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

I’m frustrated.

More than a year ago, I wrote a piece for NAD’s Members Only Area about the demise of publications in the deaf community. One of the things I wrote in that article was that people seemed to think that running a publication was easier than cutting bread. That’s one of the reasons so many publications come and go.

When a new newspaper appeared last October, I was cautious. According to an insider, they created, planned, and launched the paper in a month’s time–way too fast for any new publication. I decided to give the newspaper a chance, though, especially since I had worked with the editor in the past. After a few months, I ended my contract with them. With unbelievable runarounds, late paychecks, lack of communication, and a million other things–I figured I had better things to do with my time.

Two months later, they were still publishing articles I had turned in more than six months prior. Today, the newspaper has lost almost all of its original section editors and has gone through several administration changes. The contents of the newspaper are easily read through in a matter of minutes and filled with opinionated or poorly researched articles. While I’m happy to not be writing for a newspaper with only 1,100 paid subscribers, I’m also disappointed. I had high hopes for the newspaper, because we do need such a publication.

Maybe if they had taken more time in launching the newspaper–instead of trying to capture the market–they could have planned better, recruited better staff, and had writers and editors more familiar with deaf journalism (which is different from mainstream journalism). While I understand that every start-up project has room for improvement, I think if they had simply taken time out to learn the ropes, the newspaper would have a lower turnover and better contents–and ultimately, better subscriber numbers.

Now there’s another online magazine being launched. When I saw it, my immediate response was: “Let’s see how long this one lasts.” And that frustrates me.

Why are we now at a point where we meet new publications with great skepticism and little trust? The answer is, of course, because of previous newspapers and magazines that have ripped subscribers off.

When Silent News suddenly shut down nine months after I left, I waited with bated breath to see if subscribers would be refunded their money, especially those who had supported the paper for more than 30 years. They didn’t get their money back. I get asked every day, two years later, what happened. I wish I knew–I left long before the paper shut down–but I’m frustrated to think that loyal, dedicated subscribers, including my own family, lost money to a deaf publication.

When I started editing Deaf Success Magazine a few months after it launched, one of the terms of my part-time contract was that if the magazine ever shut down, *they would refund money to subscribers*. When my paychecks began arriving as much as a month late, and issues weren’t arriving to our 4,000 subscribers–I knew it was time to resign. Sure enough, they soon shut down. No money was refunded to anyone, and I’m still owed some money. I still have no idea what happened to the publication–again.

But what frustrates me even more is that subscribers–and writers–are consistently left in the dark.

When an issue is late, subscribers must be notified. When something comes up that delays or cancels publication, subscribers must be notified. When a publication temporarily or permanently suspends printing–and there are plenty of them: Silent News, Deaf Success, several e-zines/websites, Deaf Life, Capital D–subscribers must be notified, and refunded their money.

Yet they aren’t. And nobody is ever told what happened. This is so, so wrong.

With the lack of respect for subscribers and writers, I now choose to not work for any deaf publication, except for the occasional article. And I’m not alone–many of the deaf community’s top writers have made the same decision.

It’s too bad, really.

On a different note: Congratulations to TTMW for reaching its first anniversary! I’m proud to have been part of the publication.

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

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

Last February, I met with a state representative from my town to ask her to sponsor a proposed amendment to an existing bill. Although the majority of people in Minnesota are white, we also have a large population of Hmong, Somalian, and Hispanic immigrants. So this bill requires doctors’ offices here to provide them with spoken language interpreters, regardless of how many employees the doctor’s office has.

This bill, however, doesn’t cover ASL interpreters if the doctor’s office has less than 15 employees.

This representative, Rep. Bourdreau–a staunch Republican who has a deer’s head mounted in her St. Paul office–agreed to meet with the director of the Minnesota Commission Serving Deaf and Hard of Hearing People and me for fifteen minutes.

