face a 70% underemployment/unemployment rate? I think so, yes; In most cases, they can find employment elsewhere more easily than their Deaf counterparts. They are also taking away opportunities for Deaf people to build the village our deaf children need.

The difference between a school that has a majority of Deaf employees and a school that has a majority of hearing employees is day and night. I should know; I’ve experienced both environments. My children are products of deaf schools, and I have seen firsthand the major difference a Deaf-centric school, staffed by mostly Deaf people, has made. Don’t get me wrong; hearing people absolutely should work at Deaf schools, but not as a majority. The hearing people who do work at my children’s school almost all have direct connections to the Deaf community, which is reassuring.

I’ve also seen how many schools have seen their enrollment numbers dwindle. We left the previous school for many reasons, one being that one of my children had no peers in his grade. He was four and performing well above his grade level, yet he was placed in a preschool classroom with two-year-olds because the school simply didn’t have anywhere else to put him. The school wasn’t willing to accommodate his academic needs, so we saw no option but to move.

At my children’s current school, each child has 15 students, give or take, in each grade, with plenty of peers, resources, and role models. With this critical mass comes an amazing array of opportunities in academics, athletics, and socialization. I’ve seen my children blossom at their school in ways they wouldn’t have at the old school simply because of this much-needed critical mass.

Yet I feel guilty for having left the old school. That school lost as many as 20 students within a three-year period to other, bigger schools. If the school dwindles in enrollment, that means job opportunities for Deaf people dwindle, students at that school are provided with fewer Deaf role models, and so on — a domino effect.

This is the classic “who came first” question: the chicken or the egg? Did we need to stay to help maintain the school’s enrollment numbers, or did we need to go where there was already a critical mass? We struggled with this decision, and chose the latter. The school we left has seen its enrollment dwindle from 130 to about 100 in just a few years. If that school should ever close, is it partly our fault? Or is it the school’s fault for not meeting our children’s needs? Which comes first?

There, of course, are other obstacles to employability among deaf people at deaf schools: teaching credentials, wanting to work in different fields, and job availability. Still, I think the numbers could certainly be as high as they are at the top schools listed in this survey. So why don’t we work toward that? After all, the numbers have steadily increased at many schools over the past 20 years — which I see as wonderful news.

What will the numbers be like in 2027? Your guess is as good as mine…that year, I’ll have three children still in high school. So I’ll see you then.

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

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

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

PART 2 (Read Part 1 here)

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.

Pictures of written notes between ISD students and newspaper reporters

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

Beranek in 1970, with horn-rimmed glasses and in a suitA white man stands in front of kitchen cabinets. He is wearing a white t-shirt, and is smiling.

 

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.

 

Bright as a 17-year-old

A balding white man smiles as he wears a Superman t-shirt. To his right is a little girl, his granddaughter.

 

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 in 1970A brown-skinned man in a suit jacket and purple button-down shirt is smiling, his hair gray, in front of a blue cloud-filled sky and trees.

 

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 in 1970A brown curly-haired man sits in front of a moving river.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.


A white man is in his car, looking at the camera. He has a blonde/grayish goatee, glasses, and a baseball cap on.


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.

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

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.

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

Illinois School for the Deaf Main Building

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

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 of ninth floor where the fire started

Floor map

Donald Zanger

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.

My letter, 26 years later

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.

My letter to Silent News, October 1990In 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.

Suicide is no laughing matter

A white male with a graying beard is standing in front of what appears to be a lake, smiling . He has on a white t-shirt and mirrored sunglasses that show the reflection of someone taking his photograph. Under his t-shirt is a pen clipped to his collar.Video description: Trudy, a white woman with shoulder-length brown hair, is wearing a navy blue shirt with a red, white, light blue, tan, and navy blue striped scarf. She is seated in the corner with brown bookshelves on her right and a sea blue wall on her left.

Image descriptions: The first image shows a white man with a graying beard in front of what appears to be a lake. He is wearing a white t-shirt with a black pen clipped onto his collar from under his shirt. Smiling broadly, his mirrored sunglasses show the reflection of the photographer.  The next image is a screenshot of the number of shares, comments, and likes for Ronnie’s video.

