A thumbs up for District One Hospital

January 30, 2008

This article originally appeared at i711.com.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome Addition, Indeed.

September 19, 2007

This article originally appeared at i711.com.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON HAND: Biased audiologists

March 26, 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Filed Under: Childhood, Culture, Parenting

ON HAND: My most embarrassing moment

November 18, 2003

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

I was eight. We were having our fly-up ceremony, to mark our moving up from the rank of Brownie to Junior Girl Scout. My troop was exceptionally large at the time — over 30 girls, and my mom was one of the four assistant leaders (by default, she also was my interpreter since she could speak well).

Trudy serving as a flag-bearer in her Brownie Girl Scout outfit.I got selected by the leaders to be one of the flag bearers for the ceremony, held in the school cafeteria. We were spruced up in our brown dresses, white-and brown striped shirts, and brown knee-high socks with ridiculous orange tassels.

After marching around the packed cafeteria, we went into an enclosed room, where we excitedly prepared for the rest of the ceremony. Mom told me that the assistant leaders had decided to begin the ceremony with a group song.  The song was about an elf that could see itself in a mirror, and involved skipping in a circle around a mirror on the floor, leaning over the mirror, acting surprised, pointing at the mirror, then pointing at my face (“I see myself!”) with a happy expression, and skipping around the mirror again. During rehearsals, I mouthed the words along with the other girls. I’m not sure why I didn’t sign — conformity, I suppose.

We lined up to go out one-by-one. I walked out proudly, but then realized with puzzlement that I was the only one on stage. Even so, I performed my role with passion. I skipped, I showed surprise on my face, and I smiled to my heart’s content, holding onto my Brownie cap all this time. I saw the crowd smiling — later, I realized the smiles were ones of discomfort and pity — as I finished my part, and I felt good. I ran over to sit down, and the girl next to me leaned over, bumped shoulders with me, and giggled. I giggled back with pride.

The next Brownie walked out, and started reciting her name and the Girl Scouts promise.

It hit me. I had mouthed a song, complete with dancing, gesturing, and skipping, when I was supposed to have said my name and the Girl Scouts vow. I looked over to my mom in the doorway. Her face, panicky with horrified wide eyes, gave her away. “I’M SORRY! THEY DIDN’T TELL ME THEY CHANGED IT!”

I nodded and put on a brave smile, and joined the troop to do the song — again — a few minutes later. I never did say my vow.

On the ride home, I looked out the window with tears in my eyes. My parents didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to; they understood. Of course, they understood. They were Deaf, too, and had gone through similar experiences.

Every Deaf person I tell this story to laughs uproariously. Sure, it was an awful experience. But I don’t think I ever for once felt scarred by this memory. I think it’s because my parents were able to tell me that it was perfectly okay to feel the way I did. They had been there, done that. So I genuinely laugh at the memory, no matter how many times I tell this story.

Besides, it is funny to think of me skipping around a mirror with a Brownie cap on my head full of permed hair.

Note: Available for re-telling in ASL upon request.

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Filed Under: Childhood, Culture, Language, Parenting

Editorial: Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide

January 1, 2002

Originally appeared in Silent News, January 2002.

Well, deaf schools are taking yet more blows from the press. I’ve been following the series published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer about sexual abuse at residential schools for the deaf nationally. Some of them I read in depth; others I skimmed through. I think a lot of them were over-kill – repeating the same points over and over.

Yet, I can’t help but marvel at how adept school superintendents are at sweeping issues under the rug. I understand why they do this: they don’t want bad publicity for what, usually, is otherwise a good and well-run school; they don’t want parents worrying about their kids; and so on.

You know what? Too bad for the superintendents. Parents must worry about their kids. Here’s what happens when they don’t: recently a friend of mine who works as a houseparent at a deaf school told me about how he took one of the students home for Thanksgiving. The friend, “Jeff,” said that the student had nobody come to pick him up for the holidays, and since the school was closed, Jeff took him home.