Almost immediately, Bourdreau told us the amendment wouldn’t be possible for a number of reasons, mainly money. I pointed out that the bill already existed; that it’d only be an addition of the words “and sign language” to the bill. She repeated that it wouldn’t be possible. “Besides,” she said (and I’m paraphrasing), “Deaf people can always write back and forth with doctors, while these immigrants can’t. We have to give immigrants access, too.”

I told her about how a CODA once told me about her deaf mother’s visit to the doctor’s for headaches and other ailments. The doctor told the mother, “It’s all in your head.” The mother came home and told her daughter, “See? I told you! He said it was all in my head!” She had taken the doctor’s comments literally instead of realizing that he was saying her ailments were not real.

I also threw the third/fourth grade reading level statistic at Bourdreau, explaining that even perfectly intelligent deaf people in my own family had difficulties with written English. I added that it’d be unrealistic for me to take time out from my medical situation–especially if it was an urgent or emergency situation–to see if a doctor’s office had 15 employees or more. “How come I have less rights as a tax-paying, working US-born citizen than an immigrant who can hear?” I asked.

She nodded, but still insisted that deaf people could write back and forth with doctors instead of using interpreters, and again refused to sponsor the bill.

I still am astonished by her comment about writing back and forth. She lives in Faribault, which has a large population of deaf people, and of course has the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf. And she still had this much ignorance?

We know who I’ll be voting for in the next election. And it *won’t* be for Bourdreau.

UPDATE: Bourdreau did lose the election.

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

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

My heart was pounding with anticipation. Twenty years after I left, I was finally returning to a place that held so many memories for me: Springfield, Illinois.

As I drove, I thought about all the years at Hay-Edwards Elementary School, where I attended until I was nine years old. I thought about how my first grade teacher would sign “no” in the oddest way; and how Mrs. B would cop attitudes on us and force us to give her shoulder massages. I thought about when Mrs. B explained that her new car had cruise control. “Does that mean you can sleep while driving?” a classmate asked in amazement.

I thought of my hearing classmates who went out of their way to learn sign language, and how some of them still are very involved with the deaf community today. I remembered practicing speaking, “I hate you,” with my hearing girlfriends over and over so I could break up with Matt in the fourth grade. When I walked up to Matt and spoke the words, he frowned and said, “Huh? What did you say?” I stomped back to my girlfriends, humiliated.

I let out a chuckle as I remembered my second-grade interpreter, a reverend with perfectly manicured nails who was also my parents’ marriage counselor (they divorced–enough said). I was always so embarrassed when he came to my classroom in full reverend attire.

I was curious. Were my classrooms the same? Were there still deaf students at Hay-Edwards? Was the principal’s office, where he often paddled disruptive students with a wooden paddle, still at the end of the building?

As I drove to the school, I was taken aback at how uncanny my memory was. All these years, I had remembered details of the town perfectly–the aquarium store on MacArthur Drive, the bowling alley I learned how to play Donkey Kong and Dig Dug at, and certain landmarks leading to my house.

I pulled up to the school. The building was exactly how I remembered. I stepped out of my jeep, took in a breath of fresh air, and noticed that there was no playground equipment anywhere. Finding this odd, I figured perhaps the playgrounds were moved or being renovated.

When I arrived at the main entrance, my heart dropped. The entrance doors said, STATE OFFICE BUILDINGS. I went inside, and there were no classrooms–only cubicles. I talked with a security guard who seemed thrilled by the fact that I had attended the school. He said the school had been converted about 15 years ago. Yet I could see traces of my years there: the paneling on the doors; the layout of the floors, hallways and rooms; and the smell of the school still lingered.

I walked to my jeep, saddened that my formative years in deaf education seemed to have vanished. Then I reminded myself that these years had very much left a mark upon me, and that my memories were precious. I left, feeling content.

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

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

I remember being a teenager and having to wait for weeks for letters from a boy I liked in Washington, DC, and from another boy in England (we won’t discuss how many crushes I had in high school)–the wait was almost unbearable. I also remember the long-distance phone bills I ran up, which was much to my mother’s dismay.