Late in the evening on Friday, May 6, I watched a video by a friend, Renee, sharing how upset she was about another video she saw. Of course, I checked this other video out to see what she was talking about — and became equally troubled. I’ve been thinking about it all weekend and will continue thinking about it for a long time to come.

On Friday (or late Thursday night) at 3:07 a.m., Ronnie Craft of Virginia posted a video on his Facebook page. He stated he was upset about his girlfriend’s infidelity and the man “bothering” his girlfriend. Behind him was what appeared to be a rifle or shotgun of some sort, although it could very well have been a pipe. After he shared his hurt and anger, he said he would be dead the next morning.

Ronnie indeed committed suicide that morning, just as he had threatened. Although the video has since been removed, it stayed on his page for several days — and the comments continued even after the confirmation of his passing. One person, a couple of days after the video, posted that Ronnie was a “f**ktard” just trying to get attention and that we shouldn’t give him any.

A screenshot shows that the video was shared 83 times with four likes.That wasn’t the most troubling thing about the video, though. What stunned my friend Renee, and me, was that at least 83 people shared the video on their Facebook pages. Although the comments showed that people did try to get help for Ronnie, there were also four people who clicked “like.” This is where social media sometimes gets confusing: many people will click “like” as a way of showing empathy. Even so, anytime someones makes a threat to harm himself or someone else, we must always choose immediate safety.

I have never met Ronnie, nor will I ever have the opportunity to. As I watched his video, my heart ached at his hurt and anger. I was even more disturbed by the response (especially the shares), trying to understand why they would do such a thing. Have we really become so immune to online “drama” that we simply repost angry and hurt videos to revel in people’s emotions? Is it worse to watch a video like this and say nothing? I saw the video far too late; had I seen it in time, I would have immediately contacted area authorities, especially since his post showed his location.

Suicide is not a rare act. According to dosomething.org, nearly 30,000 Americans commit suicide every year. This doesn’t include attempted suicide; each suicide represents 25 attempts. The website also says that one person commits suicide every 16.2 minutes on the average, and over 50% are committed with a firearm. These are eye-opening numbers. So why is there still such a stigma accompanying suicide? Aside from historical and religious teachings that identify suicide as a sin, it may be because we get worked up about the aftermath of a suicide and all the people left behind. Or it could be because we’re angry we didn’t help the person in time. Maybe the suicide hits too close to home, or we think the person is crazy to even consider death.

I’ve lost quite a few people to suicide over the years, and there’s a common thread that I see in each and every suicide: people saying that it is such a selfish act. While it may seem selfish to the people left behind, it isn’t selfish for the person committing it. Rather, it’s a final act of desperation to stop the intense, searing pain of hurt and anger. This suicide risk is heightened among people not fully aware of the tools for dealing with of depression, hopelessness, and pain. Add to that the fact that there is a severe lack of access to mental health services for deaf people, and it’s a volatile matter.

Back in 2005, I wrote about a friend who attempted suicide:

She changed her mind in the process, and decided to call local suicide resources to try and get some help. Nine of the ten places hung up immediately when they heard that it was a relay call. The tenth one said, “We don’t provide interpreters,” and hung up before my friend even said a word. Eventually, she found a friend to confide in, but still needs counseling services that are American Sign Language (ASL) accessible.

Another friend had suicidal thoughts several years ago. When I drove him to the hospital at his request, he was sent home after an overnight stay because they didn’t have the appropriate services. The interpreters sent for this assignment all knew my friend through work. My friend was embarrassed and frustrated, and to date, has never gotten the counseling and help he wants.

Meanwhile, until better alternatives are developed, people like my friends will continue wrestling with their emotional and mental needs, and feeling desolate and dismal about recovering from their emotional/mental pain. The Deaf community cannot let this go on anymore. We need to have mental health services immediately available and accessible for Deaf people in ASL with no rescheduling, no delay, and no cultural barriers.  Read the full article here.

It’s been 20 years since these incidents, and little seems to have changed. Today we have counselors such as the Deaf Counseling Center with deaf licensed therapists specializing in services to Deaf people, but they are few and far in between. More and more therapists are providing services via videophones or via email, but that’s not the same as face-to-face services.

