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

The State of Virginia apparently believes that deaf people walk using their ears.

It’s the only reason I can think of why Virginia grants disabled license plates to deaf residents so they can park in handicapped parking spots.

I didn’t believe that this could even be possibly true when I was first notified. I went to Virginia’s Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) website to check it out–and sure enough, it’s for real.

“DMV offers parking placards and plates for customers with temporary or permanent disabilities that limit or impair their mobility. They are also available to customers with a condition that creates a safety concern while walking (examples are Alzheimer’s disease, blindness or developmental amentia),” the website said. “These placards and plates entitle the holder to park in special parking spaces reserved for individuals with disabilities. Institutions and organizations that operate special vehicles equipped to carry persons with disabilities may also obtain parking placards and plates entitling them to special parking privileges.”

On the application form, under “Permanent Disabilities,” the applicant is to choose one of the following that best describes him:

“Has been diagnosed with a mental or developmental amentia or delay that impairs judgment including, but not limited to, an autism spectrum disorder; has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease or another form of dementia; is legally blind or deaf; Other condition that creates a safety concern while walking because of impaired judgment or other physical, developmental, or mental limitation.”

Uh… do deaf people really want to align themselves with disabilities where mental functions are challenged? Wouldn’t that pretty much support the notion that deaf people are helpless, lacking, and ‘impaired’? Doesn’t that contradict with the whole notion of resisting the “hearing impaired” label?

I, for one, think the idea of deaf people with no other disabilities using handicapped parking spots is ridiculous. I can understand deaf people with additional disabilities having disabled plates–that’s completely justified. But to be deaf and want disabled plates just to get handicapped spots? I don’t care if the plates come in handy for holiday shopping in December. It’s just silly, and a flagrant abuse of the system, even as legal as it may be in Virginia.

Besides, what’s wrong with walking?

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 feel old-fashioned, because I prefer using Internet relay rather than using video relay services (VRS). Whenever I tell friends this, they look flabbergasted. “But you strong ASL! Why prefer type? Time waste, slow.”

I can’t seem to get comfortable with VRS yet, even though there are so many pluses to using VRS. When I called my grandmother using VRS for the first time, her immediate response was a surprised “Oh, this is fast!” It was definitely much more convenient for me to use my native language, and I loved how quick the conversation was. It was so much more natural for both my grandmother and me.

But I hated not being able to save the conversation, and I hated not being 100% in control of the words used. That’s the control freak in me: I like knowing that the words spoken are the exact words I have in mind. When I use interpreters in “real life,” I monitor, usually by lipreading, the interpreters constantly to make sure they’re speaking the exact words I have in mind. It’s a bit harder to lipread VRS interpreters, and that’s a drawback for me.

I also feel almost a bit too exposed when I use VRS. It’s that much less private for me, even if I have no idea of who most of the VRS interpreters are, and they’re bound by ethics. I just feel exposed when I discuss personal matters via VRS.

Good example: I received a letter from the Internal Revenue Service saying I owed back taxes to the State of Illinois for the year of 2001, even though I didn’t live in Illinois that year. So I had to call and try to straighten this out. Before I gave the phone number to the VRS interpreter, I felt compelled to defend myself, explaining to the poor interpreter that I didn’t owe taxes, was a law-abiding citizen, and didn’t owe anything. After it was confirmed that the letter had been sent to me by mistake and I was disconnected from the hearing caller, I smiled and said, “See? I knew I was innocent.” The interpreter nodded politely with a knowing smile, and we hung up. She probably thought I was crazy.

I don’t think I’d have felt as self-conscious if there hadn’t been a face staring back at me on my computer. I’ll continue to use VRS whenever I can, but if it’s a personal matter, I’ll use Internet relay services. I guess I’m just funny that way.

UPDATE (10/07/05): I now prefer VRS to Internet Relay. 🙂

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.

Is it just me, or does the MCI commercial on television worry you, too?