Today, we have pagers, email, instant messages (IM), web cams, and videophones. I love receiving immediate responses to my messages, and being able to email or IM with my 81-year-old hearing grandmother on a daily basis.

Still, I wonder sometimes if the availability of immediate communication makes life almost too convenient. It seems almost as if many of us are slowly and unintentionally replacing live, in-the-flesh relationships with technology-driven relationships. I’ve been to the wedding of a couple that met on-line, and they’re blissfully married today with kids.

Yet I also know of other people who have gotten wrapped up in online relationships without having ever met in person. I even have a few friends I’ve become IM buddies with but never met in person. Is this good or bad? I really don’t know.

But I know one thing: my life has become dependent upon technology. A couple of weeks ago and then again over the weekend, a major wireless provider had a server go down. The problems with this were monumental–messages were not sent or received immediately and arrived hours or days later. This made for a lot of confusion and moments of wondering. It affected my day-to-day operations at my job, and I felt disconnected from both colleagues and friends for a few days. I’ve become so accustomed to instant gratification that if my messages aren’t responded to quickly, I feel cut off or ignored. And this made an interesting question for me: have I become too dependent on instant communication?

At a recent basketball tournament, coverage was nonexistent for the Sidekick pager, so most of us were pagerless for the weekend. At one point during the boys’ championship game, I looked around at the bleachers. Nobody was interrupting each other by suddenly looking down at their pagers. Even though it was difficult to make plans with people, it was surprisingly easy to live without the pager. In fact, I felt almost liberated.

Of course, as soon as I drove back into range, I quickly hunched over my pager and checked for messages.

I’ve tried to live a life of simplicity and ease out here in the boondocks of Minnesota. But I wouldn’t be able to have this life or keep in touch with friends from all over the world if not for the Internet–a Catch-22 situation. So I’ve made a conscious choice to appreciate the availability of instant communication, but to also make an effort in keeping friendships intact by seeing them in person.

Until then, they can IM, e-mail, page, or call me on the videophone…

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

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

Basketball season is coming to an end, and there’s been something bugging me about the past season: the cheerleaders.

One of the most overlooked aspects of any basketball game or tournament is the cheerleading squad. We all take them for granted: smiling faces, colorful uniforms, and perky hairdos. At deaf schools, cheerleaders are often few in number, but never low in spirit and energy. They spend hour upon hour practicing, just like the basketball players do–and it’s astounding for me to think about how much work goes into their performances.

At the Central State Schools for the Deaf tournament a few weeks ago, I sat down eagerly to watch the cheerleading competition. I had just come from chatting with one of the cheerleading coaches beforehand, who said she was absolutely terrified with pre-show jitters. I could only imagine how the cheerleaders felt, having rows of bleachers of people staring intently at them as they did their cheers.

By the time the third squad ran out on the floor, I was perplexed. All of the squads, except one, barely used signs. They were mostly screaming their cheers, with the occasional sign here and there–and most of the cheers weren’t interpreted or signed. Some of the people in the crowd, like me, started jittering, looking at each other whenever the cheerleaders would speak instead of signing, trying to decide if we were wrong to feel confused. It was odd to watch: “(Screaming something) GO! (screaming something) (insert sign of mascot here)! (Screaming something)!”

I wondered why the cheers weren’t being made accessible to the deaf fans. Sure, cheering doesn’t take a lot of work to understand–Go, Go, Win, Win, Defense, Defense–but why couldn’t these words at least be signed? After all, this was a tournament taking place at a deaf school where the majority of people were deaf–coaches, players, athletic directors, parents, fans, and students. I also wondered whether the cheerleading competition judges (who were all hearing coaches from universities and colleges) could truly understand the deaf cheerleaders’ spoken words, or if they listened to the ones who could speak well. Signs weren’t being judged at all, obviously, since none of the judges signed.

