VIGNETTE: Across The Silence
Someone touches me on the shoulder as I walk down the steps of the Clock Tower at Auckland University during Orientation Week. I turn, shading my eyes from the midday sun, to look at who tapped me. I see a man who seems familiar, but I cannot place him.
He looks in my eyes. I see the tower, trees and passersby reflected in the lens of his glasses. With this look, I see that he is deaf, but how Deaf is he? His next gesture gives me the answer. He is Deaf. His lips shape a word as his hands come up. He said "remember?" and I translate his sign: "Remember me?" He has the facial musculature typical of the Deaf, an oddly slack, but expressive way of adding nuance to sign language.
"I'm sorry, your face is familiar, but I don't remember your name," I said while making the signs for sorry face don't remember name. My face adds the emotional meaning for sorry, a slight frown, and familiar, I raise my eyebrows, and shake my head for don't. I shrug on name.
He smiles at my amateur sign language. He adopts the body language of talking to a hearing person, and tells me his name. Michael Preston*. The namesign is right hand in the shape of the ASL M, which then 'bites' across the chest to the left.
Michael guesses at my namesign which is right-hand thumb to index finger, keeping forefinger straight in the American sign for 'P', hand up under the chin, making a universal speaking gesture. He comes pretty close, his hand forms the P, but held in front of his chest. I smile and show him the right way.
I sign "nice to see you, what are you doing at university?" (nice see what doing university), and Michael tells me that he has just come from seeing the disability counsellor, Lynne Crabb, about interpreters, note takers and tutors for the two papers he is taking this semester.
Our conversation is slow as we negotiate our words past our mutual disability. He is just as deaf as I am, but he is Deaf and I am not. He is fluent in NZSL but because I have never lived in the Deaf community, I am not. I understand NZSL when it is signed to me, aided in large part by lip reading and body language but my own NZSL vocabulary is around fifty words or so. My first language was body language, then reading unlocked the universe, and with reading came spoken language. I never quite acquired the ability to sign as I was mainstreamed into general education for the Hearing after a year at the Deaf kindergarten at Van Asch College for the Deaf in Sumner, Christchurch.
So we're talking past one another outside the Clock Tower on Princes St. Because it's Orientation Week, the footpath is crowded with streams of students stepping past. I catch a few looks, and read their body language as they digest our visual information; that we are Deaf, and the still beauty of our punctuating arms. After ten minutes of talking; Michael signing and I speaking carefully so that I may shape my words as well as I can with the manuscript of my face; I learn that he does not have an interpreter yet for his classes.
"What? No interpreter?" What interpreter, shake head, frown, I said.
"No" Michael signed, "I work for AUT, and AK University has no interpreter for Deaf, but at AUT they have 3 full-time interpreters" No work AUT AK university no interpreter but AUT have 3 full interps, Michael shrugs, as if his body adds "what can you expect from these people?"
I ask about notetakers, aren't they enough? Michael looks at my eyes. A pained expression crosses his face, and he signs hard read, lots words, shake head, understand. I translate, "It's hard to read the notes, there are a lot of words that I don't understand." I gasp.
Michael sees my reaction. He frowns and asks "What?" Over about twenty minutes I explain that I'm a born writer, and find reading very easy. I explain that the quality of my note takers was reflected in my grades. Michael marvels, his expansive face opening in a wry smile as he nods slowly in understanding. Over these twenty minutes I learn a large number of things. That he cannot read very well, and must have tutoring immediately after some classes to have the notes explained to him. That the quality of educational interpreters is low, and there are far too few for the numbers of Deaf students who need them. That the reason there aren't more Deaf at tertiary level is because there are no interpreters there for them, and without interpreters, Deaf are adrift.
"But interpreters cannot do the job properly," I said, "they simplify the language far too much, and you lose too much information because of their editing."
Too many long words. I can't sign them. I hold back a sigh, and keep my face still as Michael asks me for clarification. I tell him that I have a major problem with interpreters. I tell him that I believe that interpreters are to a large part responsible for the state of Deaf education today.
"How much can you read" I ask Michael again. In response he reaches into his bag and grabs a folder and shows me a page on the folder. It is a conversation with his tutor.
Michael points at a word, "acquire", and asks me, "means 'get', right?"
"Yes, and no" I sign. Yes, beat, and no. "Acquire means get at the very basic level. You understand?" Michael nods.
"Acquire means more than just 'get', it means that you have worked to get something, or that you have been given something as a result of a plan, or maybe inheritance."
Slowly, I unpick this for Michael in sign. Acquire mean get. But acquire mean work get. Or give get. Maybe uncle die and you get. When Michael understands, he smiles, then frowns slightly and asks why couldn't the interpreter tell him this?