At 3:07 a.m. on May 6, when Ronnie Craft posted his video, he certainly could have called a hotline using video relay services. Yet would the hotline worker have understood what Ronnie was dealing with? Would the video interpreter have the skills to interpret this call? The scrutiny found within the close-knit deaf community, the language barriers, and all the cultural differences? Probably not.

Let’s go back to people’s sick fascination with online drama, especially suicide. What can we do to change this? I don’t know. Suicide is such a hot button, and can set off a lot of negative reactions from people, deaf or hearing. But get this: suicide is never a joke, and should never be taken lightly. If ever we can get rid of the stigma attached to suicide and stop being such jerks online, maybe we can learn how to help people feeling desolate and hurt. It’s often misstated that people who really want to commit suicide often will do it without calling attention to themselves, so those who post public comments, videos, or letters are simply “attention whores.”

Here’s the thing. It doesn’t matter if someone is trying to get attention by threatening suicide; we need to pay attention every single time. Even if a person is threatening suicide just for the sake of getting attention, that itself shows the person needs help. Anyone threatening suicide — seriously or jokingly — must be taken seriously at all times, and respected.

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

A Quick Look at Everyday Disempowerment of Deaf People

A page from NADmag's Spring 2016 issue showing my articleThis article originally appeared in the Spring 2016 issue of NADmag; download a PDF version of the article.

Video description Trudy, a white woman with shoulder-length brown hair, is wearing a navy blue shirt with a red, white, light blue, tan, and navy blue striped scarf. She is seated in the corner with brown bookshelves on her right and a sea blue wall on her left.

Image description: The article as it appeared in NADmag is shown on a yellow page with the headline in yellow text, and the body text in black. Nancy Rourke’s painting of DEAF DISEMPOWERMENT is shown, in her trademark red, yellow, blue, white, and black colors; a woman resembling Trudy is shown in black with a huge hole in her chest.

The Deaf community certainly has come a long way over the decades, even if the pendulum constantly swings from one side to the other in terms of education, discrimination, access, and equality. It is so important that we all are aware of the rights we hold as humans who are Deaf. That itself is a given; nobody would argue otherwise with us. Yet, we allow ourselves to put up with everyday disempowerment, especially for small, seemingly innocent situations. In order to reduce this, we need to first understand what disempowerment is.

Everyday Acts of Disempowerment
The word disempowerment has quite a simple definition for such a powerful concept: to take away power. When we think of disempowerment, we usually think of things like not being provided interpreting services, watching films or TV without captions, being told not to sign, having our lives decided or even dictated by people with no knowledge of ASL or Deaf culture, or seeing hearing actors in roles portraying Deaf people. Yet there are smaller, everyday acts that hold just as much capacity, if not more, to disempower us.

How many times have you logged onto Facebook or Twitter only to find that your (hearing) friends, parents, relatives or even spouses have posted videos that aren’t captioned? Then when you ask them for a transcript, they say, “Oh, darn, I never thought about that,” yet they do it time after time. Another example is when hearing parents speak about their deaf children in front of the children, yet the children don’t realize the conversation is about them.

Countless examples of everyday disempowerment happen in the workplace, of course. Meetings that aren’t interpreted, water cooler conversations where the Deaf person can’t participate, the annoyance factor (when a boss rolls his eyes at a request for an interpreter), being underestimated because you’re Deaf, the office dialogue that takes place over cubicle walls as you’re sitting at your station working; the list goes on and on. Sure, there are accommodations, but it’s just not the same as direct communication access.

How about if you’re writing down something at a fast-food restaurant or even a store—perhaps your order or a question—and the employee, as you’re writing, starts working with another customer? This tells not just you, but also other people, that you’re not worth the wait. Maybe you’re talking with someone who knows that signing and speaking at the same time is combining two separate languages, making it difficult for you to easily access this information. Yet you know if you ask that person to turn off his/her voice or remove his/her speech privilege, that person might be offended. So you end up simply saying nothing as you struggle.

These are minor acts of disempowerment that we’ve become so accustomed to, and we usually don’t do much about them because it’s just not worth the battle. The cycle then continues, because by just accepting these incidents, we are in essence telling the other people that they can continue doing this, even though it’s really not okay.

