(no subject)
My story in Jayplay.
In My World
My alarm clock goes off silently, a white disc under my mattress vibrating as strongly as pots and pans crashing to the floor. I slap at the snooze button. I hate being shaken awake, but regular alarm clocks don’t work for me, because I’m deaf.
As I roll out of bed and get ready for class, I wonder what the day will be like. Will it be a good day? Or will it be one of those days I feel trapped between two worlds?
I’m not the only student at KU with a hearing loss. But I’m the only one who uses American Sign Language and identifies myself as culturally Deaf, as opposed to “lower-case-d deaf.” Culturally Deaf people capitalize the D to show they are members of a community and use ASL rather than other sign languages. The lowercase word is used to refer to deaf or hard-of-hearing people who don’t consider themselves members of the Deaf culture, or to refer to deafness itself (the loss of hearing) from the medical perspective.
Because I’m the only culturally Deaf student at KU, my experience is different than the other deaf and hard-of-hearing students. It can be lonely and frustrating, but that’s the trade-off for getting the education I want.
I sit with my mother, facing my counselor. In a few months, I will graduate from high school. I have to decide between a hearing college and Gallaudet, the country’s sole liberal arts university for the deaf. To stay in the hearing world, or to seek a place in the Deaf-World, as the Deaf call it.
My mother is concerned. I’ve been depressed for years and I’m struggling in school this semester. She doesn’t know what to do. So she has come to one of my counseling sessions, hoping for answers.
It’s because I’m lonely, my counselor tells her. I’ve been isolated, with hearing people I can’t communicate with. Once I get to Gallaudet and am around other deaf people, I’ll be happier.
Gallaudet. I breathe the name as though it’s a prayer, a promise of salvation.
I greet my interpreters as I walk into the room. I have two interpreters in each class. They switch every 20 minutes, because interpreting is tiring, not just physically, but mentally. Interpreting isn’t just signing everything that’s said - it’s translating spoken English into American Sign Language.
Imported from France in the early 1800s, ASL has a French-based grammar. It’s recognized as a foreign language by 40 states and is taught as such in hundreds of schools nationwide. It’s different from Signed English, which I grew up signing and other deaf students at KU use.
Which sign language to teach deaf children is controversial. Manually Coded English systems, or “English on the hands,” were invented by educators in the ‘‘70s and became popular in the ‘‘80s. Proponents say it’s the best way to make sure deaf students learn English because it’s a direct representation of the language.
“There is no written form of ASL,” says Barbara Luetke-Stahlman, deaf education professor at Texas Women’s University and former director of KU Medical Center’s Deaf Education program. “If a child is to learn to read and write proficiently, they must be able to use that same language.”
But most culturally Deaf people believe deaf children should be taught ASL as a first language, and English second.
“SE is not a language,” says Shawn Broderick, interpreting professor at Johnson County Community College. “ASL is complex - it’s hard to learn, but makes more sense visually for deaf people.”
I talk with my friends, our hands flying furiously, as we walk on campus. I can’t remember being so happy. Finally, I can communicate with everyone. I’m not quite fluent in ASL, but I’m learning quickly.
I’m learning other things, too. Like what it means to be culturally Deaf, not lower-case-d deaf. Not broken and needing to be fixed. Here, deafness is not a disability, but a culture. An ethnicity. Something to be proud of.
Of the 28 million Americans with a hearing loss, about 500,000 make up the Deaf-World. This community fits the criteria of an ethnic group, including customs, values, social structure and kinship, says Harlan Lane, Northeastern University professor. The idea of deafness as a disability is a social construct, he says, because the concept of disability derives from a particular culture at a particular time and can change.
““Alcoholism went from moral flaw to crime to disability. Homosexuality went from moral flaw, to crime, to treatable disability, to a minority group seeking civil rights,” Lane says.
The strong sense of kinship in the Deaf-World makes it feel like one big family. At Gallaudet, I’ve found a new family.
As the professor speaks, I watch the interpreter. I often look away to give my eyes a break. I use these breaks to glance at my classmates and gauge their reactions to what’s said. Humor can sometimes be lost in translation, so I watch for when they laugh. Then, I smile. I don’t laugh because, in middle school, some kids made fun of my laugh. Since then, I try not to laugh in front of hearing people.
