There I was Monday morning at a military hospital in the Intensive Care Unit waiting room, not really sure what I was there for. I only knew that I got a page from a dear friend that simply said- come now. As an interpreter, you get used to this.

We met as soul mates on Parris Island
We left as inmates from an asylum
And we were sharp, as sharp as knives
And we were so gung-ho to lay down our lives

Everyone knew why I was there except me- until a Lieutenant in his khaki uniform pulled me out of the family waiting room and said “I’m not sure if you know why you’re here, but Kevin Mowl passed away this morning.” I felt my heart sink, and I immediately dreaded the rest of my day. Somehow, over the course of the next week, I found myself drawing strength from this man.

We came in spastic like tameless horses
We left in plastic as numbered corpses
And we learned fast to travel light
Our arms were heavy but our bellies were tight

I remember vividly that an ICU isn’t supposed to house kids, yet here I was surrounded by teenagers. And I learned that legless men in wheelchairs know the stares that signing in public sometimes brings,because I caught myself staring. I wanted to thank him, but couldn’t muster the words… And young people I could see in rooms around me, they aren’t supposed to have high and tight haircuts or seem so strong- like they’d trained for this War for months or years, because the image certainly contrasted with the tubes and IVs that were keeping only some of them alive.

I took another deep breath, remembering I certainly didn’t wake up this morning prepared to spend a day next to a father making preparations to bury his child. But sometimes as an interpreter you don’t get to pick your job, you’re just there and you do it.

I remember the chief of surgery as he spoke with the family, a navy captain-hardened by years of service. I remember signing for him, and hearing his voice crack as he wiped away tears, confirming what we all knew- that another soldier was given the most amazing care and that all, including Kevin and his family had fought valiantly… just for him to live.

We had no home front, we had no soft soap
They sent us Playboy, they gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep and shot on sight
And prayed to Jesus Christ with all our might

It was suddenly 3 days later and I was no longer in Maryland but in Rochester, New York, in an airport parking lot watching as they carried a flag draped coffin into a hearse. Later that night it seemed surreal- as I walked into a kitchen, unsure where to sit amongst Kevin’s friends and family, so I stood. I was the only interpreter there, and my mission slowly became clear. I was drawn into the conversation as someone signed to me- “These guys haven’t seen each other since the IED (that eventually took Kevin’s life) went off.”

I realized in these moments that deaf vs. hearing matters as much as soldier vs. civilian when you’re around a family’s dining room table. People who have seen nothing of war- other than in pictures and video games- and these thick necked soldiers became one big group of smiling, comforting people as the conversation continued, only now with me signing. I was reminded that I wasn’t there to interpret, but sometimes things come naturally- and I felt that Kevin’s family deserved to ask as many questions of Kevin’s squad members as they wanted, and I felt this was the best opportunity.

“Do you remember the box we sent him for his 21st birthday?” one aunt asked the group. “I had to go to 10 different stores and ask if they sold what was in there. And we all laughed as she turned a proud shade of embarrassed red when the soldier said- “No…That was you that sent those?!”

Gower, they told me as they pointed to my right, he’s been in Michigan at a rehab hospital. He’s only been walking with the help of a cane for a few months now. Guerra, he’s been in San Antonio trying to learn how to walk as well but without a cane, and with his new leg. And Guerra rolled up his pant leg, and Gower held tightly to his cane, if only to reemphasize the facts of war.

We had no cameras to shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe and played our Doors tapes
And it was dark, so dark at night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we’d write

It didn’t take long to weave their way through stories, until they finally arrived at August 2nd, 2007. Sgt. Santos was the one who often forced Kevin to ‘turn off his voice’ and use only sign language to communicate with him, they said. I wondered aloud- he must want to try his signing with the family now… and it’s then that I’m told that he was one of the first fatalities in the blast. When I met her at the bar that night she was wiping away a tear.

Captain Schneider leaned over the table and began to tell another story… “We had just been walking the intersection, as we had many times before, and after a few minutes we returned to the vehicle. We got in and had barely pulled up a few feet when it seemed like the roof of the vehicle had collapsed on me. It took me a few minutes to realize that the floor had actually been pushed up by an explosion and was pressing me to the ceiling.”