Disempowerment Through ASL
Teaching ASL is another example of everyday disempowerment that many have come to accept as the status quo. There are thousands of ASL teachers in the nation. How many are deaf? No real statistics exist on this yet. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of certified Baby Sign Language instructors. How many are deaf? A very small percentage. Just go to the bookstore and take a look at all the baby signs books, or look up local baby sign language classes; the majority is taught by hearing people who aren’t necessarily fluent in ASL.

Are all the Deaf Studies and ASL programs in the nation run by Deaf people? No. How about agencies serving Deaf people, state commissions for Deaf people, and organizations focusing on things like baby signs? Are there more Deaf administrators than hearing in these positions? Probably not. How many deaf-run interpreting agencies can you name off the top of your head? What’s wrong with this picture?

A common response to why a deaf person isn’t at the helm of a program or agency working with deaf and hard of hearing people is, “We advertised the position and couldn’t find anyone qualified.” That certainly could be the case. Still, such situations have ripple effects: deaf people aren’t hired, and those outside of the deaf community, in turn, continue to have beliefs and perceptions shaped by hearing people. These hearing people then believe they can educate others about us, rather than bringing in appropriate Deaf community representatives.

If no qualified deaf person applies for a position, there needs to be a short-term and long-term remedy. One possible solution is to keep the position open for as long as possible until someone who is qualified and deaf is hired. Another potential solution is to have an interim director in place, hire someone who is definitely capable of doing the job, and train that person until she or he is ready to take the helm. Is that costly and cumbersome? Perhaps. Cost-beneficial and cost-effective in the long run? Absolutely.

Interpreters: An Imbalance
Interpreters have always been, and likely will always be, a great source of disempowerment. One challenge for many Deaf consumers is at medical appointments, when interpreters go into the hallway whenever the nurse or doctor leaves, instead of staying in the room with the Deaf patient. From an interpreter’s perspective, this is necessary given the many opportunities for ethical dilemmas. For instance, if the Deaf patient says something to the interpreter that is medically relevant, but doesn’t share this information with the doctor, is the interpreter bound to tell the doctor? Yet, is it really fair to keep the patient isolated in a room where there’s no visual access to all the sounds and conversations that a hearing patient could overhear? Many Deaf people say no.

Anita Buel, a Deaf community health worker (DCHW) in Minnesota, has an ongoing frustration. CHWs are certified, trained advocates who accompany patients in their own communities (in this case, the Deaf community) and provide advocacy, information, and clarification for patients who may feel overwhelmed by medical jargon, procedures, and the overall health system. DCHWs, however, are not certified deaf interpreters (CDI); they have as much of a need for interpreters as the Deaf patients. Buel says she gets frustrated when she knows interpreters are in the hallway waiting, and then they come into the room already deep in conversation with the doctor or nurse. This, to her, shows that if the patient already is at a disadvantage, because oftentimes interpreters build relationships with medical professionals and therefore aren’t always perceived as neutral parties. Interpreters, by doing this, also have a rapport established with the medical staff that patients often struggle to establish because of the three-way communication.

An Imbalance in Knowledge
Many people, both deaf and hearing, have appropriately lauded the Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf (RID) for increasing its standards and professionalism among interpreters within the past few years. Yet there is one act of disempowerment throughout this progress that has been deeply, and easily, overlooked: the knowledge imbalance, which creates a major disadvantage for Deaf people.

The RID requires its interpreters to have bachelor’s degrees, among other criteria; this is a fantastic requirement because it ensures that interpreters are educated. Interpreters, to receive certification, must also have the necessary (even if minimal) training in all the aspects involved with interpreters. Yet, this creates a major imbalance in knowledge, and power. Think about it: do Deaf people have the same access to education as interpreters? No. Are Deaf individuals generally trained to work with interpreters, on advocating for interpreter quality, and on how the interpreting process ideally works? No, absolutely not. Deaf people have had to constantly educate each other on a grassroots level on how to deal with interpreting dilemmas.