I applaud Jeff for stepping in and fulfilling an important role in the student: one of a caring person. Yet, the risks Jeff took in taking the student home were high. The student could’ve easily accused Jeff of molestation, abuse, or a number of any other violations. Even so, the more important question is: where was the student’s family? Where were his guardians? This is why deaf schools often play an important role in the development of deaf children’s lives. And this is why superintendents cannot fool themselves into believing incidents, even minor ones, are not of grave concern.

A few weeks ago, there was an incident at a large and well-attended deaf school where a junior high student brought a loaded gun to school. Media coverage of this incident was sparse; only a local TV station picked it up. I assigned a writer to report on this incident after four separate individuals tipped me off to it. The writer had difficulty getting any information on the situation, and the superintendent’s office did not call the writer back. However, the superintendent did have one of my sources (a teacher at the school) contact me to ask me not to print the story because it would generate negative publicity and that parents would be upset. I also got the impression that the teacher’s job was at stake.

Rather than simply saying that the school was not at liberty to discuss the alleged incident, the superintendent chose to cower behind methods of intimidation and use other people to ask us not to print the story.

While the incident is more complicated than what I write here, my knee-jerk reaction was to say to the superintendent, “Too bad!” I am a strong supporter of residential schools for deaf students. Yet, I will never support the hiding of information about gross violations of other people’s safety, especially in schools. I also will not support the concealment of information for the sake of “positive publicity.”

Just because an incident took place at a residential school does not mean it is limited to that school. When I was in high school – a public school with 1,800 students, 80 deaf – a student brought a handgun to school. It was a few hours before someone tipped off a teacher and the boy got a few days of out-of-school suspension (this took place many years before the Columbine shootings). Oh, yeah, the kid was deaf. Does this mean that deaf programs at hearing high schools should be blamed for everything? Of course not.

What about all the shootings at hearing schools across the nation? Columbine, for one. Does this mean hearing schools must be blamed for the shootings? No.

How about the long history of sexual molestation, harassment, and rape at hearing schools across the nation? By coincidence – as I was thinking about this topic – I happened to stumble across a based-on-a-true-story movie today on the Lifetime Channel with Michael Gross playing Dr. Gordon Powell, a school principal who had a history of molesting female troubled students. Does this mean the problem is rampant at hearing schools and they must all be closed down?

Of course not. Problems are rampant in every situation, and certainly the strong presence of these problems at schools – residential or public – must be investigated and stopped immediately. It might seem much more dramatic in deaf communities across the nation because of the close-knit nature and because of the “recognition factor” – everyone knows everyone. But it doesn’t mean deaf people, schools, or organizations should be held to any different standards, whether better or worse standards, from those that exist for hearing schools. The problems are real. Yet, they shouldn’t be cause for closure of schools, as some anti-residential school advocates have been proclaiming for years.

The bottom line is that parents and students have the right to know of every incident at school that endangers them or their friends. Superintendents and school officials cannot ever use intimidation or threaten lawsuits to protect their own reputations. Chances are, the information will come out anyway, and their reputation will be even worse for being dishonest.

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Filed Under: Childhood, Deaf education, Parenting, Politics, Silent News

Editorial: Gone, but not forgotten

March 1, 2001

Originally appeared in Silent News, March 2001.

It’s the wee hours of Valentine’s Day (3:05 a.m. to be exact). I’ve just spent the last few hours finishing up the March issue, rearranging the front page story about the Gallaudet murders. Of course, by the time you read this, the murders will be old news, thanks to the Internet. Even so, we should not forget what happened at Gallaudet.

Back in my November 2000 editorial, I wrote about how horrible this must be for Minch’s family – especially since they, too were members of the deaf community. We shouldn’t forget these victims and their families, even years from now when the murders are but a distant memory.

The Gallaudet news came after a powerful weekend I had. This past weekend alone, I found out about three deaths: my friend’s stepmother who had been murdered years ago, another friend’s mother who passed away of cancer just last January, and the wife of a friend whose wedding party I was part of last summer and who just lost her mother to a car accident three nights ago.