My brain works to reinterpret what I see. My first language was a combination of written English and Signed English, so I mentally translate ASL back into (written) English to understand the original message.
Because my mind is so busy with this process, it often takes me a minute to realize when I’m called on or when I want to say something. By then, because of “lag time” - the time it takes the interpreter to interpret the message - I often miss my chance to speak up.
As the weeks go by, I’m enjoying my classes. All my teachers and classmates sign. For the first time, I can communicate with them directly.
I’m thrilled that I don’t need interpreters anymore, and I’m realizing how frustrating it was to rely on them all the time. I rarely contributed to classroom discussions in high school because I didn’t feel my input was worth the time and energy it took to get it through to my hearing classmates.
Here, my confidence is at an all-time high. I’m one of the most talkative students, and I love the intellectual stimulation in and out of the classroom.
I also love the social life. I work for the newspaper and, for the first time, I have an active dating and party life. I went on dates with hearing guys in high school, but those always fizzled because of communication. Now I can talk - and flirt - with guys.
I sit back and watch my classmates discussing our projects. The discussions often go too fast for me to participate in because I’m so busy trying to figure out who’s saying what and what’s being said.
This is a common problem for students who use interpreters, KU interpreter coordinator Kim Bates says. Participation depends on how assertive the student is and his or her desire to be involved, and whether the hearing students want to know what the deaf student has to say, she says.
One of my classmates, who is black, talks about how some African-Americans struggle with their identity. Those who grow up in a predominantly white area and try to go to historically black schools find themselves “too white,” or having too many white characteristics, to fit in. They feel stuck between two worlds, not quite fitting in either.
I lean forward, nodding. Yes, I know how that feels, I want to say. But the class has moved on to another subject, not noticing my nodding. Resigned, I slouch and fiddle with my pen, my desire to participate fading.
I’m starting to become uncomfortable here at Gallaudet. Uncertain about my place. I’m starting to notice the schisms within the Deaf-World.
There are cliques, their lines drawn up according to how culturally Deaf members are. Even fraternities and sororities follow these divisions.
Deaf-family kids - or deaf children of deaf parents - and those who attended deaf schools at one point are the “elite.” Campus leaders and bigwigs usually belong to this group. Then there are mainstreamers, who went to hearing schools and usually have hearing parents and sign English. Many are considered “too hearing,” even if they have absolute hearing loss.
Students who grew up without sign language often come to Gallaudet knowing little more than the finger-spelled alphabet. Crueler students make fun of them and tell them to go back to the hearing world when they can’t learn ASL fast enough.
My place within all this is tenuous. I’m mainstream and often told I’m too “hearing-minded.” But I have more deaf-school friends than mainstream because of my boyfriend, who went to the Indiana School for the Deaf. I sign ASL, but not fluently enough to pass for deaf-family, and barely well enough to pass for a deaf-schooler. I start to fudge my background, saying I used to go to the Kansas School for the Deaf when it was really only for a Deaf Studies class one semester. But it makes me uncomfortable to pretend. Being deaf should be enough.
As class ends, I walk out, chatting with the interpreters. They are the only people I talk to for days at a time, since I don’t have any friends in Lawrence. I see the other deaf students infrequently. I don’t have any hearing friends from KU - all my friends live in my hometown, Lenexa. It’s hard to make friends here because nobody seems to know how to get past the communication barrier.
I’m not alone. Jackie Smiley, Sandusky, Ohio, junior, has felt frustrated with her classmates.
“Sometimes other students start talking to me,” she says, “not knowing I’m deaf, and when they find out, they just stop.”
That’s happened to me, many times. Now, rather than trying to salvage the conversation, I just shrug and let it go. After 23 years of struggling, it’s become a habit to not try.
But, optimistic by nature, I frequently find myself making eye contact and hoping someone will make that first step. If they would just try, I’d meet them halfway, and then some. I wish people wouldn’t leave it up to me to make the first step. I’m an extrovert, but it’s too scary to take that first step every time with every new person.
