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Afterword
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229 Afterword AFTER MY FATHER died in 1986, I brought Mom back to New York City and placed her in an apartment at Tanya Towers on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Tanya Towers was a rare gem of a place, offering housing to many low-income deaf and other disabled persons. Pop’s passing pulled Mom out of his shadow and permitted her to flourish . She became much more self-reliant, participating in Tanya Towers’ programs and taking an active role in the Puerto Rican Society for the Catholic Deaf. Among her other projects were storytelling sessions with children at the Lexington School for the Deaf. Our relationship thrived also, until late 1999, when she died after a harsh struggle with lymphoma . She wanted to be around for the new millennium, which fascinated her, but she fell short by a few months. My parents’ remains rest in the soil of an old cemetery not far from Las Piedras. Over the next few years the remaining deaf relatives passed on—Titi Olga, Titi Magdalena, Titi Carmela. The eight Torres and Ayala deaf, 230 Afterword and all their spouses, are now gone. They were the core of my Deaf world. In May of 2009 the Society celebrated its fiftieth anniversary. Since the 1970s it has been based at St. Elizabeth’s Church on East 83rd Street, where Msgr. Patrick McCahill is the pastor, and it continues to sponsor various programs for the Deaf community. Besides social and religious activities the Society offers workshops for deaf teenagers, marriage counseling, and annual banquets. At the anniversary celebration the Society was honored with a Proclamation from the City Council of New York City that described it as “one of the oldest ethnic minority groups of deaf on the East Coast [that] . . . has served as an extraordinary resource for the deaf in our City . . . and is worthy of the esteem of all New Yorkers.” The Society is no longer dominated by Puerto Ricans. Other Latinos—Dominicans, Mexicans, Central Americans, and others—and all varieties of Caribbeans have made a home for themselves. This is as it should be. The city and the country diversify and the need for organizations that work with the Latino deaf will only grow. As the Latino demographic expands, no doubt will the Latino deaf population. Already , estimates are that from 15 to 25 percent of deaf and hard of hearing students in the U.S. are Hispanic. Deaf people are no longer reluctant to reveal themselves in public, as was the case when I was growing up in the 1950s and 1960s. This is a major social advance. Every so often I observe people signing. In an airport, a restaurant, on the street, and, of course, on the subway. If I see an opening to engage them I do, and invariably their eyes light up (especially young people) and the conversation takes off. They pose one question after another at me: “What’s your name?” “Where do you come from?” “Where do you live?” “Oh, you’re not deaf?” “How did you learn Sign?” “Who are your parents?” I like to say, if the appropriate moment presents itself: “I am not deaf, but I am your son.” [3.81.79.135] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 14:00 GMT) Afterword 231 Today deaf people are crossing new frontiers. Innovations such as the cochlear implant can help deaf people hear better than ever before. Other technological changes allow many deaf children to be placed in mainstream school settings. Will these developments undermine Deaf culture? Will they eliminate sign language? Why do deaf children nevertheless prefer being with deaf children? I am fascinated by these issues and not just because they remind me of my parents. In July of 2002 I attended my first CODA conference. CODA is an organization of children of deaf adults (CODAs), founded in the mid-1980s. Growing up, neither I nor my own CODA cousins (Jimmy, Mary, Tony, Johnny, Elizabeth, Victor, Willie and the others ) ever dwelt on our peculiar situation. We just did what we had to do. In the CODA network (several hundred active members across the country, and more around the world), I discovered a community that reflects on its special upbringing. It continues to be a source of tranquility and solidarity for me. The CODA stories we share are intriguing, hilarious, and heartbreaking. Our lives are quilted from such varying materials and colors, yet the common thread keeps us woven together. My CODA brothers...