Many of you who have followed my writings since my college days know that I lost my father to an overnight and sudden case of pneumonia. I was 16 at the time, and his death continues to affect me every single day of my life. I’ve written often about Dad, and I will probably always write about him. He’s such a mysterious figure to me; we were very close, yet not close at all.

Last year, I took a series of road trips (20,000 miles in all). I left my job, left my life behind in Minnesota, and went to seek fulfillment. I found it. The first destination was Morganton, NC, where the North Carolina School for the Deaf (NCSD) is. It’s also where my dad went to school. My dad spoke about NCSD on a daily basis when I was with him – I lived three hours away from Dad growing up – and with such fondness, that I felt I needed to visit NCSD to truly understand his spirit.

The very first night I was in Morganton — I had been there as a child, and again for the 1994 Homecoming, but didn’t remember too much of either visit — I felt as if I truly was home. I stayed there for a week, in addition to a few visits after that. I met so many individuals who knew my father, my uncle or my other relatives who also attended NCSD. But most of all, my father.

In each of them, I saw a startled look whenever they saw me say, “My name’s Trudy Suggs…” They’d ask, “Lewis or Mike?” and I’d always proudly say, “Lewis.”

So many people still don’t know that Dad is dead. How could he be dead? He’s not even old! One night a group of friends and I were at a local restaurant during my visit in Morganton, and we ran into two teachers from NCSD. One of them recognized my last name, and immediately began to tell me how much she loved my dad’s silliness and sense of humor. She then asked the much-dreaded question: “How is your father doing?”

Dreaded question, not because Dad had died, but because I knew I was about to drop a bomb and affect her spirit.

As soon as I told her that Dad had died at the age of 40, she dropped her fork and tears welled up in her eyes. I could see that she was now suddenly faced with her own mortality, since she was the same age as my father. As they left the restaurant, I saw the woman ask her husband, “How could he be dead? He was so young.”

As I have gotten older and no longer that smart-mouthed little brat – although some people may disagree – people are now looking at me as my own individual, my own person, rather than somebody’s daughter. With this job, I’ve gotten to meet so many people who have known me since I was a baby or known my parents from when they were kids. I often get letters addressed to me as “Anita’s daughter” that begin with, “I am a friend of your mother’s” (or father’s). This is how intimate the deaf community is, and this is the very reason I am so affected by any friend’s loss of family or beloved ones.

Last Friday, I went to see Compensation, a terrific film that stars Michelle A. Banks, a deaf actress. Upon my arrival at the movie, a friend introduced me to a local school administrator. Her first sentence to me was, “I knew your father.” As we exchanged introductions, she shook her head in amazement and said, “My goodness, you look so much like your father.”

It does make me feel rejuvenated when people share stories about Dad, especially when they say I look and act like him. It’s neat that I can develop characteristics like his when I haven’t seen him in a decade. It shows me how much one simple life can affect so many. My dad wasn’t anything special in terms of “life achievements.” He was simply a state worker who was single with a love of women and beer, and rented a small typical bachelor’s pad in Springfield, Ill. Nothing outstanding about his life at first glance. Right?

Wrong.

During my visit, I met one of the oldest teachers at NCSD who is now retired. As he told me about how he had toured all seven continents of the world, I realized that this was the same printing teacher my father had talked of so fondly. I told him who my father was, and his face lit up. He shared how my father was ornery and a terrific printing student (copies of Dad’s grades say otherwise, though).

I told the teacher to hang on for a second, and I ran out to my truck. I have two huge scrapbooks that I made of my father’s pictures, and one of them has a 8×10 black and white picture of my father standing next to an enormous printing machine. Above the machine is a sign hanging from the ceiling saying, “THINK.”

