In 1951, a young married couple — my parents — and their three sons drove through streets lined by cherry blossom trees on a leisurely Sunday outing in Maryland.
My dad loved to crack jokes. My oldest brother, Jim, who was 8, and I (age 4) sat in the back seat and competed to match wits with “the old man.” Jerry, the middle child at age 6, sat between my parents and observed the smiles but showed little reaction. Being deaf, he heard absolutely nothing.
Though he was very bright, Jerry knew no sign language or English. And intelligence without the ability to receive or express information equals frustration.
Jerry’s fate was sealed 71 years earlier in Milan, Italy. One hundred sixty-four educators of the deaf from around the world met and declared sign language to be an ineffective, primitive form of communication that should be banned from deaf schools worldwide.
One hundred sixty-three of these educators were hearing people. One deaf man represented millions of his peers, but the game was fixed.
Returning to the Sunday drive … Jerry had no language, but he was smart, alert and fascinated with the dashboard of the car. He noticed the needle on the gas gauge pointed to the letter “E.”
Jerry didn’t know what “E” meant, but predicted from previous experience that it involved a trip to a gas station. So he tapped my mother on the shoulder and pointed to the dashboard. She and my father held a brief discussion and since we were close to home, dad decided to wait until the following morning.
On his way to work the next day, my father turned the key in the ignition and saw the needle on the gas gauge move from “E” to “F.” Stunned, he tried to imagine an explanation. Finally, he got out of the car and walked back to the gas tank lid. The gas cap was open and on the grass lay a garden hose. Jerry had thought (not in English, but intuitively), “I’ll help father and fill it up myself.”
• • •
My brother spent eight years in a private school in St. Louis trying to learn with oral methods. After all that time, he had a spoken vocabulary of perhaps 500 words, most of which were marginally intelligible. Had he been learning sign, he would probably have been able to communicate and understand 10,000-plus concepts.
The school pronounced him an “oral failure.” What a delightful phrase to bestow upon a bright 14-year-old boy. He was then sent to the Washington State School for the Deaf, a signing institution.
My brother had a high IQ and made up a lot of ground academically. However, he never recovered from the 14 years of delayed social and emotional development.
My mother tried the hardest to learn sign language. My father, brother and I learned to finger spell, but they eventually lost interest. I went through my teen years, self-absorbed, and my brother could barely communicate with his own family.
Finally, in my mid-30s, after a series of meaningless jobs, I received an opportunity to earn a master’s degree in deaf education. It felt right, personally and professionally.
In 1986, after studying sign language seriously for two years, my brother and I sat in our parents’ living room and signed. My skills had improved to the point that we could “chat” comfortably. At age 38, I had my first real, relaxed conversation with my own brother.
• • •
I had failures and successes in 25 years as a teacher of the deaf, but one thing remained the priority. None of my students would ever feel disrespected or “less than.” When lessons fell flat, they always received my encouragement and support.
One rainy afternoon, a young deaf girl signed, “Mr. Walsh, can you hear the rain?”
“That’s a good question,” I signed. “Yes, honey, I can hear the rain. It sounds like fingers tapping on the table or a small dog’s claws clattering on the kitchen floor.”
She smiled and signed, “Can you hear a rainbow?”
“That’s another good question.”
John Peter Walsh (beaucoupcats@msn.com) taught deaf and hard of hearing children for Aurora Public Schools.