Is there any training provided to Deaf people in elementary school through adulthood on how to work with interpreters in various settings, or on self-advocacy? Unfortunately, the answer is no once again. There is a deaf self-advocacy training curriculum available through the National Consortium of Interpreter Education Centers, but even this curriculum is limited in its contents and availability. On the flip side, sometimes Deaf people aren’t fully educated on the interpreter’s role. Those individuals might mistakenly claim interpreters are oppressive or not doing their jobs, when in reality they are doing exactly what their jobs require.

Keep in mind that most interpreters receive years of formal, professional training in everything from ASL to ethics to business practices. Interpreters are also tested on their knowledge and skills, and then maybe certified. Interpreters are given the knowledge that Deaf people so greatly need and deserve. When Deaf people do not receive this same knowledge, this has deep-seated repercussions.

Whether we like to admit it or not, interpreters have an incredible amount of jurisdiction over our access to people, interviews, medical appointments, education, phone calls, and pretty much everything else. This isn’t necessarily bad, as long as they use this power appropriately and without malice. But this so-called jurisdiction can create even further potential for conflict and division. On top of that, this power imbalance can become magnified in small towns where interpreters might, by default, rule the roost because everyone knows everyone. This has happened time after time, where Deaf people lose jobs, are rejected for jobs, are perceived as unintelligent, and so much more all because they had conflicts with interpreters.

Understand, Analyze, and Act
The NAD has fought for equality among Deaf people for more than a century, and has produced some of the most remarkable leaders in American history. Yet each and every leader within the NAD, both at the state and national level, is guaranteed to have at least three stories of disempowerment running the gamut of minor to major incidents.

In addition to educating ourselves, we need to learn how to come together to prevent or reduce disempowerment in any form or shape. It’s crucial that we recognize that disempowerment doesn’t always happen on purpose; it’s often by accident. Even so, that doesn’t mean it’s okay. As renowned vlogger and blogger Franchesca “Chescaleigh” Ramsey says, “It’s not about intent. It’s about impact.”

What can we do, as Deaf people, to help lessen disempowerment ranging from simple acts to in- depth, intentional acts? First, we must understand what disempowerment is, how it affects us, and why it affects us. Even the seemingly small acts of disempowerment that we’ve become so accustomed, almost immune to, have major impact on our everyday lives as Deaf people. It is crucial that we, as Deaf people, become fully educated on acts of disempowerment, the interpreting process, on our roles, on our legal rights, and on how to deal with conflict or oppression. This kind of education should start at the earliest stages of our lives as Deaf people, so that we go throughout life knowing what we’re supposed to do. This would help lessen so much of the disempowerment that takes place. It would also help reduce the ingrained frustration that often comes from encountering such disempowerment, because we would have the tools to take the next steps. We must also be careful to remember that if a deaf person expresses frustration, it doesn’t necessarily mean she or he is angry, divisive or separatist. Rather, take a look at the situation, and figure out how all parties have contributed to the situation.

By understanding the gravity of each situation, small or large, we can then come to analyze the steps leading up to that situation and what we can do next. By understanding all the parties involved and their perceptions, and by figuring out what resources we have, we can then determine steps of action. Finally, we can then act on the disempowerment through appropriate steps. We must always strive for access to the same education as our hearing allies (interpreters, parents, friends, and other supporters). By working to minimize disempowerment, we can then have access to equality, to communication, and most importantly, to being human.

The original disempowerment article can be found here.

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

#iamdeaf

12916137_10154204868153054_2034469502942179823_oIn response to the recent AGB letter controversy, Robin Horwitz has created an #iamdeaf page on Facebook, and I was among the people he asked to make a clip to include in the first #iamdeaf video.

Take a look at the video (also available on YouTube), along with so many others, here.

 

 

Giving Credit Where It Wasn’t Due

Video description: Trudy, a white woman with shoulder-length brown hair, is wearing a deep royal blue sweater. She is seated in the corner with brown bookshelves on her right and a sea blue wall on her left.

I was the keynote speaker at a world languages ceremony at a public high school last year, and I thought this would be a fantastic opportunity to highlight American Sign Language (ASL) as a bona fide language along with its history of being oppressed. I sent my speech in advance to the interpreters, and arrived early to ensure that I could establish a rapport with them, since they would be controlling my voice and how I would be perceived by hundreds of hearing parents and students in attendance—many of who had never seen or met a deaf person before. I had shared my reservations about the interpreters’ ability to voice for me with the sign language coordinator, but I wanted to believe they would do just fine.