When I showed this picture to the teacher, his jaws dropped and a stunned look came over his face. “That’s my machine. That’s my sign. That was mine…” he said. He seemed lost in memories, and said he hadn’t seen this machine for 20 or 25 years. He started crying, and told me this was an incredible gift for him, to see a future generation bring back memories to him. It was a powerful moment for me, to see that because of my father’s death, I was able to let another respected man know – through my perseverance of my father’s memories – that he, too, was important to my father.

For years I felt a longing to close the chapter on my dad’s death. But along the journey, I found out that these kinds of chapters aren’t meant to be closed. They’re meant to be savored in the most enlightening ways possible, and they’re meant to be continued. I take great, great pleasure and comfort in the fact that I am a living memorial to my father.

For each friend of mine that lost someone, I felt and feel such an incredible sense of sorrow, empathy. I know that they will eventually realize that death is simply a hard reminder that we must always remember people’s spirits. We must preserve their spirits by living them out in whatever ways possible.

It’s been a long, hard journey for me to understand this, and accept this. I’m just grateful I’ve been able to let other people know that they were important in one man’s life, and now my life.

When my father died, I found a poem in his wallet. My father wasn’t very poetic; far from it. So I’m not sure why he had this poem in his wallet. I like to believe that he left it for me to find. One of the lines say, “Please know that I am always here with you.” And you know what?

He is.

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Filed Under: Childhood, Culture, Parenting, Silent News

Deaf Schools: TRUE-BUSINESS Deaf?

November 1, 1997

deafstaffchart1997This article originally appeared in DeafNation Newspaper, November 1997. Read the 10-year follow-up article here.

Editor’s note: TRUE-BUSINESS is an ASL gloss. The rough English equivalent is: “Is it really true?” or “Are you sure?”

One of the cornerstones of the Deaf community is the residential school.

Ever since American School for the Deaf was first founded in 1817 by Laurent Clerc and Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet, deaf students have been going to deaf schools.

True, these schools were often predominantly run by hearing teachers and administrators, not to mention janitors and dormitory staff.

But in the 180 years since ASD was founded, deaf people are found at every level within deaf schools. Nowadays, it seems that most residential schools are run by deaf people in every category, from janitorial to dormitory supervision to teachers to administration.

Have the times really changed? Are residential schools for deaf students now really mostly deaf-run?

DeafNation contacted over 40 deaf schools, and got the numbers of hearing and deaf staff at various deaf schools during the 1996-1997 academic year (see graph).

From the 21 schools that responded or had the numbers available, the highest percentages were found at two schools renowned for their high rate of success in deaf students.

But even with the highest percentage, it was surprising to find that not one school that responded had a majority of deaf staff*. Many schools also refused to respond to DeafNation’s request for statistics.

The schools with the highest percentage (46%) of deaf workers were California School for the Deaf-Fremont, run by Superintendent Henry Klopping, who is a child of deaf adults (CODA), and Model Secondary School for the Deaf/Kendall Demonstration Elementary School, located at Gallaudet University.

The next highest was Maryland School for the Deaf, run by Superintendent James Tucker, who is Deaf, with a 41% deaf staff. Following that was a lower percentage of 35%, at Michigan School for the Deaf.

These numbers are startling, considering how loud the Deaf President Now movement was in 1988, and considering how the Americans with Disabilities Act has tried to provide equality in the workplace and elsewhere.

Is it a case of hiring discrimination? Is it a case of simply insufficient availability of deaf teachers and administrators? Why are there no residential schools that have a majority of staff being Deaf?

Most cited is the widening of career choices for deaf professionals. Peter Seiler, formerly the superintendent of the Illinois School for the Deaf and currently the superintendent of the Arkansas School for the Deaf in Little Rock, says, “I think we have done such a good job in opening many doors for career opportunities that teacher is no longer the only professional choice for educated deaf people. That is one reason and maybe the major reason for the low percentage of deaf and hard of hearing professional staff.”