“Don’t assume that sole responsibility of communication lies with the deaf person,” Bates says. The ASL sign for communication, she says, implies a two-way process.
It’s my third semester at Gallaudet and I’m unhappy. The polluted air of Washington, D.C., is making me sick, and, a year after 9/11, snipers are terrorizing the city. Why did I leave nice, quiet Kansas, I grumble. But there’s no deaf college there, so I stay.
I’m also dissatisfied with things on campus. Because the Deaf-World is so small, and Gallaudet even smaller, gossip and rumors spread like wildfire, and can be vicious. Isolated all my life, I’m not used to dealing with gossip, and I don’t handle it well.
What’s more, I often feel like I’m judged for my background, not my merits. I’m still considered too hearing-minded - I cling to some “hearing-world” values and haven’t adopted some Deaf-World ones. For example, hearing people tend to value educational achievement more, while Deaf people value leadership and athletic talent. Many deaf students struggle in academics, but experts disagree as to why. In athletics and leadership, the field is evened out between deaf and hearing, and academics don’t matter.
When I excel in school, I’m accused of showing off and thinking I’m better than everyone. So I flounder, confused about where I belong. Do I belong in the hearing world, after all? Should I stay, or should I leave?
I don’t get to decide. My body does. I get sick, and I go home a week before finals. But I will come back, I tell myself, and I will find my place.
As I walk down the hill to my car, I check my pager for e-mails. My Sidekick is to me what cell phones are to hearing people, and then some. I use it for e-mails, AOL Instant Messenger and text messages. It costs a lot more than a cell phone, but it’s the only way people can contact me.
I get an e-mail from my mother. She wants me to call her. She can’t call me because I don’t have a strobe light to alert me when the phone rings. It’s too expensive.
So, when I get home, I turn on the TV, pull up a chair and dial the Video Relay Service. When the interpreter appears on-screen, I look into the webcam and sign to her, giving her my mother’s phone number. When my mother answers, the conversation flows back and forth through the interpreter.
We talk about the story I’m working on. I tell her how I’m struggling with how to explain what it’s like being a deaf person in a hearing world. She’s very supportive, helping me to keep going when I want to give up. But it wasn’t always this way.
We’re in the kitchen, screaming at each other. I want to go back to Gallaudet, but my mother has put her foot down.
“You’re not going back there!” she yells with her hands and voice. “You’ll decide to cut us off because we’re hearing, not deaf!”
“That’s not true!”
“I’m not stupid. I know the Deaf-World doesn’t like hearing people. They’ll steal you away and make you hate us!” She is crying now.
I glare at her, furious that she’s making me choose between my family and the Deaf-World. It’s my fault. I didn’t reply to my parents’ e-mails at Gallaudet-I was too absorbed in my life there. But she blames the Deaf-World, not me. It’s little consolation that she sees it as a culture, not a group of disabled people.
Even as I transfer to KU, the battles continue. I still have friends at Gallaudet, whom I sometimes visit, and often talk to on AIM. Mom doesn’t like this, and makes her feelings clear, afraid of losing me.
I’m not alone in feeling divided between family and deaf peers. Many deaf people with hearing parents go through this.
“My family wants me to be more hearing,” Smiley says. “And my friends want me to be more deaf.” She often feels stuck between the two, she says.
Deaf people don’t just struggle with divided loyalties, but also with low expectations that make it difficult to succeed in school.
The hearing world often doesn’t expect much of deaf children. At the time I was born, doctors often gave little hope to parents of deaf children. Doctors told my parents I wouldn’t be able to read past a third-grade level.
When Ryan Schwarzenberger, Overland Park junior, was diagnosed, his doctor told his parents he wouldn’t read past a sixth-grade level. And they shouldn’t plan on him going to college, the doctor said.
Because of this, I grew up with tremendous pressure to prove experts wrong. My parents pressured me to get all As, take honors classes, do well on the SATs, go to college, reminding me that I had to prove to hearing people that I wasn’t stupid because I was deaf.
It’s a common experience for deaf people: to meet teachers who think deaf students can’t do the work. I’ve met my share, teachers who weren’t sure I could manage Advanced Placement courses or take a foreign language, until I proved them wrong. Other deaf students have been through this, too. Schwarzenberger had a middle school teacher who wasn’t sure of his abilities.