And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

“Gower, I gave you a direct order to scream- as loud as you could, as long as you could- so that I knew you were still alive while I worked on Guerra” Sgt. Hoffman said. Then I stopped being an interpreter, and for just a minute, I was now allowed to stare at the cane that Gower used to walk, and how his over sized shoes seemed to trip him up as much as they held him up, as he later shuffled to the bathroom.

“Guerra, I pulled you out first- mostly because you were in the way,” Captain Schneider said with a chuckle. “And I remember Gower- screaming like a little baby, every time his mangled leg fell off the stretcher.”, which immediately drew a laugh from everyone around the table- even Gower. The friendly ribbing knocking away the some of the tension.

But some of us couldn’t laugh, we hadn’t earned that right. We were too in awe of the bravery that was playing out like a movie in front of us, something that these soldiers seemed too used to.

Remember Charlie, remember Baker
They left their childhood on every acre
And who was wrong? And who was right?
It didn’t matter in the thick of the fight

They talked of being stuck in a vehicle for 18 hours a day waiting to get blown up would wear on your nerves, and ways to lighten the burden of being stuck in a war. And, of course, they all told stories of home. It seemed that each person had met Kevin’s family in a care package or a picture somewhere.

And Kevin’s grandmother acknowledged to Gower- “I thought you looked familiar. I didn’t realize that was you without your feathered hat on!” referencing a picture that Kevin had sent home of some hats that Gower and Kevin wore on Thanksgiving day in Iraq.

We held the day in the palm of our hand
They ruled the night, and the night
Seemed to last as long as six weeks…
…On Parris Island
We held the coastline, they held the highlands
And they were sharp, as sharp as knives
They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors
And waited for us to arrive

And they all spoke a little softer as they talked of finding Kevin in the crushed vehicle, and how they lost two other squad members, friends and brothers in the blast that day. Then I found myself among the group again, and I watched as family and soldiers together shook their heads in grief.

And we would all go down together
We said we’d all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

Only they didn’t all go down together. They were here a world away from Baghdad that next morning in a quiet church. I watched as they memorialized Kevin, his father on a big screen in a chapel speaking to a full house. Time seemed to fly by that hour, and it wasn’t long before I was listening to the bagpipers playing the familiar moan of Amazing Grace.

I felt out of place in this chapel as they sounded off for roll call:

Staff Sgt Guerra

Here Sergeant!

Sgt. Gower

Here Sergeant!

Sergeant Lis

Here Sergeant!

Corporal Mowl

-Silence fills the church…

Corporal Kevin Mowl

-We quietly stood in honor…

Corporal Kevin- Scott- Mowl!

A voice drifts in, I recognize it from last night as Sergeant Montanio’s…

“Sergeant, Corporal Mowl is no longer with us.”

I wiped away a tear or two as they carried the casket out of the church, reminding myself that the worst was still ahead.

We passed under an American flag hanging from fire trucks over the entrance to the cemetery. The firemen all stood in the blistering cold in full salute, saluting me, and I’d never even met Kevin.

Once at the cemetery, I found a chair when Gower’s feet were too sore to stand in the snow. Then I watched as they prepared to bury Kevin, folding the flag with military precision, in order to give it to his mother- and I finally realized the meaning to the phrase ‘labor of love’. The sounds of “Taps” played on a bugle. We all shook in the cold as we waited for the sounds of 7 guns firing 3 times for the 21 gun salute. Ready, Aim, Fire!

The reality was what Anthony had earlier mentioned- an hour with a beautiful woman seemed like a moment, a moment with your hand on a hot stove, seemed like an hour. And somewhere in the time between a moment and an hour, they had memorialized a 22 year old man, and the time spent there at the cemetery didn’t seem to be enough.

I’m not sure where I stopped being an interpreter- maybe it was on Wednesday when the family left the hospital for the airport. Or maybe when I started watching the grace and poise they showed while still there at the hospital. But there was a point that I stopped fighting it, and I began grieving for a CODA, a brother, a son and a friend. And even after Kevin’s death, I felt like I had made a friend, and lost one.

Throughout the course of last week, I found myself terribly at ease with wiping away my own tears, comfortable at sharing grief with people I had never before met. And Sunday as I readied for the airport and my return flight to Washington, DC, I stood in the Mowl family’s living room and hugged Kevin’s mother, father and sister saying good-bye for the last time, I looked back and wondered where I crossed the line- from professional interpreter to friend, knowing that I would never again be the same.