It’s the one with a guy singing praise to MCI or whatever he’s saying. I have no idea what he’s saying because MCI, instead of captioning the commercial, has chosen to show closed captions about IP-Relay.

There are several other commercials that also put the TTY number (usually at the top of the television screen), when in reality the spoken words are providing the voice number.

Is this really acceptable? I didn’t really care before, and thought it was a great tool in publicizing TTY or relay services. But now, the more I think about it, the more I find it somewhat disturbing for one reason. If this trend continues, then people might think it’s okay to put in substitute messages instead of the actual text–and we might never know, unless we’re expert lipreaders or if someone notifies us. What’s to stop other companies from putting in their own messages/text instead of captioning the actual dialogue? Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing, but the possibilities are not appealing to me.

I remember when I was little, I’d feel frustrated when Sesame Street ‘dumbed down’ its captions–Oscar would still be moving his mouth long after the captions, usually consisting of two or three words, ended. Captioning folks I spoke with said they reduced the number of words because deaf children’s literacy levels were so low. When I challenged this, they quickly changed their answers and blamed speed of dialogue for the dumbing down.

Whatever the reason–instead of having a bunch of hearing folks with probably very little direct experience (if any) with deaf people, I have a great idea. How about letting us decide for ourselves? Besides, MCI (or any other relay provider, for that matter) could do a television ad about relay services. Wouldn’t that be much better, and probably a great public relations move, for these companies? I don’t care if the money isn’t available. They certainly make enough money off my calls to produce a television ad.

Until then, I’ll just change the channel whenever the MCI ad comes on. I’d like to decide for myself whether I want to watch or not, thank you.

P.S. One of my first articles for this fine e-zine asked if anyone knew of deaf people working for captioning companies. The grand total to date is still at one hard of hearing person.

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.

These are actual incidents that took place within the past few months.

At a NFSD brunch I recently attended, we were told of a conversation that an interpreter had overheard. The Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf girls’ basketball players had creamed a hearing team from River Falls, Wisconsin. One of the hearing kids was overheard telling one of the River Falls girls, “You got beaten by people who use closed captioning!”

So much for being called deaf and dumb.

At the same NFSD brunch, I was seated at a table with a married couple, both CODA and the only hearing people in the room. As I was chatting with them, they suddenly looked at the waitress, who had asked, “Anyone here who can hear?” So they identified themselves as being hearing. Later, the waitress (who never once tried to communicate directly with the deaf customers) came back, pointed at the male CODA, and called, “Hey, you hearing man!”

So much for identities.

I had a guy come to fix our modem, which had been down for a few days. When I realized he was at the door since my dogs were barking wildly, I was puzzled – I hadn’t seen the doorbell light flash, even though I was seated right in front of it for an hour. I asked the man – who has a deaf cousin – later, “Did you press the doorbell?”

He responded, “No, how would you have heard it?” His plan, he told me, was to stand there and wave at me through the door (which has a very narrow window) until I noticed him. When I pointed out the light to him, his jaw dropped.

So much for accessibility.

I went to Barnes and Noble to pick up a couple of crossword puzzle books. While I was at the register paying for the books, I was talking with my boyfriend on my Sidekick. The clerk spoke to me, so I looked up and indicated that I was deaf by the good ole point-to-ear-and-shake-head-no. I pointed to my check card on the counter, and went back to my pager.

As the worker gave me the receipt to sign, she suddenly stopped, as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Um… can you sign… um… can you write?” she asked, making gestures as if signing a receipt. Thrown off, I looked at her, and nodded. My boyfriend says I should have given her my business card, which clearly states my profession: “Trudy Suggs, T.S. Writing Services.”

So much for overcoming stereotypes.

Happy Holidays.

