Culture of the deaf
by Wayne Laugesen (letters@boulderweekly.com)

At the inner city corner of Eighth and G Northeast, in Washington, D.C., my wife and I lived next to a brownstone packed with students from Gallaudet, the world's most prestigious university for the deaf.

"Well, they must be quieter than other students," our friends would say.

Au contraire. These kids were louder than a Boulder sofa-burning riot. That's why we liked them.

The students threw parties with keggers and pot in order to pay rent. They would invite hundreds of students over and charge them admission. People danced in the streets and even on the roof of our garage. Music was amplified so loud as to be felt, because most couldn't hear it. All conversation was in sign.

My wife and I, wearing ear protection, drank senselessly at these parties, and they never charged us admission.

The Gallaudet students had a culture of their own, and few were invited in. At first, Dede and I were welcomed only for strategic reasons. We lived right next door and could easily have demanded the cops shut down the earth-shaking parties. Our dog was so frightened by the loud, disorienting bass of the music that a veterinarian gave us tranquilizers to calm him.

We became close to the Gallaudet students, but they couldn't talk or listen, and we couldn't sign. We tried to learn sign, but progress was slow. We built relationships by writing notes.

"Where is Noz tonight?" I wrote to Cindy.

"Noz is at the store," Cindy wrote back.

"Tell Noz I came by," I responded in writing.

Deep, meaningful dialogue was rare. It was just too cumbersome. Neither I, nor the students, nor Dede wanted to write notes for hours on end.

These were some of the best neighbors I've ever had. Today, however, I understand that Gallaudet was doing them no favors. It gave them an environment of deaf people only. Unless thrust upon hearing neighbors whom they needed to appease, these students had little exposure to the speaking and hearing world.

Years later, as an editor, I had an entirely different kind of encounter with a deaf person. A young deaf woman wrote asking for a job interview, disclosing that she'd been deaf since birth.

The woman entered my office and introduced herself. Not with a note, but with words that anyone could understand. I introduced myself and spoke slowly, in animated fashion like a moron conversing with a foreigner.

"Just speak casually," she said. "I read lips very well, but only if you speak normally."

Within moments I was comfortable with the fact she couldn't hear a word, but knew exactly what I was saying. I found myself forgetting her disability, and focusing on her ability to edit.

At Gallaudet, as news reports taught us this past week, a mob of students believes that deaf people who talk and read lips defy a brotherhood of deafness. Some activists believe deaf people should have their own language—sign language—and that talking and reading lips betrays deaf pride while enabling the speaking/hearing world to avoid learning sign.

Thus, when the university hired Jane Fernandes as its new president, deaf pride activists balked. They shut down the school and successfully demanded that Fernandes be fired. Fernandes, 50, is deaf. Unlike most Gallaudet students, Fernandes didn't learn sign language until she was 20. This fact annoys the deaf pride activists, who have no desire to read lips or talk.

Fernandes learned to read lips and speak because adults who loved her knew the rest of the world would never bow to her special needs. They knew the speaking/hearing world wouldn't pass notepads back and forth in busy workplaces.

I didn't hire the deaf applicant, but only because we had no openings. I wanted her onboard because she was competent and exuded above-average character. She cared about others more than herself.

Had the woman come in and attempted to communicate in sign language, I wouldn't have wasted her time. Like most work environments, approximately zero percent of my workforce knew sign language.

Who cares about deaf pride, or a culture of the deaf? Great citizens don't dwell on disabilities. They find ways to adapt to a world that does little to accommodate special needs.

Jane Fernandes was the perfect president for Gallaudet. She's a shining example of someone who adapted herself to the hearing and speaking world—the one that will never be so courteous as to drop everything and learn to sign.

The activists who brought down Fernandes believe they defended a cause and showed the hearing world that deaf people should have their own language. Unfortunately, the rest of the world only talks a do-gooder's game. Average people will never help Gallaudet graduates when they show up speaking with their hands. They won't care about the culture of the deaf. They will let these people quietly disappear.

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