A KU student struggles to find balance between the hearing and Deaf communities.
by Tara Schupner
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?
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 Galludet, 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.
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.
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 is 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 is a direct representation of the language.
"There is no written form of ASL," says Barbara Luietke-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 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.
a particular time and place.
"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 trans-
Signed English, so primary language late ASL back into (written) English to understand the original message.
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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.
— Jackie Smiley,
Sandusky, Ohio,
junior
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.
"Sometimes students start talking to me, not knowing I'm deaf, and when they find out, they just stop."
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.
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.
(L-R) Ryan Schwarzenberger, Jackie Smiley, Tara Schupner and Amir Schifano-Idrisi chat in sign language at the Underground. All four have hearing loss, but Schupner is the only undergraduate at KU who is culturally Deaf, 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.
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.
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.
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,
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 frater
nities and sororites 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 be long 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-schools. 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 interpeters. They are the only people I talk to for day 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 — a 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