by Oliver Sacks
Deaf depreciation, deaf deference, deaf passivity, and even deaf shame were all too common before the early 1970s; one sees this, very clearly, in the 1970 novel by Joanne Greenberg, In This Sign—and it took Stokoe’s dictionary, and the legitimation of Sign by linguists, to allow the beginnings of a movement in the opposite direction, a movement toward deaf identity and deaf pride.
This was essential, but, of course, not the only factor in the deaf movement since 1960: there were many other factors of equal force, and all flowed together to produce the revolution of 1988. There was the mood of the sixties, with its special feeling for the poor, the disabled, the minorities—the civil rights movement, the political activism, the varied “pride” and “liberation” movements; all this was afoot at the same time that Sign was slowly, and against much resistance, being legitimated scientifically, and while the deaf were slowly collecting a sense of self-esteem and hope, and fighting against the negative images and feelings that had dogged them for a century. There was an increasing tolerance, generally, for cultural diversity, an increasing sense that peoples could be profoundly different, yet all be valuable and equal to one another; an increasing sense, specifically, that the deaf were a “people,” and not merely a number of isolated, abnormal, disabled individuals; a movement from the medical or pathological view to an anthropological, sociological, or ethnic view.20
Going along with this depathologizing was an increase in portrayals of deaf people in every medium, from documentaries to plays and novels—a portrayal increasingly sympathetic and imaginative. Changing social attitudes and changing self-image were both reflected in, and affected by, these: the image ceased to be that of the diffident and pathetic Mr. Singer in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and became the audacious heroine of Children of a Lesser God; Sign was introduced on television, in such programs as “Sesame Street,” and started to become a popular elective at some schools. The entire country became more aware of the previously invisible and inaudible deaf; and they too became more aware of themselves, of their increasing visibility and power in society. Deaf people, and those who studied them, started to look back into the past—to discover (or create) a deaf history, a deaf mythology, a deaf heritage.21
Thus, within twenty years of Stokoe’s paper, new awareness, new motives, new forces of all sorts were combining—a new movement was afoot, a confrontation was in the making. The 1970s saw the rise not only of Deaf Pride but of Deaf Power. Leaders arose among the previously passive deaf. A new vocabulary arose, with such words as “self-determination” and “paternalism” in it. The deaf, who had previously accepted characterizations of themselves as “disabled” and “dependent”—for this is how they had been regarded by the hearing—now started to think of themselves as powerful, as an autonomous community.22 Sooner or later, it was clear, there would have to be a revolt, a striking political assertion of self-determination and independence, and a once-and-for-all repudiation of paternalism.
The accusation that the Gallaudet authorities were “deaf in the mind” implies no malevolence, but rather a misdirected paternalism, which, deaf people feel, is anything but benign—based as it is on pity and condescension, and on an implicit view of them as “incompetent,” if not diseased. Special objection has been made to some of the doctors involved in Gallaudet’s affairs, who, it is felt, tend to see the deaf merely as having diseased ears and not as whole people adapted to another sensory mode. In general, it is felt this offensive benevolence hinges on a value judgment by the hearing, their saying: “We know what is best for you. Let us handle things,” whether this is in response to the choice of language (allowing, or not allowing, Sign), or in judging capacities for education or jobs. It is still sometimes felt, or again felt—after the more spacious opportunities offered in the mid-nineteenth century—that deaf people should be printers, or work in the post office, do “humble” jobs and not aspire to higher education. The deaf, in other words, felt they were being dictated to, that they were being treated as children. Bob Johnson told me a typical story:
It’s been my impression, after having been here for several years, that the Gallaudet faculty and staff treat students as pets. One student, for example, went to the Outreach office; they had announced there would be an opportunity to practice interviewing for jobs. The idea was to sign up for a genuine interview and learn how to do it. So he went and put his name on a list. The next day a woman from the Outreach office called and told him she had set up the interview, had found an interpreter, had set up the time, had arranged for a car to take him … and she couldn’t understand why he got mad at her. He told her, “The reason I was doing this was so that I could learn how to call the person, and learn how to get the car, and learn how to get the interpreter, and you’re doing it for me. That’s not what I want here.” That’s the meat of the issue.
Far from being childlike or incompetent, as they were “supposed” to be (and so often they supposed themselves to be), the students at Gallaudet showed high competence in managing the March revolt. This impressed me especially when I wandered into the communications room, the nerve-center of Gallaudet during the strike, with its central office filled with TTY-equipped telephones.23 Here the deaf students contacted the press and television—invited them in, gave interviews, compiled news, issued press releases, round the clock—masterfully; here they raised funds for a “Deaf Prez Now” campaign; here they solicited, successfully, support from Congress, presidential candidates, union leaders. They gained the world’s ear, at this extraordinary time, when they needed it.