David Updegraff, a hearing (but losing his hearing slowly) superintendent of the St. Mary’s School for the Deaf in Buffalo, N.Y., agrees with Seiler. “For example, how many deaf people 10 years ago worked as reporters for newspapers? Probably none, but there were printers. It used to be that if deaf people wanted a professional career, they almost had to work in a school for the deaf. There were always a few exceptions, like ministers or rehabilitation counselors, but the situation is radically different now. Merrill Lynch has deaf stockbrokers, an auto dealer has a deaf salesman, a law firm has deaf attorneys and so on.”

Hiring systems and pay levels were also cited as possible reasons for the low percentages, especially in state-supported residential schools. Alex Slappey, the Deaf superintendent of the Wisconsin School for the Deaf in Delavan, explains, “State residential schools tend to follow state hiring requirements. Sometimes the system will put a deaf individual at a disadvantage.”

Seiler supports this theory, saying, “Since state schools for the deaf are operated as a state agency, these schools are stuck by the state level pay grade plan. . . State legislators want to shave costs from the state budget to make the taxpayers happy and so they pick on programs with little visibility and state schools for the deaf have little visibility.”

Another major possible reason cited by both Updegraff and Seiler is the issue of teaching certification. Updegraff states, “There is still a serious problem in many states with the requirement that teachers pass the National Teacher Examination to get certified. That is a tough exam for many people to pass, including deaf and hearing people, but deaf people have a tougher time than hearing because of the structure of the exam.”

Seiler concurs. “These tests often stress speech development rather than language development or communication development. These tests are also culturally biased towards hearing people and away from the deaf people.”

Just how this disproportionate number of deaf staff affects the heart of every deaf school—the students—is a key question in many superintendents’ minds.

David LeFors, who worked at the Louisiana School for the Deaf in Baton Rouge from 1992 to 1994 as a dorm counselor, says, “The kids would always come to me or other deaf counselors, because they were more comfortable to talk with us and because they could communicate with us without having to repeat or slow down. They seldom went to the hearing counselors because they didn’t see much support or bonding from the hearing staff.” LeFors left LSD to take a better-paying job.

Brian Sipek, a junior at the Illinois School for the Deaf in Jacksonville, recognizes this comfort level with deaf staff, also. “The [hearing] staff are usually not familiar with what the student needs, being a deaf person. There are some hearing teachers, I admit, that try to be very helpful to deaf students, but it’s not the same coming from them, since they were never raised as a deaf person. They’re just not as familiar with being deaf as we are.” Sipek is third-generation Deaf.

Slappey says, “I believe the outnumbering of hearing staff also affects the level of language interaction with the children. They have less exposure to fluent ASL through native users.”

Dr. Ernesto Santistevan, a hearing clinical psychologist at the New Mexico School for the Deaf, admits the limitations of being a hearing person at a deaf school is quite powerful for the students. Even though Santistevan is quite fluent in ASL, having earned his degree in Gallaudet University’s five-year doctoral program, he says, “I don’t have that effortless communication and knowledge of culture a CODA or a Deaf person would have. It impacts service and I believe anyone who says it doesn’t is fooling themselves.”

Santistevan adds, “I think it affects the kids because it is hard to find Deaf role models in high stations.”

When asked how to solve this disparity in numbers, Slappey mentions that aside from increasing pay scales for deaf workers commensurate with their position’s responsibilities, “I also think we need to get more deaf adults interested in teaching as a career.” He cautions, however, “What I don’t think we should do, is hire the deaf just for the sake of having deaf staff in positions. If they are not qualified, if they are not the best applicants, then we are ‘watering down’ the quality of our program and that is not in the best interests of our children.”

He also states, “I think it affects the students in the sense that they continue to see the deaf as a less powerful minority. I think it sends a message that does not help the self-esteem of the deaf.”

There appears to be a long list of questions surrounding this issue. Schools must take into consideration whether it is better to hire hearing individuals who are overqualified for their respective positions, or to hire qualified deaf people who have experienced deafness their entire lives. Are schools responsible for not having enough deaf role models? Or is it today Deaf people choose to work in fields long dominated by hearing people? Are Deaf graduates of deaf schools giving back to their schools in various ways, whether it be teaching or simply attending football games?