A big thanks to the men of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Infantry Regiment, 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team who served during Operation Enduring Freedom. Hooligans, I salute you. Also, special thanks to the Mowl family, who along with thousands of families have made the sacrifice of a son or daughter, for allowing me the privilege and honor of being with them during this time, and for allowing me to write about it. -DS

As kids, my twin brother John and I would ride our matching Schwinn bikes around the neighborhood looking for criminals. We would pull our imaginary police radios from our handlebars and speak into them saying, “Seven Mary Three and Four, responding”, the line made famous by Ponch and John from the TV show CHiPs.

That kinda started my experience in law enforcement, patrolling the mean sidewalks of Hudson Street. Hudson Street was and continues to be a mean neighborhood. It’s where the 11 year old boy Nathaniel Abraham shot and killed a man, just to see what it was like to kill someone.

I’ve been around Law Enforcement in varying capacities since. As a teen-ager spending 2 or 3 nights a week riding around the rough parts of town in a police car with my Godfather, or being called at all hours of the day and night as an interpreter. Some of the best experiences for me were while making a brief stint with the Detroit Police Department. I’ve seen several law enforcement interactions with Deaf folks, and contrary to what some would like to believe, most people don’t get beat without reason- Deaf or hearing.

Of course, I read the article that my fellow blogger Chris Heuer wrote, and I got a few emails asking what my take on it was. As I read through Chris’s post I was especially disappointed when I read this:

If you can’t or won’t use your voice in a situation that involves police officers, God help you. If God doesn’t help you, you’ll die for holding a rake.

In the last line of that quote, Chris was referencing the story where a Deaf man in Detroit was shot by a police officer. It’s very unfortunate that Chris was inferring that the guy died because he couldn’t or wouldn’t use his voice.

In fact, just after being hired by the Detroit Police Department, I had an old crusty veteran walk up and say- “Stuckless, I heard you know Sign Language. How do you tell a deaf guy to put down the rake?” I responded the only way I could, and the way I knew he would- by drawing an imaginary gun and pointing it at him. Yeah, bad joke, but we laughed.

Erroll Shaw Sr. was a 39 year old Deaf guy that lived in the city of Detroit. True to it’s reputation, Detroit can be an unforgiving place. On that hot summer day in August of 2000, Erroll Shaw Sr. scared his parents and his son. As good grandparents would do, Erroll’s parents called the police to protect their grandson from his father. His Deaf father.

The facts stated here were testified to by Erroll Shaw Sr.’s family members, police officers on the scene, and the medical examiner… Erroll Shaw had smoked crack 3-4 hours before, had a blood alcohol level of between .06 and .08, had recently assaulted his son by throwing a beer can at him, and was also threatening his son with a large butcher knife, which is why Erroll Shaw’s parents called the police. While the police were pulling up, Erroll Shaw ran behind his home and returned with a rake. This is where the story fades as it’s presented by the person telling the story.

A rake? A simple rake?! The part about the rake is deceiving, this wasn’t just the leaf rake we all used as kids to pick up leaves.

In the photo above, the police officer, David Krupinski, holds the same rake in the manner that he testifies Erroll Shaw held it.

“He proceeded to come through a gate with a rake raised over his shoulders,” said Krupinski. “He kept coming toward us … [I] pulled my weapon … He kept advancing toward us.” Krupinski said that he backed up several steps and yelled for Shaw to put down the rake, but Shaw did not comply and turned toward the closest officer, Brandon Hunt.

When he raised the rake above his head he was approximately 15-20 feet from Officer Hunt, well within the training doctrine that 21 feet is within the danger zone. It was then that Officer Krupinski shot him.

Any one of you could say that you wouldn’t have shot Erroll Shaw- as a matter of fact there were 3 other officers standing there that didn’t shoot him. Officer Hunt had his weapon drawn with his finger on the trigger, but didn’t shoot. Hunt says he was in the process of pulling the trigger but heard the shots that Krupinski took and watched Shaw go down.

Officer Krupinski was charged and personally prosecuted by local prosecutor Mike Cox (who was preparing a run for the Michigan Attorney General’s office). 12 Jurors eventually found Officer Krupinski not guilty of manslaughter.