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 can’t count how many times I’ve been at gatherings, sitting in a circle chatting, and suddenly realize that most of the people in the circle have deaf parents. I’ve always been fascinated by the phenomenon of deaf people who have deaf parents (or DOD–Deaf of Deaf) gathering with each other unplanned. And I’ve been told by deaf people who have hearing parents as they roll their eyes, “Nothing new! Deaf family always group-group, reject hearing family!” Even though most DOD people socialize with all types of people (it’d be impossible not to), I started wondering why this congregation tends to happen. The number of DOD people is supposedly now at seven percent, down from ten percent.

How is it that such DOD folks, as few as they are, seem to always end up together at events?

So I decided to survey several DOD people to find out why this natural attraction to each other happens. Mind you, the folks I surveyed are hardly elitist. Some are married to hearing spouses; others to deaf spouses from hearing families; some are partnered with other DOD people; some are from public school backgrounds; others are from deaf schools; and so on.

Yet most of the people I talked with said the same thing: it’s probably because we grew up in the same culture with the same values. When we get together, even if our backgrounds are vastly different, we automatically chat as if we’ve known each other all our lives. It’s also easy for us to quickly detect a person is from a deaf family. Perhaps it’s the language fluency. Perhaps it’s the deeply embedded cultural aspects of having grown up with minimal or no communication problems. Or perhaps it’s just because we all come from the same childhood.

The respondents were also in agreement on one thing: it’s almost never intentional. I often find myself feeling a strong, unspoken kinship with DOD people and CODA, even if I meet them only once. I can’t explain why. When I’m with these people, I know we share an intimate understanding of how it is to grow up attending deaf events as early as a baby, seeing our parents go about their lives, and having full access to their conversations and thoughts.

There is a family here that I visit often. As I chat with the deaf parents, their three deaf kids often sit and watch our conversations, soaking up every word. This always takes me back to my childhood, when I would sit and watch my parents talk to their friends, absorbing everything, especially the adult topics and cuss words. This is an experience that can be best understood by those who had parents that provided full communication access, such as hearing of hearing or DOD.

I wonder: if DOD folks formed an organization of sorts–much like CODA International–would it cause bitterness among the rest of the deaf community? Would we be ostracized as being too elitist carrying a hidden agenda? Hard of hearing people have their own groups, late-deafened people have their own groups, oral people have their own groups, and so on. But they aren’t called elitist, are they? Hmm.

What I do know is that deaf individuals who have deaf parents have a natural, unintentional bond. And I will never, ever apologize for this bond.

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.

As I walked into Target, I saw a beautiful yellow lab in front of me wearing a yellow hearing dog vest. I quickly checked if the woman walking the dog was anyone I knew, but she wasn’t. She went to the customer service desk, somewhat struggling to walk the dog as she pushed a cart, and started speaking easily to the customer service representative. Obviously she was either hard of hearing or could speak well (she had no hearing aids on, but seemed to understand the representative’s spoken words as she looked away)–and I started thinking. Why would she need a hearing dog in Target? Why would anyone, for that matter?

Mind you, I think dogs are the best companions on this earth. Ask my friends and they’ll tell you I can literally talk for hours about dogs. I am blessed with two dogs, and wish every single day that I could own thousands more. I probably can understand better than anyone why people would want to bring their dogs anywhere. I believe hearing dogs serve a wonderful purpose, especially when at home. I’d love to have one someday.

But hearing dogs in Target? What’s up with that? Are there dangers lurking around every aisle corner in the store? Running children and aggressive cart-pushers will be in your way, dog or no.

Once, I helped organize a health care reform panel, with distinguished panelists. A deaf panelist brought her hearing dog–an adorable mini-poodle–up on stage with her. I wasn’t sure what the dog’s role was, when all the participants were deaf and there were interpreters standing by. Needless to say, it became distracting to watch the dog instead of the panelist.

Many people have gotten fake IDs or claim that their dogs are hearing dogs in order to have their dogs travel with them on planes and go into specific places. In fact, I did that once. I went on a solo camping trip to the Rocky Mountain National Park, and found out that they didn’t allow dogs on most trails. Since I was alone and couldn’t just leave the dog in my truck, especially after driving hours to get where I was–I decided to tell the park ranger that my dog was a hearing dog. I didn’t have an ID or anything, and would have left if they said no. But they believed me, and we hiked happily all day. I think this is called working the system.