How do schools address this problem of having a large inequality in deaf and hearing staff, when language is so essential to the child’s learning process? Since deaf schools have a majority of hearing staff, does it mean the hearing staff is to blame for the national reading average being at third grade for the deaf individual? What does it all mean for the student?

Ronald Sipek, Brian’s father and also a graduate of the Illinois School for the Deaf, says, “I can’t imagine what it is like for those students to have limited deaf role models. It is so important for them to have teachers and workers that they can go to who will understand their deaf ways, their communication, and their experiences, because they have, too, experienced it themselves. Brian has a Deaf family. But what about those who are not from Deaf families? Who do they look up to if there are not enough deaf role models at the schools?”

* The word staff includes those employed at every level, including janitorial, administration, teaching and support staff.

Read the 10-year follow-up article here.

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

Filed Under: Deaf education, DeafNation Newspaper, Language, Parenting

Can I Speak Now?

October 1, 1997

This originally appeared in Who Speaks for the Deaf Community: A Deaf American Monogram, published by the National Association of the Deaf in 1997 (Volume 47).

(To read the epilogue to this article, click here.)

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

My mother and father both graduated from deaf schools, although one grew up oralist and the other grew up in a very ASL-oriented environment. My parents used ASL with me from the very first minute of my birth. I started signing at six months of age, and learned to read at age two.

Because of this, it was determined I was ready for preschool. My mother was told by “experts” that placing me in self-contained classes at a hearing day school would be the least restrictive environment, in keeping with the new law PL 94-142.

When I started preschool in 1976, a year after the passage of that law, that’s when experts in the field of deafness (none were deaf) spoke for me.

It was determined by local school officials that using total communication, so to speak, would be best for me. My parents were encouraged to use voice when talking to me at home, even when they were using ASL. Mom’s daily interactions with me were brushed aside by these officials. I was also put in speech therapy, and spent hours learning to pronounce my name with the help of my hearing aid. I still can’t speak my name today, but I can say the letter “k” very well.

When I started being mainstreamed in the fourth grade, teachers of the hearing-impaired spoke for me. Also, because I was a “special needs” child, school psychologists spoke for me.

I oftentimes had to rely on classmates when my interpreter did not show up or was ill. Teachers felt it would be best for me if I were moved a few grades up in my mainstreamed endeavors. However, they lacked resources for my needs, such as support services. Psychologists took an IQ test from me annually, and proclaimed me a child that was well-adjusted to being among “normal peers.”

When I was about to enter the sixth grade, there were no remaining deaf peers in my age or grade group, because all of them had transferred to the Illinois School for the Deaf 30 minutes away. I decided I wanted to transfer to ISD, too. School administrators said I would fail in the hearing world if I continued to defy their wishes of learning speech and being as normal as possible instead of being institutionalized. That’s when school administrators again spoke for me.

The school principal, who had banned my mother from elementary school grounds after my mother got angry at my teacher-of-the-hearing-impaired for not providing me with more challenging schoolwork, suddenly asked my mother to come in for meetings and tried to convince Mom not to let me transfer to ISD. After years of having her feedback and knowledge about me being dismissed quickly. Mom was now a respected and coveted factor in making me stay at this public school

When I decided to leave ISD after their inability to meet my needs, that’s when deaf faculty and staff spoke for me.

At ISD, it was a whole new world. I felt at home there. Staff and teachers were family friends, or even neighbors. But I spent a great deal of the day wandering the school halls and campus because I would often finish the assigned work long before the due date. Teachers sent me on errands to keep me busy while the other students did their work.

Since Mom was moving due to a remarriage, I decided to move with her and entered a new public school system that had a large deaf program—which would fulfill my social needs—but also because this public school had a honors program that would meet my educational needs (the previous two schools I had attended—both hearing and deaf—did not have such a program aside from gifted programs).