As I sat through the first part of the ceremony, I was reminded of my years as a mainstreamed student: rather than integrating me into the activities, they were providing me with minimal access — and therefore I was isolated just as I had been in school. One of the interpreters sat at the very far left of the stage, even though I was seated near center right in the front row in a reserved seat. It was very difficult to see her in the dimmed lighting. I discreetly asked her to move closer to me, but she couldn’t understand me. After repeating myself twice, she responded that she wouldn’t move because she was fine where she was. I decided to let it go, since I was more focused on my presentation.

Once I got onstage, I began to sign, only to realize that the interpreter was immediately faltering. The other interpreter wasn’t involved at all, not even in a supporting role. Fortunately, the hearing (and fluent) ASL teacher Ms. Doe, who had invited me to the ceremony, was standing next to the interpreter. I quickly asked her to take over the voicing, so she did, and the speech went well in spite of this initial stumble.

At the end of the ceremony, the director of the ESL, World Languages, Bilingual Education and Performing Arts department came onstage to give closing remarks. As the interpreter signed, I did a double take, but decided to hold any reaction until I could confirm what had actually been said. I emailed that director later on to request a copy of her comments. As I read the copy a few weeks later, I realized with a sick feeling that I hadn’t misunderstood, nor had the interpreter misinterpreted. Below is a direct copy-and-paste from the director’s remarks, which she read from onstage:

Before I start, one thing I need to comment on is the power of Ms. Suggs’ presentation. Aside from teaching us so much about the history of ASL, she and Mrs. Doe performed a very beneficial role reversal for us tonight. So often, as speakers of the dominant language of our culture, we take for granted that we are going to understand everything that is told to us. The broadcast news is geared to us, with the little sign language translation box is in the corner —sometimes. Tonight, most of us were totally dependent on Mrs. Doe for comprehension. That brings about many emotions, maybe even negative emotions. Think about how you felt during that presentation, totally dependent on a translator. Were you bored? Frustrated? Engaged in the challenge of trying to decipher it? What about if Mrs. Doe had not been there to help us? Please remember what you felt tonight when you encounter speakers of other languages, in particular the over 800 students who are currently considered English Language Learners in our [town name deleted] Public Schools family. What you experienced tonight is what they experience every day. I would also like to recognize Mrs. Doe’s extraordinary talents. Simultaneous interpretation is one of the most demanding language tasks, and her interpretation was first-rate.

Her comments spotlighted Ms. Doe and the “helplessness” instead of focusing on the message I shared — which was the incredible history behind signed languages, and their equality to spoken language. Ms. Doe was made the hero of my presentation, instead of focusing on signed languages. To add insult to injury, the two interpreters’ failure to work together or adequately prepare for the presentation was converted into a “challenge of trying to decipher” what I was signing, rather than outright incompetency. And let’s not even talk about the “little sign language translation box in the corner” comment.

To be fair, the way the challenges were framed — “. . .bored? Frustrated” and “negative emotions” — were probably intended to remind people about the importance of respect. Yet these very words seemed to imply that signed language was “boring,” as if I didn’t communicate myself clearly and was difficult to “decipher.” If the interpreters had done their job properly, nobody would be bored, frustrated or negatively responding. Finally, “What if Mrs. Doe had not been there to help us?” is a perfect example of deficit thinking.

Deaf people have always found a way to communicate, and it’s our words that interpreters are voicing, even if haphazardly at times. There is no helplessness involved; there is no dependence involved. Unfortunately, this perception of helplessness remains, even among people who are fully educated on how ASL is a separate language and in no way correlates with helplessness.

How do we address this? I’m not quite sure, because it seems like everything we’ve tried in the past few centuries hasn’t worked. I do know that we must educate people about giving interpreters, or in this case, someone who happened to sign fluently, so much credit. We also must have them start shifting the focus onto the message, rather than the modality or translation process. If only the director had listened to what I said in my presentation: “All this stems from the mistaken notion that one language is superior to another . . . .and one way to combat this is as you continue to study languages, embrace their peoples, history, and cultures, and celebrate all that the language stands for.”

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

Tweets