Out of maybe eight squads, only one actually used signs throughout—and I’m proud to say it was Minnesota (yeah!). The winning squad definitely deserved the title, given their astounding energy, marvelous skills, immaculate appearance, and perfect synchronization. I just think it’d have been nice if I could’ve understood what they were screaming.

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

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

Reality is harsh sometimes, especially if you’re a newcomer to a community.

I have two late-deafened friends. One is a New Yorker who has progressive hearing loss and is in absolute love with her new language and culture. The other friend, currently doing an internship in Colorado, became deaf literally within a matter of hours when he had an operation. In fact, he went into the surgery knowing he’d wake up stone-deaf. He’s also quite integrated into the deaf community, though it’s a work-in-progress for him.

I’ve watched them stumble through cultural lessons, and my heart has ached for them as they realized just how harsh the world could be. For people like me, it’s not such a harsh wake-up call. I grew up with lack of accessibility as a way of life, but I had a deaf family who understood how I felt. But for late-deafened people within the culturally deaf community, it’s not so easy.

Both of my friends, hundreds of miles apart, were recently put in situations where they were thrust into an all too common dilemma: the refusal of their schools to provide qualified interpreters. Each became frustrated to the point of wanting to give up and leave school.

They told me about their respective struggles during the same span of time and to their realizations about how narrow-minded people could be at times. I listened to how they were shocked that hearing administrators were so blatant in the refusal to meet their academic needs. I thought to myself how strange it must be to be hearing for the majority of your life, and then suddenly find that your own people aren’t always so nice after all. I also thought about how unique it must be to suddenly enter a community where discrimination is a way of life and learn the hard way that just because you’ve lost your hearing, some idiots might consider you less of a person.

Regardless of the disappointment they experienced in their struggles, they fought for what they needed, and no matter how much they wanted to, they didn’t quit. They continue to embrace being deaf, and are thankful that they’ve been welcomed into such a close-knit community. In fact, the New Yorker wrote me today saying she still sits in awe at deaf events and is so happy to be part of such a community.

I’m incredibly proud that they’re my friends. I’m even prouder that they’ve become part of my community, warts and all.

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

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

A friend of mine told me once he always gets irritated by how hearing people at deaf schools immediately start signing whenever a deaf person enters the room or walks by. “It’s so ridiculous,” he said, “Why do they immediately pick up their hands and start signing as if they’ve been signing all this time?”

I was puzzled. Shouldn’t this be how things are? Isn’t it appropriate to provide the deaf person with access to communication as soon as a deaf person enters a room? What was wrong with this picture?

He responded that the answer was so obvious that it was easy to miss. Why weren’t these people signing all the time, rather than only when deaf people were around? Since they were at a deaf school, why weren’t they using ASL all the time, without resorting to speaking?

Why do hearing people need to speak to each other if they can sign at a deaf school? Obviously, there are times when speaking would be necessary, such as meeting with non-signers. But there are very few situations at a deaf school where speaking is an absolute necessity. Let’s face it–speaking is more of a convenience than anything else for hearing people, which is only understandable given that it’s been their main mode of communication for all their lives. Even so, we’re talking about deaf schools where the majority signs. Many schools have signs saying, SIGN LANGUAGE USED HERE. Shouldn’t this mean that sign language is used 24 hours a day on campus, not only when deaf people are around?

Signing at all times, without speaking (and by this I mean signing and speaking at the same time, which is a whole other column), would have such tremendous benefit for everyone involved. Hearing (and probably deaf) signers would have improved fluency, especially those who didn’t learn ASL as a first language. Deaf people wouldn’t feel as if their presence was being announced by the sudden pick-up of hands. Students and teachers would feel comfortable knowing that ASL was available at all times anywhere on campus, rather than only when deaf people were around.

I told my friend that I agreed wholeheartedly with him, but that it’d probably never happen. He said, “Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

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

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

A few weeks ago, I told a 16-year-old boy that his ASL was wonderfully fluent. He looked surprised, but grinned as he thanked me.