To clarify, Erroll Shaw Sr. wasn’t shot for being Deaf or not using his voice, I would suggest it was a series of poor decisions- that Shaw made- that led to his death.

Tips for interacting with Law Enforcement are readily available in the comments following Chris’s blog. Tips for responsible blogging on the other hand, well, hopefully they come with experience.

As for Doug Bahl, I look forward to someone getting the transcripts of his case and posting them publicly, so we can all make informed decisions based on the facts of the case.

You may recall there’s a group out of Detroit (my hometown) that is collaborating with singers to create Deaf music videos.

D-Pan has now released another one, and this time they’re Waiting on the World to Change

The first video they released was “Where’d you go”. Some said it wasn’t ASL enough, but is this one too ASL? I’m not sure how I feel about it.

(Bonus points if you can pick out my mom.)

In remembrance of the moral compass of America…

The great Jerry Falwell has passed away today. I feel we should take time to consider this death of this man. Below are several of his quotes.

“Grown men should not be having sex with prostitutes unless they are married to them”

“I had a student ask me, “Could the savior you believe in save Osama bin Laden?” Of course, we know the blood of Jesus Christ can save him, and then he must be executed”

“Christians, like slaves and soldiers, ask no questions”

“AIDS is not just God’s punishment for homosexuals; it is God’s punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals”

“Billy Graham is the chief servant of Satan in America”

“The idea that religion and politics don’t mix was invented by the Devil to keep Christians from running their own country”

“If you’re not a born-again Christian, you’re a failure as a human being”

“Textbooks are Soviet propaganda”

“The ACLU is to Christians what the American Nazi party is to Jews”

“It appears that America’s anti-Biblical feminist movement is at last dying, thank God, and is possibly being replaced by a Christ-centered men’s movement which may become the foundation for a desperately needed national spiritual awakening”

“The whole (global warming) thing is created to destroy America’s free enterprise system and our economic stability”

“We visit prisoners on death row, and some of them are saved, but we believe their sentences should be carried out because they have a debt to society”

“Homosexuality is Satan’s diabolical attack upon the family that will not only have a corrupting influence upon our next generation, but it will also bring down the wrath of God upon America.”

“I do not believe we can blame genetics for adultery, homosexuality, dishonesty and other character flaws”

“God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve”

“I sincerely believe that the collective efforts of many secularists during the past generation, resulting in the expulsion from our schools and from the public square, has left us vulnerable”

“(re: 9/11 attacks) “…throwing God out of the public square, out of the schools, the abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked and when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad…I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who try to secularize America…I point the thing in their face and say you helped this happen.””

“[homosexuals are] brute beasts…part of a vile and satanic system [that] will be utterly annihilated, and there will be a celebration in heaven.”

“There’s been a concerted effort to steal Christmas.”

“The media have a widely-held agenda (that doesn’t include support of President Bush) and they are not about to tarnish the image of anti-war protesters by showing them for what they actually are, … With this tyrannical approach to the news, it’s really no wonder so many Americans don’t take the networks seriously anymore. And it’s no wonder that conservative Internet news sites have grown by leaps and bounds.”

“Pat ran for president once and he’s a very political person, and that is the way politicians talk. They all use intimidation and political strong-arming to hopefully pick up a vote or two.”

“A mighty oak has fallen in God’s forest.”

Ok, that’s the end of those quotes. I’m more akin to Yogi Berra’s great quote:

They say ‘Don’t say bad about the dead.’, so when I heard he was dead I said ‘Good.’

You know- I have a dream. I have a dream that one day all the people with 0% hearing, 10% hearing, 20% hearing, 30% hearing, cochlear implants, hearing aids, etc., with their squeaky voices, hearing aids ringing, and through bad interpreters- will be able to join hands (wait, not join hands) and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

In the 7th grade, I wore a pair of Adidas tennis shoes. White leather with grey stripes. I had a few different laces I would wear in them. Remember- the big fat wide laces? I was about 12 years old and I grew up in the ghetto spending my summers playing basketball at the court a block or two away. One day, some kid bigger than me, (yes, most of them were) walked up to me on the playground and told me that my shoes weren’t real Adidas. I couldn’t have been prouder when I picked up my shoe and let him read the brand on the sole: Adidas, baby! It was the summer of 1986. And I couldn’t have been more proud of the label I wore that day.