“She said, ‘I’ll try my best to be sure you can do this,’” Schwarzenberger remembers.
Smiley also faced skepticism when she wanted to take honors classes in high school. Teachers didn’t want to let her take advanced classes or Spanish.
“What does hearing have to do with what you know?” she says with exasperation.
I’ve been at KU for a year. I miss Gallaudet, but KU has strong English and journalism programs, unlike Gallaudet.
So, I choose education - and family - over the Deaf-World. My mother and I stop arguing so much and rebuild our relationship.
But a gap develops between me and the others in the Deaf-World. I’m called a traitor, a weakling, a sell-out for leaving Gallaudet. I’m accused of bad-mouthing the school when I say I get a better education at KU. When I tell people I’m lonely here and I miss being around Deaf people, they tell me it’s my fault because I “gave up” on Gallaudet and deserted the Deaf-World.
I’m torn. It isn’t fair that my choices are so limited. Hearing people have hundreds of colleges to choose from, but I don’t. I have to choose between the Deaf-World and the college that best fits me… or at least the parts of me that aren’t Deaf. But I’ve made my choice, and I stick with it.
I have good days and bad days. On the bad days, I watch people talk and wonder what they say. I love people and love talking with them, but I don’t know how to talk to hearing people. Often, I want to cry with frustration because I don’t know how to strip away the barriers created by my deafness, and ones I’ve built up myself.
On good days, I’m optimistic that it’ll all turn out fine, somehow. I have lots of support from family and friends who understand my struggle and remind me that deafness is not a disability, but a culture - something I often forget because I live in a world that sees me as disabled.
I’m hopeful that, someday, I will find my balance between the two worlds.
I graduate next week. Where I go from there, I don’t know. I want to return to the Deaf-World and find my niche, but I don’t want to leave the hearing world. My family and career are in the hearing world. I have hope, because others have straddled the gap and got the best out of each. Finding that balance probably will be a life-long process, but I have faith that it will happen.
In My World
My alarm clock goes off silently, a white disc under my mattress vibrating as strongly as pots and pans crashing to the floor. I slap at the snooze button. I hate being shaken awake, but regular alarm clocks don’t work for me, because I’m deaf.
As I roll out of bed and get ready for class, I wonder what the day will be like. Will it be a good day? Or will it be one of those days I feel trapped between two worlds?
I’m not the only student at KU with a hearing loss. But I’m the only one who uses American Sign Language and identifies myself as culturally Deaf, as opposed to “lower-case-d deaf.” Culturally Deaf people capitalize the D to show they are members of a community and use ASL rather than other sign languages. The lowercase word is used to refer to deaf or hard-of-hearing people who don’t consider themselves members of the Deaf culture, or to refer to deafness itself (the loss of hearing) from the medical perspective.
Because I’m the only culturally Deaf student at KU, my experience is different than the other deaf and hard-of-hearing students. It can be lonely and frustrating, but that’s the trade-off for getting the education I want.
I sit with my mother, facing my counselor. In a few months, I will graduate from high school. I have to decide between a hearing college and Gallaudet, the country’s sole liberal arts university for the deaf. To stay in the hearing world, or to seek a place in the Deaf-World, as the Deaf call it.
My mother is concerned. I’ve been depressed for years and I’m struggling in school this semester. She doesn’t know what to do. So she has come to one of my counseling sessions, hoping for answers.
It’s because I’m lonely, my counselor tells her. I’ve been isolated, with hearing people I can’t communicate with. Once I get to Gallaudet and am around other deaf people, I’ll be happier.
Gallaudet. I breathe the name as though it’s a prayer, a promise of salvation.
I greet my interpreters as I walk into the room. I have two interpreters in each class. They switch every 20 minutes, because interpreting is tiring, not just physically, but mentally. Interpreting isn’t just signing everything that’s said - it’s translating spoken English into American Sign Language.
Imported from France in the early 1800s, ASL has a French-based grammar. It’s recognized as a foreign language by 40 states and is taught as such in hundreds of schools nationwide. It’s different from Signed English, which I grew up signing and other deaf students at KU use.
