Finding Zoe. Gail Harris
teachers and other deaf adults, they grew up immersed in Deaf Culture and ASL.
When I arrived at NTID, it felt like Camp Mark Seven to the nth degree. I was in heaven—an entire university filled with deaf students for me to meet, hang out with, and learn from. I was back in a communication-accessible environment twenty-four hours a day; I had arrived. There were deaf dorms, professors, staff, counselors, RAs, organizations, parties, sororities, fraternities—2,000 deaf people, just like me, who brought their “being deaf” with them to explore and cultivate. I had found my niche: people to whom I could relate on all levels, people who had pride in themselves and their culture, and people whose culture was so important to them that they were full-force with it, wanting to support others on their journeys as well.
Even though most of us at NTID hadn’t grown up in the Deaf community, the bond and the understanding that we all shared allowed the Deaf Culture, which we had longed for, to be easily cultivated and expressed. We inhaled it. Discovering that deafness wasn’t our enemy nurtured our sense of self-acceptance and belonging. Classes and workshops on deaf-related issues and support from deaf professors helped us find our place within the Deaf community. In that milieu, I continued to evaluate myself.
My struggles with trying to fit in but feeling different in the hearing community had fueled my lifelong desire to be the best—not the best in relation to others, but the best that I could be. Now I believed that I had the best—the best communication, friends, teachers—everything. I was driven, aware that I was changing, but I knew that the change wasn’t complete yet. I quickly became a member of the NTID Student Council. I was being propelled onward—the pull toward accepting being deaf was increasing by multitudes.
Yet, I was also in a major identity crisis, feeling angry and rebellious at my family and Matt, whom I felt didn’t understand what it was like to be deaf or how important being deaf was to me. To be fair, even back in high school, I never let Matt understand, believing that if I really let go and fully embraced that I was deaf—if I went all the way and had more deaf friends and signed rather than spoke—he wouldn’t be comfortable with that part of me and wouldn’t want to spend his life dealing with my issues, my causes, and my world. I just focused on the present. I was on the crest of a wave, feeling stronger than ever before, yet still not accepting of those whom I felt didn’t understand me and had let me down.
When I first arrived at NTID, I was carried away with being away from home. Immersed in this newfound world, it was easy to let Matt slip from my mind. I didn’t write him a single letter, and on Labor Day weekend, after having to practically force myself to go home, I saw him even though I didn’t want to, and he felt my distance. Then, I played hard back at school until Thanksgiving break, when I came home and wanted to patch things up between us. But when he picked me up and we got into his car, I could tell that he wasn’t himself. He was angry at me for “disappearing for months,” and told me he had started dating another girl.
“It’s different. We have our song,” he said. “I really enjoy listening to the radio with her, listening to music . . .”
His words made me sick to my stomach, but I didn’t say a word.
Looking back, I know that Matt didn’t mean to hurt me with his comments, yet it shook me to the core because it was a sobering reminder to me that we were different. He was hearing and had the right to be hearing and enjoy those things—he deserved that. He didn’t have to be dragged into my Deaf World and my deaf issues. He had a right to his life, as much as I had the right to mine. Even though his words felt like a slick kick in the face, they helped me to face my own truth. Never had I felt such power, yet such pain; in order to love myself, I had to lose the one I loved.
When summer came, I wrote Matt a letter; here’s the gist of it:
Matt, I will always love you. But as I’ve grown up and entered the world, on my own, my choices for myself have changed. I am now part of the Deaf community and need a partner to share it all with me. I no longer want to stare at conversations I don’t understand because people don’t sign. I don’t want to spend holidays at a dinner table all alone in my own world because I am not following the conversations. I no longer want to feel this terrible pull between my love for you and a world that you are not part of. Nor do I want to force you to accept a world that is not yours.
I hope that my community makes its own headlines someday, and that Deaf rights are pushed to the forefront, as we demand more awareness. Perhaps you’ll read about us in the newspaper or a magazine—and even meet another deaf person. Then you might understand why it was all so important to me, and even be glad that you were not there. Brandi
HAVING A DEAF boyfriend helped me to adjust to NTID. To have a deaf man to walk with hand-in-hand, share meals, and have fun allowed me to begin accepting myself not only as a deaf person but also as a deaf woman in this new environment. Eric and I started dating in the midst of my self-awareness crescendo. He was 5’11”, with a large build, had blonde hair and cute dimples, and was sharp as a tack. He was very involved in his fraternity, Delta Sigma Phi, so we went to frat parties all the time and hung out at the fraternity house. Although born deaf, he grew up orally, going to the Central Institute for the Deaf in St. Louis, one of the most prominent oral programs in the country. He first learned how to sign at NTID; until then, he used his voice and lip-read. His father was the president of the Clarke School for the Deaf (now, Clarke Schools for Hearing and Speech) in Northampton, Massachusetts—the famous “oral” school that adhered to the philosophy that deaf students learn best when they can speak; they don’t use sign language there at all. We were two sponges soaking up our newfound environment and embracing our newly discovered culture and identities in unison (along with everyone around us).
It was during that time that I entered and won the Miss NTID Pageant, which took place every year at the school. At the time it was a very popular event and sounded fun. What better way to explore being a deaf woman, I figured, and also have a blast. When I first arrived at NTID, I became friendly with the reigning queen, a woman named Angie, and she encouraged me to enter the pageant. I remember being so surprised that someone three years my senior would be so friendly and kind to me. She was absolutely beautiful and had the greatest smile. Angie’s background was similar to mine—hearing family, oral, mainstreamed; she even grew up in the town right next to mine in the suburbs of Chicago. I felt that she had accomplished so much with her life, and she became my role model. The following spring when I became Miss NTID, she crowned me.
Pressing on with things Deaf, I signed up for the Miss Deaf Illinois state pageant that summer, the next step in the pageant circuit, which just happened to take place in my hometown of Naperville. I won that as well, and the following summer, in 1987, I became Miss Deaf Illinois. Honestly, it was great fun winning both pageants, but it was exploring myself as a deaf woman and person that was fueling me. I also have to admit that part of me still wanted to prove to my family and friends that I was capable and successful as a deaf person.
Enveloped in my new and fabulous life, I took courses on Deaf History and Culture. Somewhere along the way, I made a profound revelation: my own personal struggles over the years reflected the struggles of all deaf people—the same struggles that they had been dealing with for centuries. The world truly was contained in a single grain of sand. I could not get over what I had learned. Like most minorities, deaf people have suffered due to the ignorance, intolerance, and prejudice of others, yet there was a sad, sick, twist to our story.
Prior to 1750, the lives of people who were born deaf or became deaf prelingually were unthinkable. For thousands of years, given no exposure to any language, and therefore unable to learn, the congenitally deaf had been considered dumb or stupid. Regarded by primitive law as “incompetent,” they were barred from inheriting property, marrying, receiving an education, and engaging in challenging work—all things we consider basic human rights today. The law and society treated them as idiots. They often lived