Even the administration listened—so that after four days of seeing the students as foolish and rebellious children who needed to be brought into line, Dr. Zinser was forced to pause, to listen, to reexamine her own long-held assumptions, to see things in a new light—and, finally, to resign. She did so in terms that were moving and seemed genuine, saying that neither she nor the board had anticipated the fervor and commitment of the protesters, or that their protest was the leading edge of a burgeoning national movement for deaf rights. “I have responded to this extraordinary social movement of deaf people,” she said as she tendered her resignation on the night of March 10 and spoke of coming to see this as “a very special moment in time,” one that was “unique, a civil rights moment in history for deaf people.”
Friday, March 11: The mood on campus is completely transformed. A battle has been won. There is elation. More battles have to be fought. Placards with the students’ four demands have been replaced with placards saying, “3 1/2,” because the resignation of Dr. Zinser only goes halfway toward meeting the first demand, that there be a deaf president immediately. But there is also a gentleness that is new, the tension and anger of Thursday have gone, along with the possibility of a drawn-out, humiliating defeat. A largeness of spirit is everywhere apparent—released now, I partly feel, by the grace and the words with which Zinser resigned, words in which she aligned herself with, and wished the best for, what she called an “extraordinary social movement.”
Support is coming in from every quarter: three hundred deaf students from the National Technical Institute for the Deaf arrive, elated and exhausted, after a fifteen-hour bus ride from Rochester, New York. Deaf schools throughout the country are closed in total support. Deaf people flood in from every state—I see signs from Iowa and Alabama, from Canada, from South America, as well as from Europe, even from New Zealand. Events at Gallaudet have dominated the national press for forty-eight hours. Virtually every car going past Gallaudet honks now, and the streets are filled with supporters as the time for the march on the Capitol comes near. And yet, for all the honking, the speeches, the banners, the pickets, an extraordinary atmosphere of quietness and dignity prevails.
Noon: There are now about 2,500 people, a thousand students from Gallaudet and the rest supporters, as we start on a slow march to the Capitol. As we walk a wonderful sense of quietness grows, which puzzles me. It is not wholly physical (indeed, there is rather a lot of noise in a way
—the ear-splitting yells of the deaf, as a start), and I decide it is, rather, the quietness of a moral drama. The sense of history in the air gives it this strange quietness.
Slowly, for there are children, babes-in-arms, and some physically disabled among us (some deaf-blind, some ataxic, and some on crutches)—slowly, and with a mixed sense of resolve and festivity, we walk to the Capitol, and there, in the clear March sun that has shone the entire week, we unfurl banners and raise pickets. One great banner says WE STILL HAVE A DREAM, and another, with the individual letters carried by fourteen people, simply says: HELP US CONGRESS.
We are packed together, but there is no sense of a crowd, rather of an extraordinary camaraderie. Just before the speeches start, I find myself hugged—I think it must be someone I know, but it is a student bearing a sign ALABAMA, who hugs me, punches my shoulder, smiles, as a comrade. We are strangers, but yet, at this special moment, we are comrades.
There are many speeches—from Greg Hlibok, from some of the faculty, from congressmen and senators. I listen for a while:
It is an irony [says one, a professor at Gallaudet] that Gallaudet has never had a deaf chief executive officer. Virtually every black college has a black president, testimony that black people are leading themselves. Virtually every women’s college has a woman as president, as testimony that women are capable of leading themselves. It’s long past time that Gallaudet had a deaf president as testimony that deaf people are leading themselves.
I let my attention wander, taking in the scene as a whole: thousands of people, each intensely individual, but bound and united with a single sentiment. After the speeches, there is a break of an hour, during which a number of people go in to see congressmen. But most of the group, who have brought packed lunches in on their backs, now sit and eat and talk, or rather sign, in the great plaza before the Capitol—and this, for me, as for all those who have come or chanced to see it, is one of the most wonderful scenes of all. For here are a thousand or more people signing freely, in a public place—not privately, at home, or in the enclosure of Gallaudet—but openly and unself-consciously, and beautifully, before the Capitol.
The press has reported all the speeches, but missed what is surely equally significant. They failed to give the watching world an actual vision of the fullness and vividness, the unmedical life, of the deaf. And once more, as I wander among the huge throng of signers, as they chat over sandwiches and sodas before the Capitol, I find myself remembering the words of a deaf student at the California School for the Deaf, who had signed on television:
We are a unique people, with our own culture, our own language—American Sign Language, which has just recently been recognized as a language in itself—and that sets us apart from hearing people.
I walk back from the Capitol with Bob Johnson. I myself tend to be apolitical and have difficulty even comprehending the vocabulary of politics. Bob, a pioneer Sign linguist, who has taught and researched at Gallaudet for years, says as we walk back:
It’s really remarkable, because in all my experience I’ve seen deaf people be passive and accept the kind of treatment that hearing people give them. I’ve seen them willing, or seem to be willing, to be “clients,” when in fact they should be controlling things … now all at once there’s been a transformation in the consciousness of what it means to be a deaf person in the world, to take responsibility for things. The illusion that deaf people are powerless—all at once, now, that illusion has gone, and that means the whole nature of things can change for them now. I’m very optimistic and extremely enthusiastic about what I’m going to see over the next few years.