Which sign language to teach deaf children is controversial. Manually Coded English systems, or “English on the hands,” were invented by educators in the ‘‘70s and became popular in the ‘‘80s. Proponents say it’s the best way to make sure deaf students learn English because it’s a direct representation of the language.
“There is no written form of ASL,” says Barbara Luetke-Stahlman, deaf education professor at Texas Women’s University and former director of KU Medical Center’s Deaf Education program. “If a child is to learn to read and write proficiently, they must be able to use that same language.”
But most culturally Deaf people believe deaf children should be taught ASL as a first language, and English second.
“SE is not a language,” says Shawn Broderick, interpreting professor at Johnson County Community College. “ASL is complex - it’s hard to learn, but makes more sense visually for deaf people.”
I talk with my friends, our hands flying furiously, as we walk on campus. I can’t remember being so happy. Finally, I can communicate with everyone. I’m not quite fluent in ASL, but I’m learning quickly.
I’m learning other things, too. Like what it means to be culturally Deaf, not lower-case-d deaf. Not broken and needing to be fixed. Here, deafness is not a disability, but a culture. An ethnicity. Something to be proud of.
Of the 28 million Americans with a hearing loss, about 500,000 make up the Deaf-World. This community fits the criteria of an ethnic group, including customs, values, social structure and kinship, says Harlan Lane, Northeastern University professor. The idea of deafness as a disability is a social construct, he says, because the concept of disability derives from a particular culture at a particular time and can change.
““Alcoholism went from moral flaw to crime to disability. Homosexuality went from moral flaw, to crime, to treatable disability, to a minority group seeking civil rights,” Lane says.
The strong sense of kinship in the Deaf-World makes it feel like one big family. At Gallaudet, I’ve found a new family.
As the professor speaks, I watch the interpreter. I often look away to give my eyes a break. I use these breaks to glance at my classmates and gauge their reactions to what’s said. Humor can sometimes be lost in translation, so I watch for when they laugh. Then, I smile. I don’t laugh because, in middle school, some kids made fun of my laugh. Since then, I try not to laugh in front of hearing people.
My brain works to reinterpret what I see. My first language was a combination of written English and Signed English, so I mentally translate ASL back into (written) English to understand the original message.
Because my mind is so busy with this process, it often takes me a minute to realize when I’m called on or when I want to say something. By then, because of “lag time” - the time it takes the interpreter to interpret the message - I often miss my chance to speak up.
As the weeks go by, I’m enjoying my classes. All my teachers and classmates sign. For the first time, I can communicate with them directly.
I’m thrilled that I don’t need interpreters anymore, and I’m realizing how frustrating it was to rely on them all the time. I rarely contributed to classroom discussions in high school because I didn’t feel my input was worth the time and energy it took to get it through to my hearing classmates.
Here, my confidence is at an all-time high. I’m one of the most talkative students, and I love the intellectual stimulation in and out of the classroom.
I also love the social life. I work for the newspaper and, for the first time, I have an active dating and party life. I went on dates with hearing guys in high school, but those always fizzled because of communication. Now I can talk - and flirt - with guys.
I sit back and watch my classmates discussing our projects. The discussions often go too fast for me to participate in because I’m so busy trying to figure out who’s saying what and what’s being said.
This is a common problem for students who use interpreters, KU interpreter coordinator Kim Bates says. Participation depends on how assertive the student is and his or her desire to be involved, and whether the hearing students want to know what the deaf student has to say, she says.
One of my classmates, who is black, talks about how some African-Americans struggle with their identity. Those who grow up in a predominantly white area and try to go to historically black schools find themselves “too white,” or having too many white characteristics, to fit in. They feel stuck between two worlds, not quite fitting in either.
I lean forward, nodding. Yes, I know how that feels, I want to say. But the class has moved on to another subject, not noticing my nodding. Resigned, I slouch and fiddle with my pen, my desire to participate fading.
I’m starting to become uncomfortable here at Gallaudet. Uncertain about my place. I’m starting to notice the schisms within the Deaf-World.