Administrators and teachers, and houseparents as well, got very angry with me for leaving where I “belonged.” They said that I should think of my sports opportunities, of my socialization opportunities, and of my people. Near the end, a deaf printing teacher who was the father of my classmate, branded me by saying in front of several others that I was a true traitor and did not know how to be a real deaf person. I was 10 years old at the time.

When I re-entered the mainstreamed world, that’s when interpreters spoke for me.

I sat in the classroom, seeing my interpreters explain to the teachers and students how to talk to me. They would often voice what my deaf classmates in the hearing classroom and I were talking about, but refused to sign what hearing classmates were voicing. Interpreters would also approach the teachers and talk to them about our behavior, our grades, and other issues strictly reserved for teachers or appropriate personnel.

When I entered high school, that’s when interpreters didn’t just speak for me, they also spoke about me.

There was an interpreter named Lori who would constantly criticize my ASL in front of the other deaf kids. I signed “too fast” and “too ASL” for her. I was a 13-year-old. She laughed and mocked me, voicing her comments for the benefits of hearing listeners. This continued for a long time with repeated requests from me for her to stop (she didn’t), until I finally refused to attend class. My mother called a meeting with my guidance counselor, a CODA who was also responsible for coordinating interpreting services. He immediately set the interpreter straight and taught her a thing or two about native signers.

When my mother and I attended an Individualized Education Plan meeting, and my mother requested for me to stop participating in speech therapy, that’s when audiologists spoke for me.

My audiologist* got upset when I proclaimed my desire to stop wearing hearing aids, and my comments of realization that speech was of absolutely no use to me at this point in life. The audiologist called my attitudes as having been spoiled by my mother, pointing out that I only had a 35 dB loss with hearing aids (80-85 dB without). My mother reminded this audiologist that she was a deaf person who relied very much on her speaking skills, using the phone on a daily basis. The audiologist, soon after that incident, became very involved with the deaf culture and quit her profession. She currently is very fluent in ASL.

* Note: It was actually a speech pathologist, but back then, I called them all audiologists because I didn’t know the difference, nor did I care. —01/10/12

When I entered Gallaudet University, that’s when the deaf of deaf spoke for me, and the mainstreamed deaf spoke for me.

Whenever I met a deaf person from a deaf family and mentioned that I had been mainstreamed, I would often rush to add, “But I’m from a deaf family.” And then with mainstreamed people, who would sniff when they found out I was “deaf of deaf”—I would also be quick to add, “But I went to a public high school.” Even so, Gallaudet was home yet once again.

When I entered graduate school and was the first deaf for those in my particular program. That’s when hearing people continued to believe that they had to speak for me.

Professors would hem and haw whenever they saw my interpreters in class. These professors would also ask the interpreters to help me, but of course, my interpreters would set the teachers straight. Hearing students would either shy away or rush to my “aid” whenever group projects were assigned, and beam proudly when I agreed to do projects with them. I did not attend the graduation ceremony, choosing to attend a deaf event instead on that day.

When I graduated and had no more school people to speak for me, that’s when everybody in the deaf community spoke for me.

Hearing people sometimes accuse me of being militant because of automatic qualifiers of being a militant deaf person: I have a surplus of deaf relatives and am a native ASL user—and most of all, because I am very much a member of the deaf culture. I have to watch hearing people gasp at the level of my success because I am a “deaf-mute.” Particular organizations of the deaf focus mainly on legislative issues rather than grassroots issues that face deaf people—including me—on a daily basis, even though I pay to be a member of these organizations. I get accused of being part of a deaf cult. I get asked for my opinion on everything from cochlear implants to language. I get asked to represent my people. When do I get to speak for me, and only me?

Now.

I do not speak for other deaf people. I do not speak for my deaf parents, my deaf relatives, or my deaf friends. I speak based on my own experiences, but I do not make generalizations.

I can, and will, only speak for me now.

(To read the epilogue to this article, click here.)

Filed Under: Childhood, Culture, Deaf education, Gallaudet, Interpreting, Legal, Parenting
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