An email from sComm

April 2, 2015

My hosting company sent me this earlier today.

Hi Trudy –

We were contacted by the below company with the stated concern. Can you address this right away? Thanks.

Posted today at 10:42
sComm Inc. are the exclusive owners of copyrights or distribution rights for our content, including but not limited to “Communiphobia.”

You are receiving this notice because a hosting account associated with your services was identified as having been recently used illegally to make and/or distribute copies of our intellectual property identified at the bottom of this letter. Such content theft is a serious offense that carries the risk of substantial monetary damages and, in some cases, criminal prosecution. We ask that you forward this notice to the subscriber who was assigned the applicable hosting account and to take appropriate steps to deter future infringement, including:

Require the subscriber to remove or delete all unauthorized copies of sComm property;
Ensure the account is no longer used to copy or distribute sComm Property in the future;
Require the subscriber to confirm the above steps have been taken; and
Take appropriate action against the subscriber under your Abuse Policy/Terms of Service.

The content exists of all images within the article located here:
http://www.trudysuggs.com/doingmoreharmthangood/

We appreciate your efforts to reduce copyright infringement on your networks. Please send us a prompt response indicating the actions you have taken to resolve this matter. Please reference the above noted Notice ID 2225001 in all correspondence, which should be directed to:

Email: jonathan@sComm.com

The undersigned has a good faith belief that use of sComm Property in the manner described herein is not authorized by sComm, its agents or the law. We hereby state that the information in this notification is accurate and, under penalty of perjury, that the undersigned is authorized to act on behalf of sComm with respect to this matter.

Please be advised that this letter is not and is not intended to be a complete statement of the facts or law as they may pertain to this matter or of sComm’s positions, rights or remedies, legal or equitable, all of which are expressly reserved.

Regards,

Copyright Officer for sComm

Filed Under: Business, Deaf-Owned Businesses, Legal, Media

Prison Within a Prison

September 21, 2006

This article originally appeared at i711.com.

In 1995, I had to go to the police station after I was assaulted. I was pretty shaken up, and barely in the mood to deal with bureaucracy. I was put in a room where there were seven empty desks and one desk with a typewriter. The policeman said he’d be back in a minute.

Did I mention that this was at 3 a.m.? The station wasn’t exactly hopping, and I didn’t have a two-way pager back then. I sat there for the longest time all alone, with nothing but the walls to look at. After about 30 minutes, I walked to the front desk and asked what the deal was. “Yes, ma’am, sit down and someone will be with you in a minute,” I was told. I asked if an interpreter was coming; yes, one was. After two hours, I again asked. Same response.

I was in that room by myself for agonizing hours. Believing an interpreter was coming, I kept worrying about whether the interpreter was qualified, the situation that had just happened, the medical attention I had gotten but still needed, and a million other things. Eventually, even with my mind racing, I ran out of things to think about, and began debating about whether I should leave or stay. I could have gotten up and walked out, but I was badly hurt and needed to file the report if I wanted the others to be caught. So I decided to stay and put up with the isolation – and that’s what it was, isolation – for another hour. Finally, at the four-hour mark, the policeman came back and slowly typed up a report before sending me on my way. I left bewildered, because there had been no communication and no explanation of what would happen next. I did call back that following week, but nothing ever happened. Yes, I could have sued – and I would probably have won – but I didn’t.

That experience has never left me. Five years later, I visited a maximum security correctional facility in New York as part of a poetry series developed by Peter Cook and Kenny Lerner of The Flying Words Project developed. While there, I was impressed by the large deaf inmate population. They were inmates who were in for murder, rape, robbery, you name it – but what impressed me was how it seemed like an equal community in that prison. The deaf inmates had something valuable: access. The prison had American Sign Language classes for hearing inmates, interpreters, captioned television, and other accessible options for the deaf inmates.