"You see! That is exactly what I mean, that interpreters are the problem; they don't teach how words are subtly different in meaning, but just teach you the sign for that word, and you do not attribute the extra meaning to the sign, with maybe a prefix sign like work-get . . ." Too many words again. I try again.
"Interpreters are the problem. They simplify your language, and so you see the world in simple ways where it is really more complicated. But because the words you use to talk about the world are simple, you can only have simple ideas about it, and when you try to read, the language is difficult, isn't it?" I said, interpreter problem. They simple your language, so see world simple where more complicated (fingerspelled). Words use talk about world simple, you have simple ideas about, and when read, language difficult?
"Do you understand?" I sign. Michael nods, slowly, not quite convinced. I tell him that the english language is abundant with examples where more nuanced versions of simple words have no sign equivalent.
"Meaning is stripped from the words when they are signed to you, and you are not told that it has been stripped from the word. All you get is the basic meaning, which is not enough for translation purposes," I said, painstakingly signing it out with the few words that I could use. Michael nods again.
"I understand what you are saying now," he said, and we both turn to look at the time on the Clock Tower. To our surprise this conversation has taken almost two hours, although we have exchanged a fraction of information that hearing people would have in the same time, we came away from this meeting with a richer insight into the complex layers of being Deaf in a Hearing universe.
I am reminded that I exist in a kind of limbo, neither a Hearing person, nor a Deaf person. I drift in the between of the margins of both worlds.
I have glimpsed the inner life of a Deaf person, Michael Preston. I have been reminded that educating the Deaf necessary comes in a multitude of variations depending on the language skills in sign, oral, and reading that they have acquired in the morass of Deaf education in New Zealand, and that only an approach tailored to the individual will help the Deaf succeed in life.
I am sure Michael Preston walked away with a richer understanding of how meaning is taken away from him by the inexpertise of his interpreter, and that he will use his position at AUT to teach the interpreters how to avoid this invisible trap that so often locks the Deaf down.
I walk down the hill through the dappled sunlight beneath the trees of Albert Park, Auckland; my mind expanding with insight.
Vignette written as part of the requirements for the post-graduate diploma in applied journalism qualification at Massey Extramural, May 2002.
*Michael Preston is not his real name. He was slightly offended by the way I represented him, due to my lack of understanding of NZSL and I may have reported the conversation inaccurately and so I have changed names to protect his identity. Everything written here is from my own perspective.
He looks in my eyes. I see the tower, trees and passersby reflected in the lens of his glasses. With this look, I see that he is deaf, but how Deaf is he? His next gesture gives me the answer. He is Deaf. His lips shape a word as his hands come up. He said "remember?" and I translate his sign: "Remember me?" He has the facial musculature typical of the Deaf, an oddly slack, but expressive way of adding nuance to sign language.
"I'm sorry, your face is familiar, but I don't remember your name," I said while making the signs for sorry face don't remember name. My face adds the emotional meaning for sorry, a slight frown, and familiar, I raise my eyebrows, and shake my head for don't. I shrug on name.
He smiles at my amateur sign language. He adopts the body language of talking to a hearing person, and tells me his name. Michael Preston*. The namesign is right hand in the shape of the ASL M, which then 'bites' across the chest to the left.
Michael guesses at my namesign which is right-hand thumb to index finger, keeping forefinger straight in the American sign for 'P', hand up under the chin, making a universal speaking gesture. He comes pretty close, his hand forms the P, but held in front of his chest. I smile and show him the right way.
I sign "nice to see you, what are you doing at university?" (nice see what doing university), and Michael tells me that he has just come from seeing the disability counsellor, Lynne Crabb, about interpreters, note takers and tutors for the two papers he is taking this semester.
Our conversation is slow as we negotiate our words past our mutual disability. He is just as deaf as I am, but he is Deaf and I am not. He is fluent in NZSL but because I have never lived in the Deaf community, I am not. I understand NZSL when it is signed to me, aided in large part by lip reading and body language but my own NZSL vocabulary is around fifty words or so. My first language was body language, then reading unlocked the universe, and with reading came spoken language. I never quite acquired the ability to sign as I was mainstreamed into general education for the Hearing after a year at the Deaf kindergarten at Van Asch College for the Deaf in Sumner, Christchurch.
So we're talking past one another outside the Clock Tower on Princes St. Because it's Orientation Week, the footpath is crowded with streams of students stepping past. I catch a few looks, and read their body language as they digest our visual information; that we are Deaf, and the still beauty of our punctuating arms. After ten minutes of talking; Michael signing and I speaking carefully so that I may shape my words as well as I can with the manuscript of my face; I learn that he does not have an interpreter yet for his classes.