“I don’t quite understand what you mean by ‘clients,’ ” I say.
You know Tim Rarus [Bob explains]—the one you saw at the barricades this morning, whose signing you so admired as pure and passionate—well, he summed up in two words what this transformation is all about. He said, “It’s very simple. No deaf president, no university,” and then he shrugged his shoulders, looked at the TV cameras, and that was his whole statement. That was the first time deaf people ever realized that a colonial client-industry like this can’t exist without the client. It’s a billion-dollar industry for hearing people. If deaf people don’t participate, the industry is gone.
Saturday has a delightful, holiday air about it—it is a day off (some of the students have been working virtually nonstop from the first demonstration on Sunday evening), and a day for cookouts on the campus. But even here the issues are not forgotten. The very names of the foods have a satirical edge: the choice lies between “Spilman dogs” and “Board burgers.” The campus is festive now that students and schoolchildren from a score of other states have come in (a little deaf black girl from Arkansas, seeing all the signers around her, says in Sign, “It’s like a family to me today”). There has also been an influx of deaf artists from all over, some coming to document and celebrate this unique event in the history of the deaf.
Greg Hlibok is relaxed, but very vigilant: “We feel that we are in control. We are taking things easy. We don’t want to go too far.” Two days earlier, Zinser was threatening to “take control.” What one sees today is self-control, that quiet consciousness and confidence that comes from an inner strength and certainty.
Sunday evening, March 13: The board met today, for nine hours. There were nine hours of tension, waiting … no one knowing what was to come. Then the door opened, and Philip Bravin, one of the four deaf board members and known to all the deaf students, appeared. His appearance—and not Spilman’s—already told the story, before he made his revelations in Sign. He was speaking now, he signed, as chairman of the board, for Spilman had resigned. And his first task now, with the board behind him, was the happy one of announcing that King Jordan had been elected the new president.
King Jordan, deafened at the age of twenty-one, has been at Gallaudet for fifteen years; he is dean of the School of Arts and Sciences, a popular, modest, and unusually sane man, who at first supported Zinser when she was selected.24 Greatly moved, Jordan, in simultaneous Sign and speech, says:
I am thrilled to accept the invitation of the board of trustees to become the president of Gallaudet University. This is a historic moment for deaf people around the world. This week we can truly say that we together, united, have overcome our reluctance to stand for our rights. The world has watched the deaf community come of age. We will no longer accept limits on what we can achieve. The highest praise goes to the students of Gallaudet for showing us exactly even now how one can seize an idea with such force that it becomes a reality.
With this, the dam bursts, and jubilation bursts out everywhere. As everyone returns to Gallaudet for a final, triumphal meeting, Jordan says, “They know now that the cap on what they can achieve has been lifted. We know that deaf people can do anything hearing people can except hear.” And Hlibok, hugging Jordan, adds, “We have climbed to the top of the mountain, and we have climbed together.”
Monday, March 14: Gallaudet looks normal on the surface. The barricades have been taken down, the campus is open. The “uprising” has lasted exactly one week—from last Sunday evening, March 6th, when Dr. Zinser was forced on an unwilling university, to the happy resolution last night, that utterly different Sunday evening, when all was changed.
“It took seven days to create the world, it took us seven days to change it”—this was the joke of the students, flashed in Sign from one end of the campus to another. And with this feeling they took their spring break, going back to their families throughout the country, carrying the euphoric news and mood with them.
But objective change, historical change, does not happen in a week, even though its first prerequisite, “the transformation of consciousness,” may happen, as it did, in a day. “Many of the students,” Bob Johnson told me, “don’t realize the extent and the time that are going to be involved in changing, though they do have a sense now of their strength and power.… The structure of oppression is so deeply engrained.”
And yet there are beginnings. There is a new “image” and a new movement, not merely at Gallaudet but throughout the deaf world. News reports, especially on television, have made the deaf articulate and visible across the entire nation. But the profoundest effect, of course, has been on the deaf themselves. It has welded them into a community, a worldwide community, as never before.25
There has already been a deep impact, if only symbolic, upon deaf children. One of King Jordan’s first acts, when the college reconvened after spring break, was to visit the grade school at Gallaudet and talk to the children there, something no president had ever done before. Such concern has to affect their perception of what they can become. (Deaf children sometimes think they will “turn into” hearing adults, or else be feeble, put-upon creatures if they do not.) Charlotte, in Albany, watched the events at Gallaudet on television with great excitement, donned a “Deaf Power” T-shirt, and practiced a “Deaf Power” salute. And two months after the revolt at Gallaudet I found myself attending the annual graduation at the Lexington School for the Deaf, which has been a stronghold of oral education since the 1860s. Greg Hlibok, an alumnus, had been invited as the guest speaker (signer); Philip Bravin was also invited; and all the commencement speeches, for the first time in one hundred and twenty years, were given in Sign. None of this would have been conceivable without the Gallaudet revolt.