Even before that though, I can remember having to walk to the school 2 blocks behind my house, only to catch a bus to go to a school 3 miles away. Then there were kids who walked to the school that I was bussed to, and they caught a bus to go to the school that I came from. I think they called it- integration? I went there because I was white, they came here because they were black. Yeah, kinda like mainstreaming; it’s still school, you just have to wake up an hour earlier than everyone else.

And now in Michigan comes Proposal 2, which passed with about 58% of the vote, took effect Dec. 22. It amended the Michigan Constitution to ban public institutions, including universities, from giving preferential treatment based on race, gender, color, ethnicity or national origin.

Who knows, maybe someday there will be no preferential treatment based on disability. You know, no SSI/SSD. No Voc Rehab.

Labels are an important part of our lives, and here on DeafDC.com even, labels are an important way of identifying perspective and roles. But they’re a blessing and a curse. I love hanging out with my CODA pals and having that commonality, but am I insulting another person in my profession when I blow the CODA trumpet at work? I dunno…

Adam Stone wrote about his frustration re. the malfunction of his Cochlear Implant, and then he was getting brow beaten about having one. This brilliant guy- who is as Deaf as Deaf gets, some of you readers tried to discredit his deafness, or at least to qualify it, because he wore a cochlear implant. Like all the sudden Jesus came by, spit in the mud and wrote in it, then Adam could hear.

Dare I announce that a DeafDC.com blogger has great speaking skills, and sometimes, she even voices for herself? In public? Noooooooo, it can’t be, she seemed so, so… Deaf.

Deafness isn’t a state of hearing, it’s where your heart is.

This comment was made recently:

I personally view DeafDC.com’s tendency to be pro-IKJ and JF from time to time. I do not know why!

Then he continued to say-

My understanding is that the DeafDC.com people are largely coming from NTID.

Some are arguing for a new writer or two to be added to DeafDC.com’s rolls that are more culturally Deaf, you know- the infamous Deaf of Deaf. Yeah, we have Rob Rice, maybe you guys don’t think he’s Deaf enough? …and Barack Obama isn’t black enough. Anyone heard that argument lately?

We’re all part of sub-cultures that make up today’s society. But your score on your audiogram, do not make your opinions or perspectives on Deafness any less or more important than someone else’s, or you any more or less deaf than Heather Whitestone or Marlee Matlin. Different maybe, but your opinion isn’t worth more than theirs. They still have perspectives and I’m sure we could learn something from them. It’s when we embrace our differences that we can learn from each other.

It’s 11:45 p.m. on Martin Luther King’s birthday, and I’ve heard and read pieces of his infamous “I Have a Dream” speech several times throughout today.

“…one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

He wasn’t trying to bring the black children together with their various shading. He doesn’t say the “off whites, the tans, the taupes, the light browns, the chocolates…”

Usually at this point in my ramblings my friends say- “Geez Dave, what’s your point?” So here’s my point: I think when the d/Deaf community quits the fighting within, it’ll make huge leaps and bounds forward. Not just with University Presidents, but with truly equal access- even for the Deaf guy working the line at General Motors that hasn’t had an interpreter more than 15 times in 25 years. Why does that matter to me? Because that was my dad.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. -Dr. Martin Luther King

I would suggest to you that perhaps Dr. King in his brilliance and foresight assumed we would remember what was more important for the true freedom in a minority population- solidarity within. When we seek out the similarities that connect us, not the differences that seperate us, in that search we have found our fellow man.

In closing I would like to you leave you with another brief quote:

“Only very few ones who are vocal — they talk too much.” - Ridor

Deaf, Hard of Hearing, Late Deafened, Hearing, ASL, PSE, English, Mainstreamed, Deaf School, RIT Deaf, Gally Deaf, Grass Roots Deaf, Educated Deaf, Detroit Deaf, Suburbs Deaf, ITP Student, Native Language User… All labels I could identify when I was a kid.

Then there was me. I’m a CODA. Arguably, I can be any one of those.