"What? No interpreter?" What interpreter, shake head, frown, I said.
"No" Michael signed, "I work for AUT, and AK University has no interpreter for Deaf, but at AUT they have 3 full-time interpreters" No work AUT AK university no interpreter but AUT have 3 full interps, Michael shrugs, as if his body adds "what can you expect from these people?"
I ask about notetakers, aren't they enough? Michael looks at my eyes. A pained expression crosses his face, and he signs hard read, lots words, shake head, understand. I translate, "It's hard to read the notes, there are a lot of words that I don't understand." I gasp.
Michael sees my reaction. He frowns and asks "What?" Over about twenty minutes I explain that I'm a born writer, and find reading very easy. I explain that the quality of my note takers was reflected in my grades. Michael marvels, his expansive face opening in a wry smile as he nods slowly in understanding. Over these twenty minutes I learn a large number of things. That he cannot read very well, and must have tutoring immediately after some classes to have the notes explained to him. That the quality of educational interpreters is low, and there are far too few for the numbers of Deaf students who need them. That the reason there aren't more Deaf at tertiary level is because there are no interpreters there for them, and without interpreters, Deaf are adrift.
"But interpreters cannot do the job properly," I said, "they simplify the language far too much, and you lose too much information because of their editing."
Too many long words. I can't sign them. I hold back a sigh, and keep my face still as Michael asks me for clarification. I tell him that I have a major problem with interpreters. I tell him that I believe that interpreters are to a large part responsible for the state of Deaf education today.
"How much can you read" I ask Michael again. In response he reaches into his bag and grabs a folder and shows me a page on the folder. It is a conversation with his tutor.
Michael points at a word, "acquire", and asks me, "means 'get', right?"
"Yes, and no" I sign. Yes, beat, and no. "Acquire means get at the very basic level. You understand?" Michael nods.
"Acquire means more than just 'get', it means that you have worked to get something, or that you have been given something as a result of a plan, or maybe inheritance."
Slowly, I unpick this for Michael in sign. Acquire mean get. But acquire mean work get. Or give get. Maybe uncle die and you get. When Michael understands, he smiles, then frowns slightly and asks why couldn't the interpreter tell him this?
"You see! That is exactly what I mean, that interpreters are the problem; they don't teach how words are subtly different in meaning, but just teach you the sign for that word, and you do not attribute the extra meaning to the sign, with maybe a prefix sign like work-get . . ." Too many words again. I try again.
"Interpreters are the problem. They simplify your language, and so you see the world in simple ways where it is really more complicated. But because the words you use to talk about the world are simple, you can only have simple ideas about it, and when you try to read, the language is difficult, isn't it?" I said, interpreter problem. They simple your language, so see world simple where more complicated (fingerspelled). Words use talk about world simple, you have simple ideas about, and when read, language difficult?
"Do you understand?" I sign. Michael nods, slowly, not quite convinced. I tell him that the english language is abundant with examples where more nuanced versions of simple words have no sign equivalent.
"Meaning is stripped from the words when they are signed to you, and you are not told that it has been stripped from the word. All you get is the basic meaning, which is not enough for translation purposes," I said, painstakingly signing it out with the few words that I could use. Michael nods again.
"I understand what you are saying now," he said, and we both turn to look at the time on the Clock Tower. To our surprise this conversation has taken almost two hours, although we have exchanged a fraction of information that hearing people would have in the same time, we came away from this meeting with a richer insight into the complex layers of being Deaf in a Hearing universe.
I am reminded that I exist in a kind of limbo, neither a Hearing person, nor a Deaf person. I drift in the between of the margins of both worlds.
I have glimpsed the inner life of a Deaf person, Michael Preston. I have been reminded that educating the Deaf necessary comes in a multitude of variations depending on the language skills in sign, oral, and reading that they have acquired in the morass of Deaf education in New Zealand, and that only an approach tailored to the individual will help the Deaf succeed in life.
I am sure Michael Preston walked away with a richer understanding of how meaning is taken away from him by the inexpertise of his interpreter, and that he will use his position at AUT to teach the interpreters how to avoid this invisible trap that so often locks the Deaf down.
I walk down the hill through the dappled sunlight beneath the trees of Albert Park, Auckland; my mind expanding with insight.
Vignette written as part of the requirements for the post-graduate diploma in applied journalism qualification at Massey Extramural, May 2002.
*Michael Preston is not his real name. He was slightly offended by the way I represented him, due to my lack of understanding of NZSL and I may have reported the conversation inaccurately and so I have changed names to protect his identity. Everything written here is from my own perspective.
posted by oga at
2:20 PM