Still, would I ever try to bring a hearing dog (or claim that my dog was one) in a store or a movie theatre? I don’t think so. I like to believe that I’m independent enough that I can navigate a movie theatre or a restaurant using the best tools I have: my eyes and common sense.

To each his own.

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’ve been a lifetime member of the National Fraternal Society of the Deaf–since I was a baby. I remember going to “Frat meetings” held at the local bowling alley’s meeting room, and I’ve always had a keen interest in NFSD’s insurance business and its social activities. The company has done great things for the deaf community, including giving away scholarships to college. NFSD, unlike many businesses in today’s society, has no serious financial problems, and has a strong board full of experienced leaders.

In spite of its grand history and contributions, many feel (and I do, too) that NFSD is experiencing a slow, drawn-out death. According to the most recent issue of NFSD’s newsletter, only 3,000 copies of the company’s newsletter are distributed each quarter. Each issue usually has a long list of death notices, probably because the majority of members are of senior citizen age. NFSD’s membership and recognition factor are becoming a distant memory. I only know a handful of people my age (late 20s) who are members, and whenever I mention NFSD to friends, they give me a blank stare, not knowing what the acronym means. Just before he passed away, former Grand President Frank B. Sullivan told me that he felt NFSD would not last much longer.

I’ve long said NFSD needs to reach out to youngsters and college students. Heck, Gallaudet used to have a NFSD chapter way back when NFSD has certainly tried to reach out, by granting All-American honors to deaf high school athletes (who get no-frills certificates and are listed in the newsletter). Even so, there are many additional steps NFSD could take to slow down the decline.

For one thing, the NFSD website could be redesigned–it’s not very visually appealing right now. The newsletter could be improved and become more timely/relevant to NFSD (two of the stories in the current issues were similar to ones that I had written many months earlier). The current version has pages of dull, detailed chapter news that are rarely even remotely interesting–I’m more interested in what these chapters have done for their communities.

NFSD advertises in Deaf Digest, but the ads are filled with ditties (short, rhyming songs or poems)–which many deaf readers tell me they do not enjoy, since the ditties are usually sound-based (check http://www.nfsd.com –there’s one on the very front page). The board roster includes a lot of big names, including Benjamin Soukup and Dr. Peter Seiler–yet none of the members are younger than 35.

NFSD is near and dear to my heart, and I’ll definitely be getting involved with the local chapter for a long time. I believe the current president, Al Van Nevel, has done amazing things for the company in many ways, but there are more factors involved than just good leadership. I fear NFSD will soon become another casualty of the deaf community’s shrinkage, and this saddens me.

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.

What do the Mark Twain Museum in Hannibal, Mo., and the SPAM Museum in Austin, Minn., have in common?

Both museums–located in small towns in the middle of nowhere–are deaf-friendly.

My grandmother lives just across the Mississippi from Twain’s old stomping grounds, so I grew up always having visited the Twain sites–and was always bored out of my mind by the talky-talk tours. I had warned my boyfriend, Randy, about the speaking tour before we arrived. So we were very surprised to find that the movie at the museum was captioned. In fact, the workers went out of their way to make sure of this, and were very knowledgeable about how to turn the captions on.

Last Saturday, Randy and I went to the SPAM Museum (the meat, not e-mail). As we entered the impressive building, an elderly worker came up to us and explained that the wall behind us had 3,499 cans of SPAM–and that we could watch the movie or go ahead to the actual museum. We chose the museum.

Much to our surprise, almost all of the television displays and even a game room with Al Frankel as a televised host had closed captioning buttons. Even if some of the videos were silly (it was the SPAM Museum, after all), we were thrilled because now we could -choose- to watch or not.