“Come on, you’ll REALLY like it.” my sister started her usual round of BS, “You’ll know some of the people there. You’ll die laughing, the guy is funny… Joni is going, Gabby is going, a bunch of other CODAs.” Joni Harvie’s father and my father were classmates in Belleville, Ontario, Canada together, and Gabby was a cousin on my mom’s side- and also a CODA. One big happy CODA family we’d be… To me, it sounded kinda gross.

It wasn’t the first time my sister had tried dragging me to some CODA event. The first and last gathering I went to was an obnoxious display by ugly people trying to be really cool. (I know, I’m guilty of being ugly and attempting to be really cool myself, but that’s beside the point.) In my head, I wasn’t one of them, and in my heart, I wasn’t one of them.

My folks are Deaf, yes, but I had gotten over my issues and I’ve nothing to complain about. I mean, Deaf people didn’t wrong me as a child. Or did they? How much of my life experiences are shaped by my parent’s deafness? And it wasn’t a negative. Or was it? Had my parents lack of hearing been a sour lemon that I, as a CODA, had decided to make lemonade out of? (Maybe THAT’S why people always said “I’m sorry” when told my mom and dad were Deaf!) Or was I really just a typical teenager with teenage angst that was fortunate to not have to sneak out the window because I could just walk out the back door?

My answer was “Sure, I’ll go. It’s for the Deaf Arts Festival, right?” Truth was, I was jumping back into Interpreting and didn’t want to be one of the ones that ‘just makes money off of the Deaf community and gives nothing back’, and it was for a good cause. Of course- networking, meeting new contacts, yadda, yadda, yadda… Oh, and I was single, you never know where a good looking girl is going to show up. Of course, when I finally decide to go, the place is sold out… Freida Morrison, the Director of the Michigan Deaf Arts Festival was able to score me a ticket at the last minute.

So, off I go to this banquet hall in Rochester Hills, Michigan to see some guy named Ablahblahblah, or something… Seriously. Alan Abarbanell, I found out later, is referred to as Abababa because no one could pronounce Abarbanell when he was a kid.

This place was no theater, just a place where people celebrate weddings and have Christmas parties. This crowd of about 300 people show up and it’s a mix of Deaf, Hearing, CODAs, signers, non-signers, parents of Deaf kids, ITP students that were trying to sign (needed community hours), even a few co-workers of a Deaf guy that were told that by the end of the show they would ‘just get it’. And then there was me.

I was none of the above. I was normal, well adjusted, and had come upon my own seperate peace away from the Deaf community. So I sat off in the back of the building, at a table in a room that barely held the crowd, wondering which of these groups I belonged to least. All the usual suspects there to see the show- the guys from Deaf bowling, the old folks from the Deaf Seniors Center, the Catholics, the whole nine yards. Yep, somewhere in there was me.

I had just had a son. They say he looks just like me. I had recently gotten divorced, had just been laid off from the Detroit Police Department, and had one of my closest friends pass away at a few years older than I was from cancer. My life had been tossed upside down in a 2 week time frame. It was a time of great self-defining, as I was re-assembling the pieces. Like Jean Val Jean asks in the great musical and book Les Miserables, “Who am I?”, I was asking at that point in life- who the hell am I? My seperate peace had allowed many sides of me to seep into another.

Each story that Alan told brought me to moments in my lifetime that were glued to my memory because of emotion. The happiness, the sadness, the trauma, the grief, and eventually- my comfort in seperation.

I heard stories of my Interpreting life- (Sure, I’ll interpret your Dr’s appointment. - and later- No, you didn’t tell me it was a gynecologist.)

Stories of my hearing life- (Is that really a monster in your basement? Nope, just my dad talking to my mom. I know it doesn’t sound normal but yes, I can understand every word that he says. How I’d run back to the house not to find out what she wanted, but just so mom would stop yelling my name.)

Stories of my Deaf life- (I still struggle with where in the toilet bowl to pee that makes the least amount of noise.)

Stories of my Deaf and Hearing life- (Yes, I as a CODA do find great comfort and sense of home when I can sign for the first few sentences, then speak, then switch back to sign, without losing my listener. And me- I also love when my Deaf friends are ‘hearing’ enough to dig music.)

And in fact, as I listened to the stories of his parents as they aged- while daily internally processing my father’s Alzheimer’s Disease, I found that I was not alone in most, if not all of my CODA and family related struggles. And yes, in fact, those experiences do impact who I am today. And I would say it impacted my life greatly.

