DEAF CULTURE

Debbie update: Tests were 'normal' except for elevated blood pressure. She is feeling better and headaches have dissipated. Hoping for Wednesday release if blood pressure subsides.

When first we came to campus, we were prepared only with ‘hello’, ‘how are you?, and ‘I am fine’. As I was being introduced to all the classes, I noticed many of the students making a common sign [hook your first finger over the tip of your nose] which means mlungu (white person), (because we have long, pointed noses). Much later, I was given my sign name [open N to my receding hair line], probably the closest, politically correct thing to calling me “baldy”. It could have been worse: All these kids are fascinated with mlungu body hair and my dewlap, and they frequently pat my arm hair (even my legs if in shorts), and my ‘buddies’ have been known to flip my dewlap. (Perhaps nobody lives long enough here to develop a dewlap.) The most recent sign of familiarity with me is when they walk me across campus, some will mimic my stance and stride in exaggeration. Some of our girl PCV visitors are surprised when they get a boob pat-down, too. But I digress.

I have a sign tutor; she works on ‘African time’ and was out for over a month recuperating. Nevertheless, I now have a vocabulary of maybe 500 signs. I proudly reported to PC that I had given a five minute ‘talk’ to staff one day and our APCD apparently reported that I had given a ten minute talk in sign; I was later congratulated on my 15 minute talk. Anyway, the subject of my talk was misunderstanding a student who had signed something to me which I didn’t understand. He had asked to go to the toilet using Swazi Sign Language (SSL). So I asked my counterpart (present at that time), Why didn’t he use [“toilet” in American Sign Language (ASL)]? After a brief pause, she said, “That means ‘sex’”—which explained the blank look on some of my student’s faces earlier. So the point of my talk to staff was questioning the use of SSL when using ASL would be more universal and would afford them all kinds of instructive publications and teaching aids. But, alas, it seems my argument fell on deaf ears.

The frustration of time in the library sometimes has me talking out loud to myself and, self-consciously, I’ll shout, “Did anybody hear me?” There is a feeling of relief when I look around and all heads remain down and nobody is looking at me.

The kids are eager teachers when I’ve asked for help, but I get variants from them, so I refer to my tutor to get the ‘standard’. Even then, I notice staff frequently arguing on how something is signed. To that end, I was conversing with a friend and missed his train of thought, so I responded with a long sequence of random, wild motions, even flipping my fingers behind my knees and over my head. After a moment of surprise, he and several around us were laughing hard at my command of the language. Our conversations are rudimentary, but the point is made. When one of ‘my girls’ pointed to my ‘runner’s toenail’, I signed [sick-from-running]. She responded with a heartfelt [sorry].

I recently gathered together several Dr. Seuss books and put them into a ‘browser box’ (librarian talk) with several other ‘fun to read’ books. But then I thought, what is it that makes reading Dr. Seuss so enjoyable? For us, it’s the rhyming sounds and rhythms—but these kids have heard no sounds so can’t relate a sound to marks on a page. I’ll leave you to consider what Dr. Seuss means to the deaf. Until next time, this is Gary, signing off.