There are cliques, their lines drawn up according to how culturally Deaf members are. Even fraternities and sororities follow these divisions.
Deaf-family kids - or deaf children of deaf parents - and those who attended deaf schools at one point are the “elite.” Campus leaders and bigwigs usually belong to this group. Then there are mainstreamers, who went to hearing schools and usually have hearing parents and sign English. Many are considered “too hearing,” even if they have absolute hearing loss.
Students who grew up without sign language often come to Gallaudet knowing little more than the finger-spelled alphabet. Crueler students make fun of them and tell them to go back to the hearing world when they can’t learn ASL fast enough.
My place within all this is tenuous. I’m mainstream and often told I’m too “hearing-minded.” But I have more deaf-school friends than mainstream because of my boyfriend, who went to the Indiana School for the Deaf. I sign ASL, but not fluently enough to pass for deaf-family, and barely well enough to pass for a deaf-schooler. I start to fudge my background, saying I used to go to the Kansas School for the Deaf when it was really only for a Deaf Studies class one semester. But it makes me uncomfortable to pretend. Being deaf should be enough.
As class ends, I walk out, chatting with the interpreters. They are the only people I talk to for days at a time, since I don’t have any friends in Lawrence. I see the other deaf students infrequently. I don’t have any hearing friends from KU - all my friends live in my hometown, Lenexa. It’s hard to make friends here because nobody seems to know how to get past the communication barrier.
I’m not alone. Jackie Smiley, Sandusky, Ohio, junior, has felt frustrated with her classmates.
“Sometimes other students start talking to me,” she says, “not knowing I’m deaf, and when they find out, they just stop.”
That’s happened to me, many times. Now, rather than trying to salvage the conversation, I just shrug and let it go. After 23 years of struggling, it’s become a habit to not try.
But, optimistic by nature, I frequently find myself making eye contact and hoping someone will make that first step. If they would just try, I’d meet them halfway, and then some. I wish people wouldn’t leave it up to me to make the first step. I’m an extrovert, but it’s too scary to take that first step every time with every new person.
“Don’t assume that sole responsibility of communication lies with the deaf person,” Bates says. The ASL sign for communication, she says, implies a two-way process.
It’s my third semester at Gallaudet and I’m unhappy. The polluted air of Washington, D.C., is making me sick, and, a year after 9/11, snipers are terrorizing the city. Why did I leave nice, quiet Kansas, I grumble. But there’s no deaf college there, so I stay.
I’m also dissatisfied with things on campus. Because the Deaf-World is so small, and Gallaudet even smaller, gossip and rumors spread like wildfire, and can be vicious. Isolated all my life, I’m not used to dealing with gossip, and I don’t handle it well.
What’s more, I often feel like I’m judged for my background, not my merits. I’m still considered too hearing-minded - I cling to some “hearing-world” values and haven’t adopted some Deaf-World ones. For example, hearing people tend to value educational achievement more, while Deaf people value leadership and athletic talent. Many deaf students struggle in academics, but experts disagree as to why. In athletics and leadership, the field is evened out between deaf and hearing, and academics don’t matter.
When I excel in school, I’m accused of showing off and thinking I’m better than everyone. So I flounder, confused about where I belong. Do I belong in the hearing world, after all? Should I stay, or should I leave?
I don’t get to decide. My body does. I get sick, and I go home a week before finals. But I will come back, I tell myself, and I will find my place.
As I walk down the hill to my car, I check my pager for e-mails. My Sidekick is to me what cell phones are to hearing people, and then some. I use it for e-mails, AOL Instant Messenger and text messages. It costs a lot more than a cell phone, but it’s the only way people can contact me.
I get an e-mail from my mother. She wants me to call her. She can’t call me because I don’t have a strobe light to alert me when the phone rings. It’s too expensive.
So, when I get home, I turn on the TV, pull up a chair and dial the Video Relay Service. When the interpreter appears on-screen, I look into the webcam and sign to her, giving her my mother’s phone number. When my mother answers, the conversation flows back and forth through the interpreter.
We talk about the story I’m working on. I tell her how I’m struggling with how to explain what it’s like being a deaf person in a hearing world. She’s very supportive, helping me to keep going when I want to give up. But it wasn’t always this way.