Children Are Vessels Their Parents Pour Poison Into.

It’s a great quote from Salman Rushdie, Oscar happens to agree with me on this fact. We don’t get to pick our parents, nor do we get to pick our poison.

My dad got his union card as a printer and that was the best that ASD and my uncle could give him in the late 50’s. My uncle was hearing and has his PhD in Deaf ed or something. My uncle’s son became a big-wig at Microsoft. I always thought that the differences between my cousin and I were because my Uncle was hearing. It took me 20 years to get the courage up to ask my uncle why he couldn’t teach his little brother better? My uncle was one of his teachers at ASD.

Would I have had the same struggles in life if my dad were just another lineman at GM that could hear, or would my dad have not became a welder and also had his PhD? Would my struggles have been completely different? Was my parent’s Deafness the poison they poured into me? Or was it their religion? Maybe it was the way they disciplined us. Maybe it was the way they didn’t.

I wouldn’t say every question was answered at Abababa’s show, but I would say it was therapeutic. I laughed and I cried… I took deep breaths of acknowledgement as he poignantly described the line between those that can hear, and those that can’t. I was reminded how he and I had often been chosen by the God(s) to stand in the middle, and in hindsight I consider the awesome power that this brings. My experience reminded me how this awesome power can sometimes corrupt.

And last but certainly not least, I found the true answer to the age old question: Why do Deaf people take so long to say goodbye? And as I lingered afterwards in great conversation surrounded by Alan and several other CODAs. The answer was not as simple as it would seem…

In fact, these days it’s alot like leaving my son in Detroit and coming back to Washington, DC. Yes, DC is home for me and I have my life here, but it sure is hard as hell to leave family.

I walk into work these days- all these damn terps with our intracacies, personality conflicts and inter-office politics… This place is alot like home and these people are alot like family. We don’t get to pick our fellow CODA’s, but they sure are nice to come home to. And they sure are hard to leave.

Alan Abarbanell will be performing at the Imagination Theater in Bethesda January 14th, 2007. For more information go to www.abababatour.com

BN: I apologize first to my fellow writers, second to the staff, and last (but certainly not least) to the readers of DeafDC.com. My blog this past Saturday morning was aytpical of the quality of writing that is expected at DeafDC.com, regardless of my position on the protest. I will aspire to maintain the quality of writing you have all come to expect from this phenomenal source of information and it’s amazing collection of writers. And as always, I’ll hope my son looks back in about 16 years, reads a blog of mine and says, “You know, my dad wasn’t so bad of a guy after all.” Cheers, David

“Sir, you’re going to find three kinds of people in this business,” he said. “First you’ll find the righteous. Don’t waste your time with them. You’ll find them on both sides of the cause, and they’re always going to appeal to the righteousness of their cause.

“Second are the collectors of arguments, the debaters. You’ll see them constantly collecting data that is slanted in their favor, trying to score points with the media or whomever is listening. If you want to get into a debate for academic purposes, that’s fine, but it serves no other purpose.

“The third group are the ones that count. These are the ones who want to figure out a solution on the ground, in the dorms, at the gate, in the HMB, and in the class room. These are the ones who ask themselves over and over: ‘How the hell are we going to get out of this terrible nightmare?’

“Focus on them,” he said, “and focus on what needs to be done, and then get it done.”

I had been selected as a mediator in the protest at Gallaudet, and I really didn’t know what to expect. I had learned a long time ago that a negotiator has to be non-judgmental. I vowed not to take a position.

The FSSA complained of a democracy of form, but not of substance. “Balloting is a sham when your collective voice is ignored by the board of trustees!”, they exclaimed. They wanted me to know what had led to the coup and why they and others had had no choice other than the one they took.

The administration complained the protestors had a marginalized view of Deafness, and that they were trying to lead the community into the next generation of globalized d/Deafness, where all varieties of d/Deaf folks could come together, thereby expanding the number of students that attend the University.

Who’s more right? Who has greater justice on their side? Who has suffered more? How can anyone measure these things?

As a mediator, you reach peace by finding a position that both sides can agree to and practice on the ground. We’ll never get there by trying to determine which side is more righteous or “deserving” than the other. It’s important to speak out about unacceptable actions, but your task is to help the parties find a lasting solution that all can live with over time.