I did this because of a father I met a few years ago. I was asked to give a particular speech I had done at an earlier conference, this time to a group of parents. At the end of the speech, there was a question-and-answer session.

A father of a 14-year-old boy went into an explanation of how his “hearing-impaired” son was obviously smart, but he found it frustrating that his son struggled with where to place commas. I glanced over at his son sitting next to him, and the boy was clearly embarrassed. The father ended by asking if commas were found in ASL.

I thanked the father for asking a good question, and explained that there are the equivalent of commas (head pauses, body movement, etc.) in ASL. I also said gently that I, as a deaf person, would be more concerned about whether a deaf child could read Hemingway or communicate his feelings. I added that I preferred to encourage deaf children in expressing themselves, rather than pigeonhole their comma use. The boy smiled at me and nodded in gratitude. The father sat down, deep in thought. After the session, the boy approached me shyly, and I was blown away by how intelligent he was, and how gentle yet beautiful his signing was.

That afternoon, as I drove the 90 miles back to my home, I wondered: had anyone ever told the boy how good he signed? I immediately regretted not having told him.

Here’s why. When I returned to public school as a young teenager, my ASL was criticized by an interpreter who would laugh and mimic my speedy signing by voicing in shrill tones for the benefit of the hearing students. After a while, I started refusing to go to class, so Mom notified my guidance counselor/interpreter coordinator, who was also a CODA. He immediately took care of the situation. Even though the interpreter and I eventually became good friends, I still get self-conscious nowadays about my ASL. If only someone had told me back then that my ASL was beautifully fluent. . .

I promised myself on that drive home that I would start praising deaf people—especially children—on their ASL. They get criticized enough on their English and speaking skills, but are rarely complimented, if ever, on their ASL fluency.

Won’t you please do the same today, and praise a deaf person’s ASL?

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

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

We’re well into basketball season, and I’ve become a basketball widow for the ninth year. Randy, my partner, is the head coach of the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf boys varsity team, and I try to go to as many games as I can.

There’s almost nothing more American than attending high school games. The athletic talents the young fellows at MSAD have are just amazing, and I’ve seen some of them grow from little boys into young men. Each game I go to–whether the team loses or wins–makes me go home feeling uplifted and inspired. The moments of disappointment and joy hold wonderful life lessons for me.

Case in point: I was at an invitational tournament over the weekend at Pillsbury College in Owatonna, Minnesota, a Baptist college. The boys were playing a team that was expected to win. The game started out 0-7, MSAD down. The referees made some unfair calls, and many of us protested, saying among ourselves ‘hate deaf, favor hearing!’–the age-old gripe from deaf fans. It probably wasn’t true, of course, but it made us feel better saying things like that; it was our duty as fans.

After a few baskets, MSAD suddenly hit a three-pointer and managed to climb its way into the lead. The game ended at 59-44, in favor of MSAD. In addition to the excitement and loud roars from the MSAD crowd throughout the game, the other team was so frustrated at one moment that one of its own players, #20, walked up to #33 and grabbed his chest, spewing anger. The coach called a time-out, and #20 started spewing at everyone so much that the coach had to literally and physically push him down into his seat. This, of course, thrilled the crowd, and some people said, “Good, teach #20 a lesson!” While this was hardly mature behavior on the crowd’s part, it was all in the name of the game. But the lesson I took from this incident: no matter what we do, it has an effect on others. #20’s angry outbursts definitely lowered the morale of the opposing team, and I’m sure, embarrassed the team.

Even the hearing fans in attendance for other schools were cheering for MSAD. Was it because MSAD has a great team? Or was it because they wanted to root for the underdogs? Or because they wanted to see “deaf” succeed? I wondered, but didn’t care, as long as we could shout and clap all we wanted. Ultimately, the boys came in second at the tournament, as did the MSAD girls.

Watching these kids play a competitive game in a small town in the middle of Minnesota–now, that’s my idea of good, clean fun.

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