Fast forward to a couple of years ago. A friend got sent to prison where he was the only deaf inmate out of about 700 inmates. The differences at that prison from the one I’d visited in New York were startling. For one thing, he didn’t have anyone to talk with in sign language, except for the occasional visitor. That, for me, is the most isolating act, in or out of prison – especially after what I went through in 1995. I became extremely lonely and isolated after only four hours. What would it be like for weeks upon months upon years? The emotional effects of that lack of sign language were almost immediately apparent with my friend.

Even though he was a convicted felon, he still needed the same basic rights as every other inmate to survive and to do his time. He didn’t have an interpreter for counseling sessions. When he did finally get a TTY, he had to ask for permission and then go into a locked room; however, the person whose office the TTY was located in wasn’t always in. Hearing inmates had more access to phones than he did.

He became increasingly isolated in this prison within the prison. His letters and phone calls became increasingly despondent. Fortunately, with the advocacy from community supporters, my friend was able to get a videophone installed at the prison. I’ll never forget that first phone call. He was absolutely thrilled, and was so much more motivated to serve his time with the new support system he had.

Another story: I remember going to a prison once as a deaf interpreter, and watching the sergeant at the front desk asking why we were there. When the lawyer said, “The consumer is deaf,” the sergeant went pale and said, “He’s deaf?!?!” and ran to a phone. It turns out the system had placed the deaf guy in a maximum security section filled with hardened criminals simply because he wouldn’t respond to their demands. They thought this guy was being difficult and decided to teach him a lesson, even though he was accused of a minor crime. By the time we were there, this guy had been inside for seven days. Later, the charges were dropped when evidence showed he didn’t commit the crime. But the emotional trauma inflicted upon him was permanent; he was terrified when he came out to meet us.

It’s frustrating to think of all the deaf inmates in the country who may be isolated simply because they think they have no rights as criminals or they don’t understand what’s happening. Regardless of the gravity of their crime, criminals are people and we need to ensure they receive full communication access and equal opportunities. It’s only humane.

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

Filed Under: Community resources, Interpreting, Language, Legal, Uncategorized

Game show not covered by ADA

December 1, 2000

Originally appeared in Silent News, December 2000.

Deaf people sue for access; Judge says no

To get on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, people must first battle a lengthy series of questions through a web of touch-tone phone commands. For a group of deaf people in the Miami area, this is what frustrates them.

Frank Zavala, a representative with the Miami Center for Independent Living, who has sued Who Wants to be a Millionaire?,  said, “The only way to be on is you have to call and answer questions. But here’s the catch. It’s a voice phone, [and] you can’t use relay nor a TTY. It’s ironic that they close-caption their show, but the deaf/hard of hearing can’t be on.”

The center filed a lawsuit against the show. Michael Lanham, the lawyer representing the center, said in an e-mail, “The basis of this action deals with a person’s mandatory use of a touch-tone phone, coupled with an automated telephone system or device that cannot be utilized by the deaf community (either through the state switch or by a TDD), the upward mobility impaired (cannot use their fingers or cannot push the numbers on a touch-tone phone), and some in the vision-impaired community (cannot see or utilize the phone).”

When asked why he accepted this case, Lanham responded, “Well, first, this process is wrong—it discriminates, and second, it’s treating certain disabled individuals like third-class citizens. And as a lawyer who lives with a disability everyday and who knows and specializes in rights for people with disabilities, I felt I had to try to eliminate a barrier of access, if I could.”

U.S. District Judge Federico Moreno ruled that the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) is not broad enough to cover the show’s screening process, but he said the show’s goal “should be to encourage participants with disabilities.”

Lanham said, “It’s up to each and every one of us, able or disabled, to exercise our Constitutional rights…to those who disagree and think this action is frivolous, I hope they would understand that some of us, regardless of our disability, want the opportunity to equally compete for the American dream of trying to win a million dollars.”

The game show had a blind contestant on earlier in the year. Zavala said, “You got a blind person on, why not a Deaf person? After all, we’re not dumb.”

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

Filed Under: Business, Community resources, Legal, Silent News

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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