BN (Blogger’s Note): Everything you’ve read above was fictional, but adapted from the book “Battle Ready” by Tom Clancy with Gen. Tony Zinni (Ret.), particularly the section of the book dealing with the Middle East Peace Process that Gen. Zinni was very much involved with.

Eventually that stage of the process was shut down when the President decided that the US couldn’t deal with Arafat and the Palestinian Authority had to be reformed (without Arafat) before the US would step back in.

A Deaf music video? Worthy of air time on MTV? No way. Never.

Never say never.

Some of you DeafDCers may recognize Rosie as a former DCer herself, and also former Miss Deaf Michigan. A beautiful girl, talented in many ways, and now a MTV star. Maybe.

www.d-pan.com

THE DEAF PERFORMING ARTISTS NETWORK

The Deaf Performing Artists Network, a new national nonprofit organization, was formed to make music and music culture accessible to millions of underserved Americans, as well as to create career and learning opportunities in the music business for deaf and hard of hearing artists and technicians. D-PAN begins by taking an easy, simple step: By creating deaf-centric reinterpretations of music videos using the standard American Sign Language (ASL), enabling performing artists to communicate to the hard of hearing worldwide. In creating these videos, D-PAN will open up a new channel for dialogue with a vibrant, active community who are anxious to participate in music culture at all levels – as creators, as performers, as consumers.

My hat is off to them- an amazing production of a great song.

Ok, insert all the qualifiers- this is my view, some of what I’ve grown up seeing, and what some of my experiences have been. And it’s something I just have to vent about.

Can someone tell me why weird hearing people are so attracted to Deaf people? I can rattle off 10 people, somehow thrust into my childhood, that were just flat out Hearing World Rejects. Wait, I just counted- make that 20. HWRs, my brother calls them.

I’ll start off by saying my parents are pretty religious. Ok- pretty religious may be an understatement. My mom has Jesus Christ’s personal IP address in her quick dial (and yes, she says, he does sign pretty fluently). We went to church no less than three times a week growing up. And we typically were there way more than that. And so were the HWRs. Klingons- always around.

I know a half dozen that are leaders of Deaf Churches across America now. I guess by leaders I mean the person that stands up at the front, or drives them around on the short bus. By the way, quick tip- if you start a Deaf church, and 40 years later there are STILL only 20 people in it (and half of them are family or hearing), then God must have misspoke when you heard him say your name.

They’re typically the ones that stand around with their heads up their butt when people decide to come over and pray for the Deaf person/section. You know, pray for them to hear. Ask me how many times I had to watch people get prayed for- for their ‘hearing’ to come back. Imagine being the little kid that has to stand there in that circle and sing/sign Kum-Ba-Yah for your folks, while all these people chanted weird stuff. If you’ve ever been on the outside of that circle- quick tip- you’re nuts, and you’re an HWR.

These are people that don’t have a life. Sure, they learned some signs, showed up everywhere, typically giving at least one Deaf person a ride along the way. They typically live in a trailer or some kind of shack, oh- and they host corn roasts. Don’t drink the kool aid at these events.

You ask them where they learned Sign Language and it’s usually church. They talk about how God has called them to Deaf ministry (if I hear that again I’ll puke). You see them shine the most when someone walks up and tells them what a great job they’re doing (always someone that knows no sign that says this). They’re flat out co-dependant, and yes, unfortunately, lots of Deaf folks that I know actually feed it.

Okay, okay… Yes, this is DC, and the website is DeafDC, and I’m referring to my home state- and no I haven’t seen it here in DC. Although, a CODA did mention she thought some made it into the HUG program at Gally. So, I guess maybe I haven’t looked for it.

Hearing World Rejects.

Oh, and they usually ratted us little kodas out whenever we said bad words. The rejects.

So I was working for a hotel back home in Michigan. I was a 17-year-old kid, hauling luggage for people, making something like $5 or $6 a hour. But the celebrities–the Detroit Lions held their pre-season training there. Barry Sanders still calls me ‘Twin’ when he sees me. John Salley (former Detroit Piston and now on ESPN) once broke a fire sprinkler in a room, right in front of me. What a great job. (more…)