We’re in the kitchen, screaming at each other. I want to go back to Gallaudet, but my mother has put her foot down.
“You’re not going back there!” she yells with her hands and voice. “You’ll decide to cut us off because we’re hearing, not deaf!”
“That’s not true!”
“I’m not stupid. I know the Deaf-World doesn’t like hearing people. They’ll steal you away and make you hate us!” She is crying now.
I glare at her, furious that she’s making me choose between my family and the Deaf-World. It’s my fault. I didn’t reply to my parents’ e-mails at Gallaudet-I was too absorbed in my life there. But she blames the Deaf-World, not me. It’s little consolation that she sees it as a culture, not a group of disabled people.
Even as I transfer to KU, the battles continue. I still have friends at Gallaudet, whom I sometimes visit, and often talk to on AIM. Mom doesn’t like this, and makes her feelings clear, afraid of losing me.
I’m not alone in feeling divided between family and deaf peers. Many deaf people with hearing parents go through this.
“My family wants me to be more hearing,” Smiley says. “And my friends want me to be more deaf.” She often feels stuck between the two, she says.
Deaf people don’t just struggle with divided loyalties, but also with low expectations that make it difficult to succeed in school.
The hearing world often doesn’t expect much of deaf children. At the time I was born, doctors often gave little hope to parents of deaf children. Doctors told my parents I wouldn’t be able to read past a third-grade level.
When Ryan Schwarzenberger, Overland Park junior, was diagnosed, his doctor told his parents he wouldn’t read past a sixth-grade level. And they shouldn’t plan on him going to college, the doctor said.
Because of this, I grew up with tremendous pressure to prove experts wrong. My parents pressured me to get all As, take honors classes, do well on the SATs, go to college, reminding me that I had to prove to hearing people that I wasn’t stupid because I was deaf.
It’s a common experience for deaf people: to meet teachers who think deaf students can’t do the work. I’ve met my share, teachers who weren’t sure I could manage Advanced Placement courses or take a foreign language, until I proved them wrong. Other deaf students have been through this, too. Schwarzenberger had a middle school teacher who wasn’t sure of his abilities.
“She said, ‘I’ll try my best to be sure you can do this,’” Schwarzenberger remembers.
Smiley also faced skepticism when she wanted to take honors classes in high school. Teachers didn’t want to let her take advanced classes or Spanish.
“What does hearing have to do with what you know?” she says with exasperation.
I’ve been at KU for a year. I miss Gallaudet, but KU has strong English and journalism programs, unlike Gallaudet.
So, I choose education - and family - over the Deaf-World. My mother and I stop arguing so much and rebuild our relationship.
But a gap develops between me and the others in the Deaf-World. I’m called a traitor, a weakling, a sell-out for leaving Gallaudet. I’m accused of bad-mouthing the school when I say I get a better education at KU. When I tell people I’m lonely here and I miss being around Deaf people, they tell me it’s my fault because I “gave up” on Gallaudet and deserted the Deaf-World.
I’m torn. It isn’t fair that my choices are so limited. Hearing people have hundreds of colleges to choose from, but I don’t. I have to choose between the Deaf-World and the college that best fits me… or at least the parts of me that aren’t Deaf. But I’ve made my choice, and I stick with it.
I have good days and bad days. On the bad days, I watch people talk and wonder what they say. I love people and love talking with them, but I don’t know how to talk to hearing people. Often, I want to cry with frustration because I don’t know how to strip away the barriers created by my deafness, and ones I’ve built up myself.
On good days, I’m optimistic that it’ll all turn out fine, somehow. I have lots of support from family and friends who understand my struggle and remind me that deafness is not a disability, but a culture - something I often forget because I live in a world that sees me as disabled.
I’m hopeful that, someday, I will find my balance between the two worlds.
I graduate next week. Where I go from there, I don’t know. I want to return to the Deaf-World and find my niche, but I don’t want to leave the hearing world. My family and career are in the hearing world. I have hope, because others have straddled the gap and got the best out of each. Finding that balance probably will be a life-long process, but I have faith that it will happen.