The odd thing is that in many major cities, I’ve been unable to gain access to the spoken tours or displays at museums or tourist spots. A friend and I toured Independence Hall in Philadelphia on a whim in 2002, and nothing was accessible for us. We asked for printed transcripts–nothing was available. After sitting through a lengthy film, we suffered a dull, lengthy spoken tour of the buildings. Fortunately we both love history, so he and I were able to entertain ourselves. Afterwards, I sent in a letter expressing my concerns. I never got a response.

Even if I could’ve arranged for interpreters by calling in advance, many of the sights I see are made on impulse, especially if I’m driving and suddenly see the sight. It’s almost a trade-off–advance planning for accessibility, or impulse visits without accessibility. Maybe in a couple of years, we can have impulse tours of notable sights that are accessible.

Until then–go check out the SPAM Museum. They have an awesome gift shop where you can buy me a long-sleeved t-shirt (navy blue, please).

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 boyfriend’s mother’s sister’s oldest daughter’s oldest five children’s father’s sister is my stepdad’s ex-wife (it helps if you draw a chart). No, my boyfriend and I are not related. Thankfully.

Deaf people often joke about how closely intertwined the deaf community is. I always say that the six degrees of separation theory (that people in this world are connected to each other within six people) is dramatically reduced to three degrees (two for those from deaf families) within the deaf community.

Nowhere is this intertwined nature more evident than at Ringo.com. The latest fad to hit the deaf community, Ringo allows members to list friends (complete with self-written biographies and pictures) on their pages. If these friends are also other people’s friends, the connection is listed, so you can see which of your friends have the same people on their page you have on yours.

Fascinated by Ringo the first few days, I pored through listings of my friends’ friends and their friends. Each time someone asked me to be listed as their “friend,” it was like an affirmation: “Yes, you’re my friend. Share your picture with my friends!”

There are some drawbacks, though. Some people I barely know ask me to be on their list of friends–and out of politeness, I usually say okay. There are also messages from men “looking for a woman,” even though I clearly list that I’m in a relationship. With Ringo.com’s limit at 300 friends per member, I suspect the fad will die out within a few months. Ringo is in reality a popularity contest, and the novelty has long worn off for me.

Nonetheless, I’ve reconnected with people I haven’t seen in decades. It’s also fun to look at everyone’s pictures and get a glimpse into their lives. Really, it’s a brilliant way to demonstrate the almost-sick interconnectedness of the deaf community.

So I’m going to enjoy Ringo while it lasts.

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.

The waiter came over to us and handed me a note. A friend and I were at a restaurant having dinner, laughing and exchanging animated stories.

The note said, “The man that was sitting behind you earlier paid for your tab and said he has a little daughter that is deaf. He said to tell you ladies to have a great day!”

We sat there, looking at each other in complete surprise. We hadn’t even noticed the man, who had already left. What an incredible random act of kindness, we thought.

This led to a discussion about how we often make an impact upon hearing people without even realizing it. Anytime, anywhere we use ASL, we’re sending out a message.

And I like to think that this message is a positive one: that we lead normal, happy lives, and that we -choose- to use ASL.

I told my friend about how I walked into the National Fraternal Society of the Deaf office one time and approached the office assistant (who was hearing). She smiled and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?” I didn’t, and apparently, I had taught her how to fingerspell the alphabet when we rode the bus to day camp. I was flabbergasted–I don’t remember much about the camp, but I do remember being a bit isolated at the camp, being the only deaf camper. I can’t even remember riding the bus.

Often this has happened: when I’m out in public using ASL, deaf children come up to me and ask if I really am deaf just like them. I love how their faces light up when I nod happily and say, “SAME!”

We all have had ‘coincidence’ encounters like that. But I, deep in my heart, believe they’re no coincidence. Whenever we use ASL in public, we’re setting a wonderful example. Phooey on those who pity us. They have no idea what they’re missing.

Besides, if using ASL gets me a free dinner, I’m all for it.

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