BUG: Deaf Identity and Internal Revolution

Coping

B U G 205 Coping I used to work with this kid, Junior. He was a pain in the ass from day one. He had no language ability whatsoever, meaning he could barely spell his own name. He was immature as hell, too . . . around anyone he happened to be with. Teachers, other deaf students, hearing students, you name it. He also had absolutely no ability to tolerate frustration. The mechanism for doing so didn’t seem to exist in his brain. With him, there was no gradual release of tension, no moving through various levels or gradations of anger. Piss him off and—boom!—up like a rocket he’d go! Tell him he’d have to do his math homework over, and he’d beat his forehead against the wall until it bled, especially if you didn’t get there in time to stop him. Believe me, that’s no exaggeration. * * Anyway, Parent’s Night rolls around. Remember, at this stage in my career, I was still a lowly teaching assistant. Meaning my job that night was to basically just rotate around through the various classrooms and chat with the parents while the lead teachers did the real consulting. This one teacher, Mrs. B, wanted me in her room at 7 p.m. sharp, because Junior’s father—Dad—was dropping by to visit! I worked closely with Junior (translation: If I got to him in time, I pulled him away from the wall and wiped off the blood splotches), so I should be there in case Dad had any questions. 206 C H R I S T O P H E R J O N H E U E R At 7 p.m., in he came. “Thank you for coming!” Mrs. B said/signed. “Junior is doing very well and. . . .!” They were tight within fifteen seconds flat—a true masterpiece of salesmanship. If Deaf education ever crashes nationwide, more than a few of its teachers would do well as used car salesmen. They were born for the job, and it’d be a shame to waste the talent. About ten minutes into Mrs. B’s pitch, I figured I should interject a little something. Seeing how closely I worked with Junior and all. “Hey Dad,” I said, “are you aware your kid blows up whenever I tell him he did his homework wrong? He beats his forehead against the wall until it bleeds. He seems kind of frustrated to me.” Dead silence. I continued: “Maybe if you’d sign with him a bit, he could communicate with you. And then he wouldn’t be so frustrated .” Dead silence. “You can sign, right?” I asked. Mrs. B rubbed her eyes. “Junior understands me,” Dad insisted suddenly (and more than just a little defensively). And no, he couldn’t sign. Mrs. B had to interpret for him while I glared at her. “I’m sorry, but somehow I doubt that.” Dad smacked his palm on the table. “He does too!” he snapped. “He reads my lips just fine!” * * Maybe I should have let it go at that point. But for some reason , I couldn’t. How many times had I walked Junior down the B U G 207 hallway to the school nurse’s office so she could bandage his forehead? Ten times? Fifteen that semester alone? On my very first day at that school, I walked into Mrs. B’s room and saw this weird-looking phone booth in there. Only it held no phone, and it was made out of tough brown plastic instead of steel and glass. It also had a door that sealed magnetically and was very tough to pry open. Even for me. “What is that thing?” I asked her. “Oh, we use that for the unruly ones,” she signed, laughing lightly as she fingerspelled unruly. “Security puts them in there until they calm down.” “You’re kidding me.” I was certain I had misunderstood her. She stared back, not comprehending. * * “Hey,” I said, “do you know that Farside cartoon? The one about Fifi?” Dad shook his head. “It’s got two frames. One is entitled ‘What Bob Says.’ Bob’s in there talking to his dog, Fifi. He’s going, ‘Now Fifi, I want you to stay right here while I go get your food! That’s a good dog, Fifi. . . .’” Mrs. B looked like she wanted to die. “The...